Qass. Book. SO ^^ / f ^ I BYRON'S POEMS AND DRAMAS. ^ ^ ^ GISORGE GORBOM, ILOIRD BYK.OM FromAhe Oriffmal Miniature Faik/xd by (P.Sa/:. a;fe« "S,rnni)d in*ts." THE POEMS AND DRAMAS OF BYRON. REPRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL . EDITIONS lli^ dBipianatorrr gotcs, dt. ILLUSTRATED BY Sir John Gilbert, R. A., \V. J. Linton, Birket Foster. Henry Dalziel Kenny Meadows, and Hablot K. Bro\vne. N e w York: THE ARUNDEL PRINTING AND PUBLISHING CO. ^ *A ^ 5-0 e11 o-*^^ Copyri'.: ht. 1 379. j ^^»^. ^ -^-P^ VJ ^ (b LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Frontispiece — Portrait. Page. " He sped to Hero, nothing loth." — Occasional Pieces, 58 " The rock, the vulture, and the chain." — Prometheus, 73 "■ River that rolls hy the ancient 'walls." — Occasional Pieces, .... 80 " She walks in beauty." — Hebrew Melodies, 87 " The Childe departed from his father's hall." — Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, . 171 '^'' The sails were fill' d, and fair the light 'i.vinds blew." — " " . I7i' " Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings I" — " " . 208 '■^ Her graceful arms in meekness bending!' — TllE Bride OF Abydos, . . , 252 " Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued." — The Corsair, , . . 279 '^ Cold as the jnarble where his length was laid." — Lara, ...... 287 " You might have seen the moon shine through." — The Siege of Corinth, . . 305 "Lake Leman lies by Chilton's xvalls." — The Prisoner of Chillon, .... 318 "' He died — and they unlock' d his chain." — " " ... 319 '' I will clasp thee." — Manfred 378 " Lo I I've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars." — Sardanapalus, . . . 469 " The hour is near which tells me we are not abandon' d quite." — Heaven and Earth, 520 " And there he lay full length where he 7vas flung." — Don JUAN, .... 624 " Her white arm clasps round fuan's head, and his around her lies, half buried in the tresses which it grasps." — DoN JUAN, 632 " A kind of sleepy Venus seem' d Dudu."—'Go^ IXik'H, 677 *' But Juan turn' d his eyes on the sweet child." — Don JUAN, 709 s- /y^^gjt' ap fie /uaA' aXvfe. M-ijTe Ti veCKei." —HoyiER, Iliad, x. 249. " He whistled as he went, for want of thought." — Drvden. TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, KXIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC., ETC., THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, THE AUTHOR. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. In submitting to the public eye the following collection, I have not only to combat the difficulties thatwriters of verse generally encounter, l)ut may incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, more use- fully employed. These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man who has lately com- pleted his nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is perhaps unnecessary information. Some few were written during the disadvantages of illness and depression of spirits: under the former influence, " Childish Recollections," in particular, were composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite the voice of jiraise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considerable portion of these poems has been privately printed, at llic request and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the criterion by which poetical genius is to be estimated: yet, " to do greatly," we must " dare greatly;" and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this volume. " I have passed the Rubicon," and must stand or fall by the " cast of the die." In the latter event, I shall submit without a murmur; for, though not without solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may have dared much and done little; for, in the words of Cowper, "it is one thing to write what may please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biased in our favor, and another to write what may please everybody; because they who have no connection, or even knowledge of the autlj^or, will be sure to find fault if they can." To the truth of this, however, I do not wholly subscribe; on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed; their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favor v.liich has been denied to others of maturer years, decided character, and far greater ability. I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model ^ 4 HOURS OF IDLENESS. for imitation: some translations are given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accus- tomed to read; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce anything entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me "to this sin;" little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive from these productions; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an in- truder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the liighlands of Scotland, I have not of late years had the benefit of such pure air, or so ele- vated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards who have enjoyed l)oth these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions: while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. I leave to others ^' virtim voliiare per ora.'' I look to the few who will hear with patience " diilce est desipere in loco." To the former worthies I resign, without repining, the hope of immortality, and content myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst " the mob of gentlemen who write" — my readers must determine whether I dare say "with ease" — or the honor of a posthumous page in T/ie Calalogite of Royal and Xohle Authors — a work to which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many names of considerable length, sound and antiquity are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily over- shadows several voluminous productions of their illustrious bearers. With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age, the contents may afford amusement: I trust they will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; nor, even in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine,-== " that when a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, he deserved to have his merit liandsomely allowed," can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical cen- sors; but were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than triumph in honors granted solely to a title. * Frederick Iloward, fifth Earl of Carlisle, author of fugitive pieces and two tragedies, was born 1743, and died in 1S26. ^ ■^ PUBLISHER'S PREFACE. In offering- a new edition of the works of an accepted standard and classic like Byron, any prefatory remarks will probably seem superfluous; but the publisher feels justified in inviting- attention briefly to a few points in which the present "Arundel Edition " possesses a very marked and decided superiority over any other that has at any time been issued in a similarly compact and convenient shape. 1. //is Complete. — The importance of this claim will be conceded when we mention the fact, which can be proved by any reader for himself, that scarcely any of the so called " complete editions" (even among those designed for scholars) are really complete and unabridged. One edition, professing to be complete, actually omits Childe Harold imd Don Juan j but while this is an extreme (and we hope solitary) case, it may be affirmed without qualification that all the cheaper editions are incomplete, only differing from each other in respect to the particular pieces omitted. For example, the well known Nimmo (or Edinburgh) edition omits more than half the "Occasional Pieces" (63 out of 123); it omits The Island, The Prophecy of Dante and Francesca^of Rimini ; and it omits from the dramas (of which there are only eight in all), Sardanapalus^ The Tiuo Foscari, Werner and The Deformed 7ransformed~-\\vo, at least, being among the best. The present edition contains every piece that has ever been included in the best standard editions. 2. Its Text is Pure. — Not only are entire poems omitted from most of the editions (as pointed out above), but even of these supposed to be included the text is frequentl)- altered, or rather mutilatetl, to suit the tastes of what Charles Reade happily calls the " prurient prudes." The publisher feels that to issue a mutilated version of ai established classic, is to offer an insult to both author and reader ; and particular care has been taken to have the text of the present edition corre- spond with what Byron actually wrote and published. ^ ^ ^ iv FUBLISIIEK'S PREFACE. 3. It is fully Equipped ivith No'tes. — Most of the one volume editions omit the notes entirely, and very few indeed reprint them in their original form and fulness. Yet many of the poems are absolutely unintelligible without the notes, and nearly all of them profit greatly by the aid which is thus afforded in elucidating obscure, diffi- cult or interesting points. Moreover, Byron's prose is only less picturesque and vivid than his poetry ; and he himself declared to Moore that some of the best work^ he ever did was put into the notes to his several poems. The whole of these Origi- nal Notes appear in the present edition, and others have been added by the editor where they seemed necessary to a full understanding of the text. 4. Its Illustrations are Appropriate. — The most cursory examination of the ordinary editions of Byron will suffice to convince the reader of the grotesque inap- propriateness of the illustrations. There is a coldness about them which, contrasted with the warm imagery, the picturesque descriptions, and the glowing language of the text, is almost repulsive. The scene of most of Byron's poems is laid in the East, where human passions have free play, and where the aspects of nature and the habits of life correspond to the warm imagination and swift circUng blood. For the pi time an attempt is made in a popular edition of Byron to reproduce pictorially these fierce passions, this rich imagery, these flowing draperies and graceful atti- tudes ; and to do so most effectively we have employed the graphic pencils of Sir John Gilbert, R. A., Birket Foster, Henry Dalziel, Kenny Meadows, Hablot K. Browne and W. J. Linton. 5. Its Typography is Good. — This is almost too technical a point to insist upon, but it is worth while for the reader to observe, that while most of the current editions are printed from old, blurred and battered plates, the present is from new, clear cut type, large enough to \\^ read with ease and pleasure. P>(^tJ5!l! O^— —^ 4^ LORD BYRON'S LIFE AND LITERARY LABORS. The portrait of George Noel Gordon Byron, the most remarkable figure in the literature of thi' rentury, is still too often made up on the principle of putting in all the shadows and lea%'ing out all the lights^. Even the records and traditions of his ancestry are partially selected in this way. It is true, no doubt, that Byron's imme- diate ancestors were far from being quiet, respectable people. His father. Captain Byron, was a profligate ofiicer, whose first wife was a divorced lady with whom he had eloped to France, who married a second time only to find the means for paying his debts, and who left his wi(e_as soaa-as her .fortune was exhausted. His mother, Catherine Gordon, heiress of Giglit in Aberdeenshire, was a fitful and passionate woman, who knew no stable halting^pjace between the extremes of indulgent fondness and vindictive disfavor. His grand-uncle, whom he ■■ucceedcd in die title, had killed his neighbor and relative, Mr. Chaworth, in a drunken brawl, had been tried before the House of Lords on the charge of murder and acquitted, but had been so wrought upon by remorse and the sense of public opprobrium, that he shut himself up at Newstead, let the place go to ruin, and acquired such a bad repute by his solitary excesses that he was known as the " wicked Lord Byron." In other parts of the family line the nobler elements are seen running clear and pure. The poet's grandfather. Admiral Byron, " Foul Weather Jack," who had as little rest on sea as the poet on the land, had the virtues without the vices of his r.ace. Farther down the family tree we find the Byrons distinguishing themselves in the field. Seven brothers fought in the battle of Mgehill, but none of the family would seem to have been stirred by the poetic impulse in the brightest period of English song. The poverty into which Byron was born had much to do in determining his future career. If he had been born in affluence, we may be certain that, with his impressionable disposition, he would never have been the poet of the Revolution — the most powerful exponent of the modern spirit. By the time of his birth (at Holies street, London, January 22, i/So) his father had " squandered the lands o' Gight awa'," and his mother was on her way back from the Continent with a small remnant of her wrecked fortune. Mrs. Byron took up her residence at Aberdeen ; and her " lame brat," as she called him in her fits, was sent for a year to a private school at 5s. a quarter, and afterwards to the grammar school of the town. Many little stories are told of the boy's affectionate gratitude and venturesome chivalry, as well of his exacting and passionate temper. The sisters Gray, who were his successive nurses, found him tractable enough under kind treatment. His mother, whose notion of discipline consisted in hurling things at him when he was disobedient, had no atithflcity over him ; he met her violence sometimes with sullen resistance, sometimes with defiant mockery ; and once, he tel's us, they had to wrench from him a knife which he was raising to /..s breast. At school he passed from the first to the fourth class, but with all his ambition he w.as toOjSglf; willed to take kindly to prescribed taiks, too emotional for dry intellectual work ; and he probably learned more from MarjKJray, who taught him the Psalms and the Bible, than he did from his schoolmaster. Before he left Aberdeen, which he did on the death of his grand-uncle, and his acccssioo to the peerage in May, 1798, he gave a remarkable proof of the precocious intensity of his affections by falling in love with his cousin Mary Duff. So strong a hold did this passion take of him, that six years afterwards to.' nearly went intoxonvul.sioiis an hearirig of her marriage. Soon after, ByrorTs mother, who had frequently taken advice for the cure of his lame foot, went with him ta Nottingham, and placed him under the cure of an empiric, who tortured him to no purpose. The torture \f; renewed, under the advice of a Lcndon physician, at Dr. Glennie's school at Dulwich, at which he was enterC- in the summer of 1799 ; and at last the foot, as he wrote his Scotch nurse, was so far restored that he was able * put on a common boot. He was two years with Dr. Glennic, and, though he made but little progress in hi classical studicsThe had the run of his mxster's library, and added greatly to his general information. Before ht left for Harrow he had contracted another passion for his cousin Margaret Parker, so intense that he could not eat or sleep when he was looking forward to meeting her. He went to Harrow in 1801, "a wild northern colt," ^ 4 ^ y ^ LORD BYRON'S LIFE as the head-master said of him, very much behind his age in Latin and Greek. This deficiency he never quite overcame. Many anecdotes are told of the warmth of his friendships at Harrow, and liis chivalry in defending his juniors. In the vacation of 1003 he again fell in love — this time more seriously — with Mks Chaworth, whose grandfather the "wicked Lord Byron" had killed. In the melancholy moods of his after life her rejection of him was often a subject of passionate regret. Byron's residence at Cambridge (Trinity College, 1805 to 180S, with interval of a year) added little to his knowledge of academical learning. The arts in which he qualified himself to graduate were swimming, riding, fencing, boxing, drinking, gaming, and the other occupations of idle undergraduates. When he went up to Cam- bridge he was wretched, he tells us, partly from leaving Harrow, chiefly, it may be presumed, from the want of money. His friend, Scrope Davies, lent him large sums, and he lived with a certain degree of reckless happiness. * Much more important than his residence in Cambridge, as bearing on his mental development, was hii year's residence at Southwell. From that happy period, which saw the serious dawn of his genius, M. Taine has picked out only the unhappy violent quarrel with his mother, which was the cause of its termination. His intimacy with the Pigotts, and the expansion of his poetic genius under their genial encouragement, are much more v.-orthy of notice than this culmination of miserable bickerings, which he was now strong enough to laugh at when the domestic storm was over. He had scribbled many verses at Harrow, but had been too shy to show them to his roistering friends ; and now, finding for the first time an admiring audience, he put forth his po\rer3 i.i earnest, as was only possible to him when under the influence of love or defiance. The result came before the public in the Hours of Idleness, published by Ridge, of Newark, in March 1S07. The poems in that collection have some- thing of the insipidity of the circumstances that gave them birth, but the fact of publication bound him to his vocation to a degree of which he was not at all aware. Hitherto his ambition had pointed toward politics as his natural field, and he said as much in the somewhat disdainful preface to his poems. Putting his ambition into verse, he characteristically compared himself to a slumbering volcano, and longed to burst on the world as a Fox or a Chatham. But the Hours of Idleness decided his career for him. When he went back to Trinity College he could not help eagerly watching their effect. Again and again he wrote to the friendly Miss Pigott to hear how they were succeeding. He was prepared for defeat, he said, and he promised to take vengeance on adverse critics. He was made a new man by the publication ; he had tasted public applause and longed for more of it. It was then th.at he carefully examined himself and took stock of his acquirements in the very remarkable document dated November 30, 1G07, to which wc are indebted for our knowledge of the extent of his studies. In the midst of his rollicking set at Cambridge he was secretly girding up his lo;us and collecting his powers to make a grand struggle for fame. Perhaps no poet was ever drawn out so directly by the thirst for public honor. He launched himself bodily before the world, almost ravenous for sympathy and homage. It is generally said that but for the savage attack of the Edinburgh Revic-w in the spring of 1808 Byron might never have returned to poetry. But the fact is that the review did not appear till a year after the publi- cation of Hours 0/ Idleness, and, in the interval, Byron, for all his farewell to poetry, was "scribbling," as he called it, more furiously than ever. " I have written," he wrote to Miss Pigott, si.\ months before the Edinburgh attack, " 214 pages of a novel ; one poem of 330 lines to be published (without my name) in a few weeks with notes; 560 lines ol Bosvjorth Field, awA 250 lines of another poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen smaller pieces. The poem to be published is a satire." Th3 satire was the poem which he afterwards converted into a reply to the y?c;?/«i5«rf/i Review. He anticipated censure and forearmed himself — always as eager to defy re- proof as he was to win applause. Apparently he put off publishing his satire till all his critics had had their say, and he should know exactly where to hit. When the attack came it wounded him bitterlj' ; a friend who called on him at the time thought from the fierce light in his eye that he had received a challenge. He was in no hurry, however, to publish ; he worked at leisure, resting confident in the consciousness of his powers, and English Bards and Scotch Reviewers did not make its appearance till the spring of 1809. When it did appear the authorship was soon discovered, and it was the talkof the town. To us who look back upon it dispassionately, and compare its somewhat heavy and mechanical couplets with the exquisite lightness and telling point of its antitype the Dunciad, the satire appears to possess no great force ; but the personalities told at a time when there was a vague unrest in the literary world at the outspoken severity and sometimes truculent malice of the Scotch review, and the injured poet had his revenge in a general acknowledgment that the objects of his wrath deserved castigation, and that the lash was well laid on. Soon after the publication of his satire, Byron, in June, 1809, left for hLs travels on the Continent ; and one would have expected that the young lord, with the wreath of triumph still fresh on his head after his first literary battle, would have gone on his journey with satisfaction and with hopeful curiosity. He sailed in deep dejection, with the bitterness of a man who feels himself friendless and solitary, and he returned after two years' wander- ^ ■^ a- -^ ■ AND LITERARY LABORS. vii ing in Spain, Albania, Greece, Turkey and Asia Minor, sadder tlian before. Why was this ? Those who identify l-.im with his own Childe Harold are ready with the answer that he had lived a life of dissolute pleasure, and was already at the age of twenty-one, experiencing the pains of satiety and exhaustion. But this is not borne out by such scanty light as he and his friends have thrown upon his life at this period. He himself always protested, both in public and in private, against being identified with Childe Harold. Childe Harold's manor was an old monastic residence ; he left his country in bitter sadness ; in the original MS. his name was Childe Burun ; he left behind him a mother and a sister ; and he passed through the scenes of Byron's travels. But there the resemblance, which is really confined, as the author alleged, to local details, ends. There is no reason to disbelieve the author's affirmation that Childe Harold was a purely fictitious character " introduced for the sake of giving some connection to the piece." To make him what he intended — "a modern Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco " — the poet drew, no doubt, upon his own gloomier moods ; he felt occasionally as he makes Harold feel habitually, but the process was much more dramatic than the world in spite of his protests took for granted. Byron, with all his bitter moods of forlorn despondencj', was too susceptible a spirit to stalk "in joyless reverie " through the south of Europe, as his letters home testify. And we know that his fiction of the Baccha- nalian feasts in tlie monaslcry, with " Paphian girls " and " flatterers and parasites," is not at all like what actually occurred at Newstead Abbey. There were no laughing dames there except the domestics, and the flatterers and parasites were his bosom friends whom he loved with a romantic ardor. They held " high jinks" there as any young men might have done, masqueraded about in monkish habits to be in whimsical conformity v/ilh the place, practiced pistol shooting in the old hall, had a wolf and a bear chained at the entrance, had the garden dug up in search of concealed treasure, found a skull there, had it made into a cup, and passed the cup round after dinner with the conceit that their mouths did it less harm than the worms, and that when its wit had ceased to sparkle, it had better be filled witli Burgundy to make other wits sparkle than lie rotting in the earth. Byron himself was too poor, as Moore has remarked, to keep a harem, had such been his wish. He is known to have had a romantic passion for a girl who used to travel with him in England in boy's clothes; but whoever thinks he was satiated with the poor creature's devotion to him, should read the concluding stanzas of the second canto of Childe Harold, where the poet speaks in his own person and laments her death in language utterly out of keeping with the dark, unfeeling mood of his " Modern Timon." One can then understand why he should have said he would not for worlds be a man like his hero. There is really very little of the personage Childe Harold in the poem ; the poet si.Tiply had him by his side as a connecting link while he described the scenes through which he passed. In the last two cantos indeed, Bj'ron, seeing that the public had identified hini with Childe Harold, and then more defiant of public opinion, hardly cared to keep up the separaUon between his own character and the pilgrim's ; and in the last canto he avowedly makes them coalesce. To look for the causes of moodiness and melancholy in material circumstances is a very foolish quest, but we may be certain that insufficiency of this world's money and the daily vexations and insults to which his rank was t'.iereby exposed, had much more to do with Byron's youthful gloom than satiety of this world's pleasures. His embarrassed finances, and the impossibility of securing the respect due to his title, formed a constant source of annoyance, and put his whole system into a morbid condition, in which every little slight and repulse festered and rankled with exaggerated virulence. From the daily humiliations and impertinences to which his fake position subjected him, aggravated by his jealous and suspicious irritability, he may have turned sometimes to Childe Harold's consolations — " the harlot and the bowl," but his nature prompted him rather to forget his vexations in purer and worthier objects. Unfortunately for him, such impetuous and passionate affections as his could rarely find the response for which he craved. In those few cases where devotion was repaid by adoration, the warmth of his gratitude was unbounded ; he loaded poor Thyrza's memory with caresses, careless of what the world might say, remembering only that the poor girl clung to him with unselfish love. Nothing ever racked him with sharper anguish than the death of her whom he mourned under the name of Thyrza. To know the bitterness of his struggle with this sorrow we have only to look at what he wrote on the day that the news reached him (October ii, iSii]. Some of his wildest and most fiercelj' misanthropical verse, as well as some of his sweetest and saddest, belongs to that saddest of dates on his calendar. It is time that somethmg were done to trace this attachment, which has been strangely overlooked by the essayists and biographers. It furnishes an important clue to Byron's characters, and is, indeed, of hardly less importance than his later attachment to the Countess Guiccioli. Mr. John Morley, in an essay which ought to be read by every- body who wishes to form an idea of Byron's poetry as a revolutionary force in itself, remarks upon the respect which Byron, with all his raillery of the married state in modern society, still shows for the domestic idea. It is against the artificial union, the marriage of convenience, that his scorn is directed. However cynically or mourn- , fully he laments its infrequence he always upholds singleness of attachment as an ideal, and points with laughter or with tears at the way m which it is cut short where it does exist. Who Thyrza was can probably never be 4 ^ -^ viii LOJ^n BYRON'S LIFE known, but, in trying to convey the impression that she was purely imaginary, probably with the intention of shielding his friend's memory by declaring him innocent ot' a relationship unsanctioned by society, Moore really did Byron an injustice. The poor girl, whoever she was, and however much she was deified after her death by his imagination, would really seem to have been his grand passion. Her " dear sacred name " his hand, he says years afterwards, would have trembled to write ; he " wished it forever unrevealed." When he was ques- tioned by the Countess. Guiccioli, he was deeply agitated and begged her never to recur to the subject. In his yournal, with Thyrza in his memory, we find him writing with contempt of the amours of some of his acquaint- ances, and scoffing at the idea of their applying the name of love to favors that, more or less directly, could be purchased. He has recorded the fact that when he drew the portrait of Zuleika his whole soul was full of her memory, and her image was again before him when he described the relationship between Zara and the disguised Gulnare. Indeed, she is the presiding genius of his Eastern Tales. Conrad, with all his conscious villany, had one redeeming passion — " love unchangeable, unchanged." The Giaour, too, loved but one ; — he leanit that lesson from the birds, and despised " the fool still prone to range," and "envied not his varied joys." All these portraitures of single-hearted devotion are tributes to the memory of Thyrza, the " more than friend," commemorated in the second canto of Cliilde Harold. Medora's song in the Corsair, " Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells," though not faultless as a lyric, is one of his most beautiful e.x-pressions of this mournful sentiment. There seems some reason for believing that the mysterious object of Manfred's love and remorse is another of the forms that she took in his imagination. For some time after his return to England, Byron lived at Newstead very unhappily. He wrote that he was growing nervous, really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically nervous. He could not arrange his thoughts — he feared his brain was giving way and that it would end in madness — and he felt occasionally a strange tendency to mirth. At other times lie thought more soberly of parliament as a diversion. He went to London, not to plunge into a lawless and pitiless course of crime, but to enter upon a political career. He had spoken two or three times in the Hovise of Lords, ineffectively however, when the publication of Childe Harold put an end to his parliamentary ambitions. " When Childe Harold was published," he says, " nobody thought of my prose afterwards, nor indeed did I." It has often been asked what was the cause of the instantaneous and wide spread popularity of Childe Harold, which Byron so well expressed in the saying " I awoke one morning and found myself famous." Chief among the secondary causes was the warm sympathy between the poet and his readers, the direct interest of his theme for the time. In the spring of 1S12 England was in the very crisis of a struggle for existence. It was just before Napoleon set out for Moscow. An English army was standing on its defensive in Portugal, with diffi- culty holding its own. The nation was trembling for its safety. The dreaded Bonaparte's next movement was uncertain. Rumor was busy with alarms and it was feared that their own shores would be invaded. The heart of England was beating high with patriotic resolution, and all through the country men were arming and drilling for self defence. What were the leading English poets doing in the midst of all this ? Scott, the most popular of the tuneful brotherhood, was celebrating the exploits of William of Deloraine and Marmion. Coleridge's Christabcl was lying in manuscript, and his poetic power was in a state of suspended animation. Southey was floundering in the dim sea of Hindu mythology. Rogers was content with his Pleasures of Memory. Wordsworth took a meditative interest in public affairs, but his poems, though fine as compositions, lacked the fire and sinew, the ardent direct- ress of popular verse. In the earlier stages of the war Campbell had electrified the country with his heart stirring 'CSSS ; but in 1812 he had retired from the post of Tyrtaeus to become the poet of Gertrude 0/ Wyoming. Moore confined himself to political squibs and wanton little lays for the boudoir. No wonder that when at last a poet did appear whose artistic creations were throbbing with the life of his own age, who felt in what century he was living, he should quickly mount to the topmost pinnacle of fame. There was not a parish in Great Britain in which there was not some household that had a direct personal interest in the scenes of the pilgrim's travels — "some friend, some brother there." Nor was the effect confined to England. Byron spoke on a theme that commanded all Europe as his audience, and the snell by which he bound them was the stronger that, while e.xpressing their most intense feelings, he lifted them with the irresistible power of his song above the passing anxieties of the moment. Loose and rambling as Childe Harold is, it yet had for the time an unconscious art. It entered the absorbing tumult of a hot and feverish struggle and opened a way in the dark clouds gathering over the combatants through which they could .see the blue vault and the shining stars. If the young poet had only thrown himself forward to ridicule the vanity of their struggles he would certainly have been spurned aside in the heat of the fight with anger and contempt ; but his sympathy with the Spanish peasant, his worship of the scenic wonders of the country, his admiration for the heroism of the women, his ardent battle Vy of freedom, showed that the pulse of heroism — heroism conscious of the worst that could happen and ^— -^ Ah^D LITERARY LABORS. jx undismayed by the prospect — beat beneath the garb of the cynic. It may have been by unconscious art, but it was not without dramatic propriety that Byron turned in his second canto from the battlefields of Spain " With blood-red tresses deepening in the sun. And death shot glowing in his fiery hands — " \.o" August Athe7ta" " ancient of days" 2ci\A. ih^" vanished herds lofty vtou7zd." In that terrible time of change, when every state in Europe was shaken to its foundation, there was a profound meaning in placing before men's eyes he departed greatness of Greece ; and the mournful scepticism of Childe Harold was not resented at a time when it lay at the root of every heart to ask : Is there a God in heaven to see such desolation, and withhold his hand ? During the next four years Byron lived in London, but the fashionable society in which he mixed at this period and the flattery lavished on him do not appear to have had a favorable effect upon his genius. He produced in rapid succession the Giaour (May 1S13), 7'he Bride 0/ Abydos (December 1813}, Corsair, (January 1814), Lara (August 1814), Siege of Corifith (January 1816), Parisina (February 1816). The best of these is the first, but they were received with an enthusiasm which rose higher and higher with each successive publication. In November, 1813, Byron proposed for the hand of Miss Milbanke, only daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, "an eligible party," he owned in a letter to Moore, though he "did not address her with these views." His suit was rejected, but she expressed a wish to correspond with him. In September, 1814, he made another pro- posal, which was accepted, and the marriage took place on January 2, 1815. On loth December a daughter, named Augusta Ida, was born. On 15th January, 1816, Lady Byron left her husband's house in London on a visit to her father at Kirby Mallory. On the way she wrote an aflfectionatc letter to Byron, beginning " Dear Duck," and signed " Your Pippin." A few days after he heard from her father that she had resolved never to return to him, and this intelligence was soon confirmed by a letter from herself. In the course of next month a formal deed of separation was drawn up and signed. This is Moore's account of the affair. Lady Byron's account, published on the appearance of Moore's Life, differs chiefiy as regards the part taken by her parents in bringing about the separation. Byron suspected her mother's influence. Lady Byron took the whole responsibility on herself. Before she left town she thought Byron mad and consulted Dr. Bailiie. Dr. Baillie persuaded her that this was an illusion. She then told her parents that she desired a separation. The grounds upon which she desired this were submitted by her mother to Dr. Lushington, who wrote that they justified a separation, but advised a reconciliation. Then Lady Byron had an interview with Dr. Lushington and communicated certain facts, after which he declared a reconciliation impossible. A celebrated authoress, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, who was only slightly acquainted with Lady Cyron, has, as is well known, made a definite statement on this subject implicating a member of Lord Byron's own family. Apart from notorious infidelity on his part, and ill treatment in other respects, it was whispered at the time that he had been guilty of incest with his half sister Augusta. It is enough, however, to say that this last statement is virtually contra- dicted by Xady Byron's own behavior, as she remained on intimate terms with the lady referred to after separa- tion from her husband. Mrs. Leigh's whole life and character render the supposition of her guilt improbable. The real cause of the separation between Byron and his wife must always remain more or less a matter of debate, no absolute proof being possible, and disputants reasoning on the presumptions according to tempera- ment and prepossession. Byron's own statement that the causes were too trivial ever to be found out probably comes nearest the truth. That their tempers were incompatible, that without treating her with deliberate cruelty he tried her forbearance in many ways, and behaved as no husband ought to do, that for her own happi- ness she had every reason to demand a separation will readily be believed. After her marriage a huge accumu- lation of debtors began to press their claims. No less than nine executions were put in force in his house in one year. Then to Byron a wife who could coldly ask him " when he meant to give up his bad habit of making verses," must have had a terrible power of annoyance. Her perfect self-control and imperturbable serenity her power of never forgetting an injury and taking revenge with angehc sweetness and apparent innocence of vindictive intention, must have been perfectly maddening to such a man. A great revulsion in popular feeling took place toward Byron upon the announcement of his separation from his wife. Just as four years before he became the popular idol in one day, in one day he became the object of universal execration. Lampooned in the newspapers, hissed in the theatres, he took leave of England in April, 1816, never to return. His first place of residence was Diodati, a village in the neighborhood of Geneva. Here he met Shelley and his family, consisting of his infant son, Wollstonecraft Godwin, its yet unwedded mother, and Jane Clermont, a young woman, daughter of a widow whom Godwin had married after the death of Mary ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ X LORD BYRON'S LIFE Wollstonecraft. BjTon had never seen either of them before, but in barely nine months Miss Clermont became the mother of his daughter AUegra. The child when 20 months old was sent to him at Venice, and he provided for her support. She died at the age of five years. Byron's expatriation from his native land was really a most fortunate step both for his happiness and his o'enius. Abroad, he consented to the sale of Newstead, and his income enabled him to live without being subject to the constant indignities which were a torture to him at home. There also he found the solitude which he had always desired. "Society," he wrote in a letter to Moore, "as now constituted, Ss, fatal to all great original undertakings of every kind. " In October, 1816, Byron left Switzerland, leaving behind his unborn child and its mother, and in Kovember took up his abode in Venice, where he remained three years. It is stated he had hardly been located in his apartments ten days before he entered into a liaison with the young wife of the elderly Venetian landlord from whom he rented his rooms. His travels through Flanders past the field of Waterloo appear in the third canto of Childe Harold (May to July 1816) ; the idea of writing Manfred i^begun in September 1816, finished February 1817) occurred to him on the Jungfrau, where the scene is laid. In Venice he also wrote the fourth canto of Childe Harold (June 1817), Beppo (October 1817), Ode to Venice (July 1818), first canto of Don Juan (Sep- tember 1818), Mazeppa (October 1818), second canto of Doti yuaii (December 1818), third and fourth cantos finished November 1819. The bare mention of his literary work shows that the reports of the debauchery in which he lived at Venice, and from which he is said to have been rescued by the Countess Guiccioli, must be taken with a qualification. Teresa Guiccioli was the daughter of Count Gamba, and some months before, at the age of sLxteen, had become the third wife of Count Guiccioli, a wealthy nobleman of the Romagna, more than sixty years old. It would appear that the attachment between Byron and the countess was a case of love at first sight. It is extraordinary to read that on the old count removing his wife to Ravenna, where she became dangerously ill, it was thought that nothing could save her life but the presence of her lover and that Byron visited her at the joint solicitation of her father, brother, and husband. Here he remained two years. After the lapse of some time the Count Guiccioli became less pliable and demanded that Byron should be given up. The countess demurred, and thought it rather hard she should be the only woman in Romagna who might not have an amico. A formal separation between the count and his wife ensued ia consequence of this dispute. In January, 1020, the countess occupied, under her father Count Gamba 's presence and sanction, a suite of rooms m the same house with Byron at Ravenna ; and although the families were formally separate the union was not broken till Byron's departure for Greece. When two years later, in 1821, the Gambas, in consequence of their connection with revolutionary movements, were ordered to quit Ravenna, Byron removed to Pisa and lived with them under the same roof as before. Leigh Hunt, who also was received into Byron's house with his wife and children, has given us a somewhat ill-natured but sufficiently faithful account of his life here, which was simply that of a busy domesticated literary man, with a taste for riding, swimming, and marksmanship. During Byron's resi- dence here Shelley was drowned in the Gulf of Spezzia. In September, 1822, the Gambas were ordered by the Tuscan Government to quit Pisa, and Byron removed with them to Genoa. His life at Genoa has been described with traces of airy malice, but with much vivacity and abundance of detail, by Lady Blcssington. While he lived with the Countess Guiccioli Byron's literary activity was prodigious. The following is the list :— Translation of the first canto oi Morgante Maggiore, February 1S20 ; the Prcphecy (f Dante, March 1820 ; translation oi Francesca de Rimini, March 1820 ; Marino Faliero, April to July 1S20 ; fifth canto oi Don Juan, October to November 1S20; Sardajiapalus, ia.mi3.ry to May 1S21 ; The Bines, November 1820 ; Letters on Bowles, February and March 1S21 ; The T-wo Foscari, June to July 1821 ; Ca?«, July to September 1821 ; Vision of Judgment, September 1821 ; Heaven and Earth, October 1821 ; Werner, November 1821 to Janu- ary 1822 ; Deformed Transformed, begun November 1821, finished August 1S22 ; Dofi Juan, sixth, seventh and eighth cantos, February 1S22 ; ninth, tenth and c'eventh cantos, August 1822 ; The Age of Bronze, January 1S23 ; The Island, February 1G23 ; Don Juan, twelfth and thirteenth cantos, p'ebruary 1S23. This quiet industrious life, however, did not cure him of his constitutional melancholy and restlessness. The curse of his nature was that he exhausted his pleasures too quickly. Much as he enjoyed the success of the works which flowed with such rapidity from his pen, he began to harp on what he might have done. He became dissatisfied with past triumphs, and hungered for new distinction. In this spirit, toward the end of 1821, he com- menced those negotiations for the publication of a journal in England in conjunction with Shelley and Leigh Hunt, which ended in the abortive Liberal. The Vision of Judgment, the greatest of modern satires, appeared in the first number of the Liberal, in the summer of 1822. According to Moore, the sign of an intention to take an active part in alliance with English Radicalism did more to make Byron unpopular in England than the most shocking of his poems. In the England of those days the wealthy and cultivated classes formed the great bulk of ^^- ^ V0- ■€? AND LITERARY LABORS. xi readers, and they were Tories to a man. Fortunately for his popularity he was brought, through his well known aspirations for popular libertj', into connection with the London Greek committee, of which he was appointed a member in 1823. He at once decided to take action, raised 50,000 crowns, bought an English brig of 120 tons, and sailed from Genoa with arms ftnd ammunition in July. The high hopes with which he set out were soon broken down. The Greeks had no plans, and he was compelled to spend five months of inglorious delay at Ccphalonia. Reaching Mlssolonghi in December, after a chxss by Turkish cruisers, he found dissension among the Greek chiefs and insubordination among their followers. He was appointed commander-in-chief of an ex- pedition against Lepanto ; but before anything could be done he was seized with fever, and died on the 19th April, 1S24. It is yet, perhaps, too soon to hazard a speculation as to the permanence of Byron's fame. That he holds a lower place in the opinion of the present generation of educated Englishmen than of his own is undeniable. This is probably due to the fact that poets now are tried by more strictly artistic standards ; verses are judged, pro- portions measured, rare and precious excellences appreciated with the jealous scrutiny and skilled recognition of professional wo'-kmen. Tried by such standards, Coleridge, Keats, and Shelley must be pronounced Eyron's superiors. But it was not on the artistic side th?,t Byron's strength lay. It is his theme that commands attention, and the impetuous vehemence and stormy passion with which it is hurried on. By the accident of birth and circumstaiiccs, he was placed in opposition to the existing order of things, and his daring temper made him the exponent cf the spirit of revolution. Abroad, from the appearance of Childe Harold, Bj^ron's influence has been even greater than at home. It is said that he was the first Englishman who made English literature known throughout Europe. Even Lamartine, who deplored Byron as the incarnation of Satan, acknowledged his power, and tells us that he was afraid to read him in his youth lest he should be perverted in his beliefs. Byron 's said to have largely influenced the revolutionary movement in Germany, and to have given a direct stimuhis to the liberators of Italy. " Never," says Macaulay, "had any writer so vast a command of the whole eloquence of scorn, misanthropy, and despair." On the Continent it may be said that his influence has increased rather than diminished, and only a short time ago a glowing tribute to his genius was written by Castelar, the literary leader of republicanism in Spain. In the United States, Byron will always occupy a high place as the poet of the passions, and it is said that after Shakcipcare he is the most popular of the English poets. The least successful of Byron's productions, not- withstanding the admir.able passages with wh:ch they abound, are his tragedies : t'.ie work that gives us the highest notion of his genius, power and versatility is his Don juan. The Don is at times free and almost obscene, and the whole tendency of the poem may be considered immoral; but there are scattered t'.iroughout it the most exquisite pieces of writing and feeling — inimitable blendings of wit, humor, raillery, and pa'.hos, and by far the finest verses Byron ever wrote. He may be said to have created thb manner ; for the Bernesco style of the Italians, to which it has been compared, is not like it. 4 ^ -Oi ft£C£IVED, ^^^\( h CONTENTS. PAGE Hours of Idleness i On the Death of a Young Lady, Coushi to the Author 3 ToE 3 ToD 3 Epitaph on a Friend 3 A Fragment 4 On Leaving Ne wstead Abbey 4 Lines written in "Letters of an Italian Nun and an English Gentleman," with Answer. . 4 Adrian's Address to his Soul when Dying .... 5 Translation from Catullus 5 Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibul- lus 5 Imitation of Tibullus 5 Translation from Catullus 5 Imitated from Catullus 5 Translation from Horace 6 From Anacreon 6 From Anacreon 6 From the Prometheus Vinctus cf.fEschylus.., 6 To Emma 7 ToM S.G 7 To Caroline n To Caroline 8 To Caroline 8 Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camo- / ens g J The First Kiss cf Love q Op a Change of Masters at a Great Public School q To the Duke of Dorset n Fragment, written shortly after the Marriage of Miss Chaworth 10 /Granta: A Medley u I On a Distant View cf the Village and School of Harrow-on-the-Hill j2 /ToM — ;;:;:;; ,, To Woman _ _ ^ j , To M.S. G .......!! 13 I To Mary, en receiving her Picture 13 / To Lesbia ' Lines addressed to a Young Lady, who had been alarmed at the sound of a Bullet fired by the Author i . Love's Last Adieu i< Damxtas ,. / PAGE To Marion 15 To a Lady, who presented to the Author a Lock of Flair braided with his own 16 Oscar of Alva: a Tale 16 The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus ig Translation from the Medea of Euripides 24 Thoughts suggested by a College Examination, 24 To a beautiful Quaker 25 The Comeliari 26 An occasional Prologue, delivered previous to the Pf i-formance of T/ie tV/icel 0/ Fortune l at a Private Theatre 26 On the Death of Mr. Fo.\ 26 The Tear 27 Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq. . 27 To the Sighing Strephon 28 To Eliza 2S Lochin y Gair 28 To Romance 29 Answer to some Elegant Verses, sent by a Friend to the Author 30 Elegy on Newstead Abbey 30 Childish Recollections 32 Answer to a beautiful Poem, entitled, " The Common Lot" 37 To a Lady who presented the Author with the Velvet Band wliich bound her Tresses 37 Lines addressed to the Rev. J. T. Bccher 37 Remembrance' 38 The Death of Calmar and Orla 38 L'Amitii est L' Amour sans Ailes 40 The Prayer of Nature 41 To Edward Noel Long, Esq 41 To a Lady 42 I would I were a careless Child 43 When I roved a youn'j Highlander 43 To George, Earl Dclawarr 44 To the Earl of Clare 45 Lines written beneath an Elm in the Church- yard of Harrow .g .'vsioN.xL Pieces: — On Revisiting Harrow 46 Epitaph on John Adams of Southwell 46 The Adieu 47 To Anne 48 To Anne 48 To a Vain Lady 48 ^ L^, 4 ^ ■^ XIV COA'TENTS. PAGE Occasional Pieces — continued. To the Author pf a Sonnet, beginning " ' Sad is my verse,' you say, 'and yet no tear' " « 49 Farewell to the Muse 49 On Finding a Fan 49 To an Oak a t Newstead 49 To my Son 5° Farewvll ! if ever fondest Prayer 50 Bright be the Place of thy Soul 51 When we Two parted 51 To a youthful Friend 51 Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a Skull..... 52 Well ! thou art happy 52 Inscription on the Monument of a New- foundland Doa: 52 /To a Lady, on being asked my Reason fcr quitting England •■• the Spring 53 Remind mc not, Remind 1 . not 53 There was a Time, I need not name 53 And wilt thou weep when i an low ? 54 Fill the Goblet again 54 Stanzas to a Lady on Leaving England 54 Lines to Mr. Hodgson. Written on board the Lisbon Packet 55 To Florence 56 Lines written in an Album, at Malta. 56 Stanzas composed during a Thunderstorm — . 56 Stanzas written in passing the Ami mcian Gulf 57 The Spell is broke, the Charm ... flown ! 57 Written after swimming from Sestos to Aby- dos 57 Lines written in the Travellers' Book at Orcho- menus 58 Maid of Athens, ere we part 5S Translation cf the Nurse's Dole in the Medea of Euripides.. 5S My Epitaph 5S Substitute for an Epitaph 59 Lines written beneath a Picture 59 Translation cf the famous Greek War Song. . . 59 Translation of the Romaic Song 59 On Parting Co On a Cornelian Heart which was broken 60 Lines to a Lady weeping 60 The Chain I gave 60 Epitaph for Joseph Blackctt, late Poet and Shoemaker 60 Farewell to Malta Co To Dives. A Fragment 61 On Moore's last Operatic Farce, or Farcical Opera 61 Epistle to a Friend, in answer to some Lines exhorting the Author to be cheerful, and to " banish care" 6t Address spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, Saturday, October 10, 1812 C2 Verses found in a Summer-house at Hales- Owen C3 Remember thcG ! Remember ihcc! C3 Parenthetical Address C3 To Time 63 Translation of a Romaic Love Song C4 Thou art not false, but thou art fic!;le C4 On being askod what was the " Origin of Love" C5 Remember him whom Passion's Power 65 Impromptu, in reply to a Friend C5 Sonnets to Genevra C5 From the Portuguese C6 From the French C6 Windsor Poetics C5 The Devil's Drive; an unfinished Rhapsody. . C6 Stanzas for Music: " I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name" C7 To Lord Thurlov/ 67 To Thomas Moore. Written the evening be- fore his vi.=;it to Mr. Leigh Hunt, in Horse- monger Lane Gaol, May 19, 1813 C8 Address intended to have been spoken at the Caledonian iVeeting, 1814 68 Condolatory Address to Sarah Countess of Jersey. CS Fragment r '".-i Epistle to Thomas Moore O9 Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart 69 To I:.;lshazzar.... 70 Stanzas Mui : " There be none of Beau- ty o daus;htcrs" 70 Stanzas fo" Music: "There's not a joy the wi.rld can r;ivc like that^it takes away". ... 70 Dar'iiness 70 Monody on the Death of the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan 71 Churchill's Grave 72 Prometheus 73 A Fragment 73 Sonnet to Lake Leman 74 A very Mournful Ballad on the Siege and Conquest of Alhama 74 Stanzas fjr Music: "They say that hope is happiness" 73 To Thomas Moore 75 To Samuel Rogers, Esq 76 On the Bust of Helen by Canova 76 Song for the Luddites , . 76 Versicles 7O So, we'll go no more a Roving 76 To Thomas T.Coore 76 To Mr. Murray 76 Epistle from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori 77 -e ^ ^ COiXTENTS. Occasional Pieces — contiuued. Epistle to Mr. Murray 7, To Mr. Murray..., 78 On the Birth of John William Kizzo Iloppner. 78 Ode 0:1 Venice ^8 Translation from Vittorclli, On a Nun 80 Stanzas to the J'o 80 Sonnet to George the Fourth, on the Repeal of Lord Fdward Fiti-^erald's Forfeiture 81 Epigram. From the French of Rulhieres 8i Stanzas 81 On my Wedding-Day 82 Epitaph for William Pitt 82 Epigram 82 Stanzas 82 Epigram ; 82 The Chanty Call 82 Epigram, on the Drazicrs' Company )iaving rcbOivcd to present an Address to Queen Caroline 82 • Epigram en my Wedain^-Day. To Penelope. 82 On my thirty-third iiirtnday. J.-inuary 22, 1&21 £2 Martial, Lib. L, Epig. 1 82 Bowles and Campbell 83 Epigrams 83 Vision of Bclshazzar Sun of the Sleepless 1 Were my Bosom as false as thou decm'st it to be Herod's Lament for Mariamne On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem by Titus ■ By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept The Destruction of Sennacherib A Spirit passed before me Poems on Napoleon : — Ode to Napoleon Ode from the French To Napoleon On the Star of " The Legion of Honor " Napoleon's Farewell Poems to Th ykza : — To Thyrza Away, away, ye Notes of Woe ! One Struggle more and I am free Euthanasia And thou art dead, as yoimg and fair If sometimes in the Haunts of Men Epitaph 8^ ' Domestic Pieces : — John Keats 83 Ihe Conciues . . 83 To Mr. Murray 83 The Irish Avatar 83 Stanzas written on the road between Florence and Pisa 85 Stanzas to a Hindoo Air. 85 Impromptu 85 To the Countess of Clcssington 86 On Lord Thurlow's Poems 86 J Stanzas for Music 86 y On this Day I complete my Thirty-Sixth Year. ^ MissolongUi, January 22, 1824 86 Hebrew Melodies : — She Walks in Beauty 87 The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept 87 Ifthat High World 87 The wild Gazelle 87 Oh ! weep for those 88 On Jordan's Banks 88 Jephtha's Daughter G8 Oh ! snatch'd away in Beauty's Blcom 83 My soul is dark 88 ] saw Thee weep 88 Thy Days are done 89 Saul 89 Song of Ssul before his last Battle 89 "All is Vanity, saich the Preacher " 89 When Coldness wraps thi ; suffering Clay 90 Fare thee well A Sketch Stanzas to Augusta : " When all around grew drear and dark " Stanzas to Augusta : " Though the day of my destiny's o ver " EpLstle to Augusta : Endorsement to the Deed of Separation. In the April of x3i6 The Dream Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was ill. , . . Satires : — English Bards and Scotch Revieweus... , Hints from Horace The Curse ofMlnekva The Waltz : An Apostrophic Hymn Ths Vision of Judgment The Age of Bronze The Blues : A Literary Eclogue Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt.... Canto the First Canto the Second Canto the Third (^anto the Fourth Tales :— "The Giaour The Bride of Abvdos : A Turkish Tale :— Canto the First Canto the Second page 90 jc 90 9' 97 97 93 93 99 100 100 102 102 104 104 106 107 123 J.43 155 170 183 196 2n 250 255 ^■ -^ ^ -^7 CONTENTS. PAGE I !"AGE The Corsair 264 ! Francesca of Rimini 375 Canto the First =64-v, K. T. A.] Great Jove, to whose almighty throne Both gods and mortals homage pay, 9- ^- ^ -1807. HOURS OF IDLENESS. Ne'er may my soul thy powers disown, Thy dread Ijehests ne'er disobey. Oft shall the sacred victim fall In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; My voice shall raise no impious strain, 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main, How different now thy joyless fate, Since first llesione thy bride, When placed aloft in god-like state. The blushing beauty by thy side, Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled. And mirthful strains the hours beguiled. The Nymphs and Tritons danced around Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentles.'- frown'd. TO EMMA. SiXcE now the hour is come at last. When you must quit your anxious lover; Since now our dream of bliss is jiast. One pang, my girl, and all is over. Alas! that i)ang will be severe, Wliich bids us part to meet no more; Which tears me far from one so dear, Departing for a distant shore. Well! we have pass'd some happy hours, And joy will mingle with our tears. When thinking on these ancient towers. The shelter of our infant years; W^here, from this Gothic casement's heigiit. We view'd the lake, the park, the dell; And still, though tears obstruct our sight. We lingering look a last farewell. O'er fields through which we used to run. And s]5end the hours in childish play; O'er shades where, when our race was done. Reposing on my breast you lay; Whilst I, admiring, too remiss. Forgot to scare the hovering flies. Yet envied every fly the kiss It dared to give your slumbering eyes. See still the little painted bark. In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park. The elm I clamber'd for your sake. These times are past — our joys are gone, You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes I must retrace alone : Without thee, what will they avail? Who can conceive, who has not proved. The anguish of a last embrace. When, torn from all you fondly loved, You bid a long adieu to peace ? This is the deepest of our woes. For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close, O God! the fondest, last adieu! TO M. S. G. Whene'er I view those lips of thine, Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet I forego that bliss divine, Alas! it were uiihallow'd bliss. Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, I low could I dwell upon its snows! Yet is the daring wish represt; For that — would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul-searching eye Can raise with hope, depress with fear; Yet I conceal my love — and why? I would not force a painful tear. I ne'er have told my love, yet thou Hast seen my ardent flame too well; And shall I plead my passion now, To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? No! for thou never canst be mine. United by the priest's decree: By any ties but those divine. Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume, Let it consume, thou shalt not know: With joy I court a certain doom. Rather than spread its guilty glow. I will not ease my tortured heart By driving dove-eyed peace from thine; Rather than such a sting impart. Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave More than I here shall dare to tell; Thy innocence and mine to save — I bid thee now a last farewell. Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair. And hope no more thy soft embrace; Which to obtain, my soul would dare All, all reproach — but thy disgrace. At least from guilt shalt thou be free. No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shalt thou be to love. TO CAROLINE. Thixk'.st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Suffused in tears, implore to stay. ^- ^ vfi- ^ JIOURS OF IDLEXESS. 1S02 — And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, Which said far more than words can say? Though keen the grief thy tears exprest. When love and hope lay l>oth o'erthrown; Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. Hut when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine. The tears tliat from my eyelids flow'd Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek. Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, In sighs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain. In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain — ■ But that will make us weep the more. Again, thou best beloved, adieu! Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret: Nor let thy mind past joys review — Our only hope is to forget! TO CAROLINE. W^HEN I hear you express an affection so warm. Ne'er think, mybeloved,that I do not believe; For your lip would the soul of susjucion disarm, And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. Yet still this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sere; That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, [a tear; Contemplates the scenes of her youth with That the time must arrive, when, no longer re- taining [the breeze, Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to When a few silver hairs of those tresses re maining. Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my features, [decree. Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of His creatures, [of me. In the death which one day will dejarive you Mistake not, sweet skeptic, the cause of emo- tion, [vade; No doubt can the mind of your lover in- He worships each look with such faithful de- votion, A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us, [sympathy glow, And our breasts, which alive with such Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, [laid low, — When calling the dead, in earth's bosom Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, [inglyflow: Wliich from passion like ours may unceas- Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure. And quaff the contents as our nectar below. TO CAROLINE. (Jh! when shall the grave hide forever my sorrow ? Oh ! when shall my soul wing her fligh. from this clay ? The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow But brings with new torture, the curse of to- day. From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss; For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning. Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage. On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, [its rage. With transport my tongue give a loose to But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, W^ould add to the souls of our tyrants de- light: Could they view us our sad separation bewailing Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resig- nation, [cheer. Life beams not for us with one ray that can Love and hope upon earth bring no more con- solation; In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, [are fled? Since in life, love and friendship forever If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee. Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. %- --4^ s- le train, To hail you queens of all creation. Know, in a word, 'tis ANIMATION. -e ^ i6 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 1802— TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAU)ED WITH HIS OWN, AND AI'- rOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. These locks, which fondly thus entwine. In firmer chains our hearts conHne, Than all th' unmeaning protestations Which swell with nonsense love orations. Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it, Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it: Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, With groundless jealousy repine, Witli silly whims and fancies frantic. Merely to make our love romantic? Why should you weep like Lydia Languish, And fret with self-created anguish; Or doom the lover you have cliosen. On winter nights to sigh half frozen; In leafless shades to sue for pardon. Only because the scene's a garden? F"or gardens seem, by one consent. Since Siiakspeare set the precedent, Since Juliet first declared her passion, To form the place of assignation.* Oh! would some modern muse inspire, And seat her by a sea-coal fire; Or had the bard at Christmas written, And laid the scene of love in Britain, He surely, in commiseration, Had changed the place of declaration. In Italy I've no objection; Warm nights are proper for reflection; But here our climate is so rigid. That love itself is rather frigid : Think on our chilly situation. And curb this rage for imitation; Then let us meet, as oft we've done, Beneath the influence of the sun; Or, if at midnight I must meet you. Within your mansion let me greet you: There we can love for hours together, Much better, in such snowy weather. Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves That ever witness'd rural loves; * " To form the place of assignation."] In the above little piece the author has been accused by some candid readers of introducing the name of a lady from whom he was some hundred miles distant at the time this was written ; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long \.\ " the tomb of all the Capulets," has been converted, with a trilling alteration of lier name, into an English damsel walking in a garden of their own creation, during the month o{ December, in a village where the author never Then, if my passion fail to please. Next night Til be content to freeze; No more I'll give a loose to laughter. But curse my fate forever after.* OSCAR OF ALVA.f A TALE. How sweetly shines through azure skies The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore; Where Alva's hoary turrets rise. And hear the din of arms no more! But often has yon rolling moon On Alva's casques of silver play'd; And view'd at midnight's silent noon, Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd: And on the crimson'd rocks beneath. Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow. Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death. She saw the gasping warrior low: While many an eye which ne'er again Could mark the rising orb of day, Turn'd feebly from the goiy plain. Beheld in death her fading ray. Once to those eyes the lamp of I.ove, They blest her dear propitious light; But now she glimmer'd from above, A sad, funereal torch of night. Faded is Alva's noble race. And grey her towers are seen afar; No more her heroes urge the chase. Or roll the crimson tide of war. But who was last of Alva's clan? Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? Her towers resound no steps of man. They echo to the gale alone. And when that gale is fierce and liigh, A sound is heard in yonder hall: * " But curse my fate forever after. '] Having heard that a very severe and hidelicate censure liad been passed on the above poem, 1 beg leave to reply in aquota- tionfrom an admired work, " Carr's stranger in Fn;nce :" — "As we were contemplating a painting on a large scale, in which, among other tigures, is the uncovered whole length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed to have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through her glats, ob- served to her party, that there was a great deal of in- decorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whis- pered in my ear ' that the indecorum was in the re- mark.' " t The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of "Jeronyme and Lorenzo," in the first volume It also passed a winter. Such has been the candor of some in ^ - ^ genious critics. He would advise these liberal com- 1 of bchiiler"s Armenian; or. The Ghosi-Secr mentators on taste and arbiters of decorum to read bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of Skakspeare. \ Macbeth. 4> ^ ^ -1807. HOURS OF IDLENESS. 17 II rises hoarsely through the sky, And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, It shakes tire shield of Oscar brave; Ijiit there no more his banners rise. No more his plumes of sable wave. Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, When Angus hail'd his eldest born: The vassals round their chieftain's hearth Crowd to applaud the happy morn. They feast upon the mountain deer, The jjibroch raised its piercing note: To gladden more their highland cheer. The strains in martial numbers float: And they who heard the war-notes wild, Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain Shoukl play l)cfore the hero's child While he should lead the tartan train. Another year is quickly past, And Angus hails another son; His natal day is like the last. Nor soon the jocund feast was done. Taught by their sire to bend the bow, On Alva's dusky hills of wind, Tlie boys in childhood chased the roc, And left their hounds in speed behind. But ere their years of youth arc o'er. They mingle in the ranks of war; They lightly wheel the bright claymore, And send the whistling arrow far. Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, Wildly it stream'd along the gale; Eut Allan's locks were bright and fair. And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learn'd control. And smooth his words had been from youth Both, botli were brave; the Saxon spear Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel; And Oscar's boson; scorn'd to fear, But Oscar's bosom knew to feel; While Allan^s soul belied his form, Unwoniiy with such charms to dwell: Keen as the lightning of the storm. On foes his deadly vengeance fell. From high Southannon's distant tower Arrived a young and noble dame; \\ iih Kenneth's lands to form her dower, Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came; And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride. And Angus on his Oscar smiled; It soothed the father's feudal pride Thus to obtain (jlenalvon's child. Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note! Hark to the swelling nuptial song! In joyous strains the voices float. And still the choral peal prolong. See how the heroes' blood-red plumes Assembled wave in Alva's hall! Each youth his varied plaid assumes. Attending on their chieftain's call. It is not war their aid demands, The pibroch plays the song of peace; To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late: Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? While thronging guests and ladies wait, Nor Oscar nor his brother came. At length young Allan join'd the bride; " Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said; " Is he not here?" the youth replied; " With me he roved not o'er the glade. "Perchance, forgetful of the day, 'Tis his to chase the bounding roe; Or ocean's waves prolong his stay; Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." " Oh, no!" the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, " Nor chase nor wave my boy delay; Would he to Mora seem unkind? Would aught to her impede his way? "Oh, search, ye chiefs! oh, search around! Allan, with these through Alva fly; Till Oscar, till my son is found, Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." All is confusion — through the vale The name of Oscar hoarsely rings; It rises on the murmuring gale, Till night expands her dusky wings; It breaks the stillness of the night. But echoes through her shades in vain; It sounds through morning's misty light. But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief For Oscar search'd each mountain cave! Then hope is lost; in boundless grief. His locks in grey torn ringlets wave. 1" Oscar, my son! — thou God of heaven I Restore the prop of sinking age! ^ 4 ^ y her he left four fons: the third. Sir William Gordon, 1 have the honor to claim as one of my progenitors. X Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not certain; but as many fell in the insurrection, 1 have used the name of the principal action, "pars jt>ro tjto." % A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle of Bracmar. The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud num- ber, [na CJarr. Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you. Years must elapse ere I tread you again : Nature of verdure and flowers has l)ereft you, ■ Yet still are you dearer than Albion's p"ai:i. England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic. To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar; Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic! The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr! TO ROMANCE. Parent of golden dreams, Romance! Auspicious queen of childish joys. Who lead'st along, in airy dance, Thy votive train of girls and boys; At length, in spells no longer bound, I break the fetters of my youth ; No more I tread thy mystic round. But leave thy realms for those of Truth. And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams Which haunt the unsuspicious soul. Where every nymph a goddess seems, Whose eyes through rays immortal roll; While Fancy holds her boundless reign, And all assume a varied hue; When virgins seem no longer vain. And even woman's smiles are true. And must we own thee but a name, And from thy hall of clouds descend? Nor find a sylph in every dame, A Pylades in every friend?* But leave at once thy realms of air To mingling bands of fairy elves; Confess that woman's false as fair. And friends have feelings for — themselves! With shame I own I've felt thy sway; Repentant, now thy reign is o'er. No more thy precepts I obey. No more on fancied pinions soar. Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye, And think that eye to truth was dear; * It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments, which in all probability never e.xistcd 1 c- yond the imagination of the poet, or the page of an his- torian, or modern novelist. ^ ^ s- ^ 30 HOURS OF IDLE.VESS. To trust a passing wanton's sigh, And melt beneath a wanton's tear! Romance! disgusted with deceit, Far from thy motley court I fly. Where Affectation holds her seat, And sickly Sensibility; Whjse silly tears can never flow For any pangs excepting thine; Who turns aside from real woe. To sleep in dew thy gaudy shrine. Now join with sable Sympathy, With cypress crovvn'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female choir. To mourn a swain forever gone, Who once could glow with equal fire, lUit bends not now before thy throne. Ve genial nymphs, whose ready tears On all occasions swiftly flow; Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears. With fancied flames and frenzy glow; Say, will you mourn my absent name, Apostate from your gentle train? An infant bard at least may claim From you a sympathetic strain. Adieu, fond race! a long adieu! The hour of fate is ho'^ering nigh; E'en now the gulf appears in view. Where unlamented you must lie: Oljlivion"s lilackening lake is seen, Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether. ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES, SENT i;y a friend to the author, com- I'LAININ'G THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN. " But if any old lady, knight, priest or physician. Should condemn me for printing a second edition; If good Madame Squintura i:iy work should abuse. May I venture to give her a smack of my muse !" I^ew Baih Guide. Candor compels me, Becher!'to commend The verse which blends the censor with the friend. Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause Fnim me, the heedless and imprudent cause. l''or tliis wild error, which jiervades my strain, I sue for pardon — must I sue in vain? [part; The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways de- Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart? Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind. Limping Decorum lingers far behind: Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase. The young, the old, have worn the chains of love; Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove: Let those whose soi:ls contemn the pleasing power Their censuies on the liapless victim shower. Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, The ceaseless echo of the rliyming throng, Whose labor'd lines in chilling numbers flow. To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! The artless Helicon I boast is youth; — My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simide truth. Far be't from me the "virgin's mind" to "taint:" Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile. Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile. Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer. Firm in lur virtue's strength, yet not severe — She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine. Will ne'er be " tainted " by a strain of mine. But for the nymph whose premature desires Torment her bosom with unholy fires. No net to snare her willing heart is spread; She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. For me, I fain would please the chosen few. Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy The light effusions of a heedless boy. I seek not glory from the senseless crowd; Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud; Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize. Their sneers or censures I alike despise. ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. "It is the voice of years that are gone! — they roll before mc with aU their deeds." — OssiAX. NewsteadI fast-falling, once resplendent dome ! Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's pride !'•" Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb. Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide. Hail to thy pile! more honor'd in thy fall Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall. Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. * Henry IL founded Ncwstead soon after the murdci of Thomas a Becket. ^ 4 ^ 4 "^ -1807. HOURS OF IDLEXESS. 41 THE PRAYER OF NATURE. Father of Light! great God of Heaven! llear'st thou the accents of despah-? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? Father of Light, on thee I call I Thou seest my soul is dark within; Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert from me the death of sin. No shrine I seek, to seels unknown; Oh, point to me the path of truth! Thy dread omnipotence I own: .Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. Let superstition hail the pile. Let priests, to spread their sable reign, With tales of mystic rites beguile. Shall man confine his Maker's sway To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? Thy temple is the face of day; Earth, ocean, heaven, thy l)oundless throne. Shall man condemn his race to hell, Unless they bend in pompous form? Tell us that all, for one who fell, ]Must perish in the mingling storm? ShiU each pretend to reach the skies. Yet doom his brother to expire. Whose soul a different hope supplies. Or doctrines less severe inspire? Shall these, by creeds they can't expound. Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground. Their great Creator's purpose know? Shall those who live for self alone. Whose years float on in dally crime — Shall they by Faith for guilt atone, And live beyond the bounds of Time? Father! no prophet's laws I seek — Tliy laws in Nature's works appear; I own myself corrupt and weak, Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! Thou, who canst guitle the wandering star Through trackless realms of cether's space; Who calms the elemental war, Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: Thou, who in wisdom placed me here. Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence, Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, ICxtend to me thy wide defence. To Thee, my God, to thee I call! Whatever weal or woe betide. By thy command I rise or fall, Li thy protection I confide. If, when this dust to dust's restored, My soul shall lloat on airy wing. How shall thy glorious name adorefl Inspire her feeble voice to sing! 'But, if this fleeting spirit share With clay the grave's eternal bed. While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. To Thee I breathe my huml)le strain. Grateful for all thy mercies past. And hope, my God, to thee again This erring life may fly at last. TO EDWWRD NOEL LONG, ESQ. "Nil C30 contulerim jocundo sanus amico." — HoR. Dear Long, in this sequester'd scene, While all around in slumber lie. The joyous days which ours have been. Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye; Thus if amidst the gathering storm, While clouds the darken'd noon deform. Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, I hail the sky's celestial bow, Which spreads the sign of future peace. And bids the war oT tempests cease. Ah ! though the present brings but pain, I think those days may come again; (^r if, in melancholy mood, vSome larking envious fear intrude. To check my bosom's fondest thought, And interrupt the golden dream, I crush the fiend with malice fraught. And still indulge my wonted them;. Although we ne'er again can trace. In Granta's vale, tiie pedant's lore; Nor through the groves of Ida chase Our raptured visions as before. Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion. And Manhood claims his stern dominion. Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy. Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring: But if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fany bovvers, Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell; If frowning Age, with cold control, Confines the current of the soul. Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh. Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, -^ ^ ^ 42 JIOi'RS OF IDLEA^ESS. lSo2~ And bids me feel for self alone; Oh ! may my bosom never learn To soothe its wonted heedless flow, Still, still despise the censor stern, But ne'er forget another's woe. Yes, as you knew me in the days O'er which Remembrance yet delays, Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild, And even in age at heart a child. Though now on airy visions borne. To you my soul is still the same. Oft has it been my fate to mourn, And all my former joys are tame. But, iience! ye hours of sal)le hue! Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: By every bliss my childhood knew, I'll think' upon your shade no more. Tlius, when the whiilwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast, When lull'd by zephyr to repose. Full often has my infant Muse Attuned to love her languid lyre; But now without a theme to choose. The strains in stolen sighs expire. My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; E — is a wife, and C — a mother. And Carolina sighs alone. And Mary's given to another; And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, Can now no more my love recall: In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee; For Cora's eye will shine on all. And though the sun, with genial rays, His beams alike to all displays, And every lady's eye's a sun, These last should be confined to one. The soul's meridian don't become her Whose sun displays a general summer! Thus faint is every former flame. And passion's self is now a name. As, when the ebbing flames are low, The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow. Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires. As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon. Whose beauties I shall not rehearse. Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night Has thrice perform'd her stated round. Has thrice retraced her path of light. And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful seat. Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And then with those our childhood knew We'll mingle in I he festive crew; W'hile many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of souls shall pour The sacred intellectual shower. Nor cease till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn. TO A LADY. Oh! had my fate been join'd with thine, As once this pledge appear'd a token. These follies had not then been luine. For then my peace had not been broken. To thee these early faults I owe. To thee, the wise and old reproving: They know my sins, but do not know 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, And all its rising fires could smother; But now thy vows no more endure, Bestow'd by thee upon another; Perhaps his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my rival smile in j(>y. For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone. My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone. Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid! 'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor hope nor memory yield their aid. But pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasures, These varied loves, these matrons' fears. These thoughtless strains to passion's mea- sures — If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd; — This cheek, now pale from early riot. With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd. But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; 4 ^ fb — IS07. HOURS OF ID LEX ESS. And once my breast abhon-'d deceit, — For then it beat but to adore thee. But now I seek for other joys: To think would drive my soul to madness; In thougluless throngs and empty noise I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these a thought will steal In spite of every vain endeavor — And fiends might pity what I feel — To know that thou art lost forever. I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. I woiLD I were a careless child, .Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild. Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave. The cumbious pomp of Saxon pride* Accords not with the free-born soul. Which loves the mountain's craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultured lands. Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands, I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me among the rocks I love, Which sound to ocean's wildest roar; I ask but this — again to rove [fore. Through scenes my youth hath known be- Few are my years, and yet I feel The world was ne'er designed for me: Ah! why do darkening shades conceal The hour when man must cease to be? Once I beheld a splendid dream, A visionary scene of bliss: Truth! — wherefore did thy hated beam Awake me to a world like this? I loved — but those I loved are goner. Had friends — my early friends are fled: How cheerless feels the heart alone, When all its former hopes are cleadl Though gay companions o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill f Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul. The heart — the heart— is lonely still. And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boisterous joy is but a name. And woman, lovely woman! thou. My hope, my comforter, my all! How cold must be my bosom now, When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! Without a sigh would I resign This busy scene of splendid woe. To make that calm contentment mine. Which virtue knows, or seems to know. Fain would I fly the haunts of men — I seek to shun, not hate mankind; My breast requires the sullen glen, Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given W'hich bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, To flee away and be at rest.* W^HEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGH- LANDER. When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, [of snow, j And climb'd thy steep summit, O Morven, To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath. Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd be- Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, [low,:]: And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew. No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you? Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, [child? What passion can dwell in the heart of a i Butsti'l I perceive an emotion the same [wild : I As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-covcr'd iOne image alone on my bosom impress'd, I Iloved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; I And few were my wants, for my wishes were ! bless'd; [was with you. I And pure were my thoughts, for my soul * " And I said. Oh, diat I had v/ings li!:c a dovo 1 for then would I fly away and be M rest." —Psn/m Iv. 6. Thii verse also constitutes a jjart of the most beautiful anthem i.i our language. ■IT J 11 1 i 1 .1 • r.i r I t Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. " Gor- tiuw dull ! to hear the voice of those [power, ; ^al of snow" is an expression frequently to be found in Whom rank or chance, whom wealth orjOssian. Have made, though neither friends nor foes, I + This will not appear extraordinary to those who Associates of tlie festive hour. jh'-ive been accustomed to the mountanis. It is by no /••: • r ■,] r ) f means uncommon, on altaming the top of Ben-e-vis, vji\e mi, again a laitniul lew, I Ben-y-bourd. etc., to perceive, between the summit and In years and feelings still the same, Itbe valley, cloud; pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally ■^ Sassenach, or Saxon either LowlanJ or E.^gllsh, Gaelic word, signifying looks down upon Uic storm, perfectly secure from its , effects. ^- 4" ^ -ep 4+ HOURS OF IDLENESS. 1S02— I arose witli the dawn; \\\i\\ my dog as my guide, [along: From mountain to mountain I bounded I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,* And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose. No dreams, save of Mary, were spread %o my view; And warm to the skies my devotions arose, For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone; The mountains arc vanish'd, my youth is no more; As the last of my race, I must wither alone, And delight but in days I have witness'd before : Ah ! splendor has raised but cmbitter'd my lot ; More dear were the scenes which my in- fancy knew: [are not forgot; Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they Though cold is my licart, still it lingers with you. When I sec some dark hill point its crest to the sky, [leen,f I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colb- When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene: [hold. When, haply, some light-waving locks I be- That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, I think on the lonc^ flowing ringlets of gold. The locks that were sacred to beauty and you. Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more [snow: Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of But while these soar above me, unchanged as before. Will Mary be there to receive me? — ah, no! Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred ! Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! No home in the forest shall shelter my head — Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with you? TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. On! yes, I will own we were dear to each other, [i"g- ^^'^ true; The friendships of childhood, though fleet- *" Breasting the lofty surge.' — 2hakspe.4RE. The De:: is a beauiiful river, wnicu r.ses near Mar Lodge, an J falls into the sea at JMew Aberdeen t Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the High- lands, not far from the ruins of Dec Castle. Tlie love which you felt was the love of a brother. Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. But friendship can vary her gentle dominion; The attachment of years in a moment ex- pires; [pinion. Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving But glow s not, like Love, with unquenchable iires. Full oft have we wander'd through Ida to- gether, [allow: And blest were the scenes of our youth, I In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather! [now. But winter's rude tempests are gathering No more with affection shall memory blend- ing. The wonted delights of our childhood re- trace: [unbending. When pride steels the bosom, the heart is And what would be justice appears a dis- grace. However, dear George, for I still must esteem you; The few whom I love I can never upbraid : The chance which is lost may in future re- deem you, [made. Repentance will cancel the vow you have I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection. With me no corroding resentment shall live: My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection. That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive. You knew that my soul, that my heajt, my existence, [own; If danger demanded, were wholly your You knew me unalter'd by years or Ijy dis- tance. Devoted to love and to friendship alone. You knew, — but away with the vain retrospec- tion ! • The bond of affection no longer endures; Too late you may droop o'er the fond recol- lection, [yours. And sigh for the friena who was formerly For the present we part — I will hope not for- ever;- For time and regret will restore you at last: To forget our dissension we both should en- deavor, I ask no atonement, but days like the past. ^ •e ^ — IS07. HOURS or IDLENESS. 45 TO THE EARL OF CLARE. "Tu semper amoris Sis mcmor, ct cari comilis ne abscedat imago." Val. I'LAC Friend of my youth! when young we roved, Like striplings, mutually beloved, With friendship's purest glow. The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours ^Vas such as pleasure seldom showers On mortals here below. The recollection seems alone Dearer than all the joys I've known, When distant far from you: Though pain, 'tis slill a pleasing pain. To trace those days and hours again, And sigh again, adieu! iMy pensive memory lingers o'er Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, Those scenes regretted ever: The measure of our youth is full, Life's evening dream is dark and dull, And we may meet — ah! never! As when one parent spring supplies Two streams which from one fountain rise, Together join'd in vain; How soon, diverging from their source. Each, murmuring, seeks another course Till mingled in the main! Our vital streams of weal or woe. Though near, alas! distinctly How, Nor mingle as before: Now swift or slow, now Ijlack or clear, Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear. And both shall quit th<; shore. Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, Now flow in different channels: Disdaining humbler rural sports, 'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts, And shine in fashion's annals: 'Tis mine to waste on love my time. Or vent my reveries in rhyme. Without the aid of reason; For sense and reason (critics know it) Have quitted every amorous poet. Nor left a thought to seize on. Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard!* Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard. That he, who sang before all — He who the lore of love expanded — * Little was a nom de phtutc of Tom Moore's. By dire reviewers should be branded As void of wit and moral.* And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Harmonious favorite of the Nine! Repine not at thy lot. Thy soothing lays may still be read. When Persecution's arm is dead, And critics are forgot. Still I must yield those worthies merit. Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, Bad rhymes anil those who write them; And though myself may be the next By criticism to be vext, I really will not fight them.f Perhaps they would do quite as well To break the rudely sounding shell Of such a young beginner; He who offends at pert nineteen, Ere thirty may become, I ween, A very harden'd sinner. Now, Clare, I must return to you; And, sure, apologies are due: Accept, then, my concession. In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight I soar along from left to right; My muse admires digression. I think I said 'twould be your fate To add one star to royal state; — May regal smiles attend you! And should a noble monarch reign, You will not seek his smiles in vain, If worth can recommend you. Vet since in danger courts abound. Where specious rivals glitter round, From snares may saints preserve you; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care. But tliose who best deserve you! Not for a moment may you stray From truth's secure, unerring way! May no delights decoy! O'er roses may your footsteps move, Your smiles be ever smiles of love. Your tears be tears of joy! Oh! if you wish that happiness Your coming days and years may bless, And virtues crown your brow; Be still as you were wont to be, * These lines were written soon after the appearanc ; of a severe critique in .1 northern review on a new pub- lication of the British Anacreon . t Alluding to a hostile meeting between Moore and Jeffrey at Chalk Farm. (Edit.) -^ ^ ut woman is made to command and deceive us — [you . I look'd in your face and I almost forgave I vow'd I could ne'er lor a moment respect you, [long; Yet thought that a day's separation was When we met, I determined again to suspect you — [was wrong. Your smile soon convinced me susj^icion I swore, in a transport of young indignation, With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you : I saw you — my anger became admiration; And nofv, all my wish, all my hope's to regain you. With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the con- tention! Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you; At once to conclude such a fruitless dissen- sion, [adore you! Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to TO THE SAME. On, say not, sweet Anne, that the fates have decreed [to dissever; The heart which adores you should wish Such Fates were to me most unkind ones in- deed, — [ever. To bear me from love and from beauty for- TO A VAIN LADY. Ah! heedless girl! why thus disclose What ne'er was meant for other ears; Why thus destroy thine own repose And dig the source of future tears? Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid. While lurking envious foes will smile, For all the follies thou hast said Of those who spoke but to beguile. Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh. If thou believ'st what striplings say: Oh, from the deep temptation fly. Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, The words man utters to deceive? Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, If thou canst venture to believe. While now amongst thy female peers Thoutell'st again the soothing tale, Canst thou not mark the rising sneers Duplicity in vain would veil? These talcs in secret silence hush, Nor make thyself the public gaze: What modest maid without a blush Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise? Will not the laughing boy despise Her who relates each fond conceit — Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, Yet cannot see the slight deceit? For she who takes a soft delight These amorous nothings in revealing. Must credit all we say or write, ' While vanity prevents concealing. Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign! No jealousy bids me reprove: One, who is thus from nature vain, I pity, but I cannot love. ^- -^ ^ ^ • 1824. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 45 TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING " 'SAD IS MY YERSK,' YOU SAY, ' AND YET NO TEAR.' " TiiY verse i.s "sad" enougli, no doubt: A devilish deal more sad than witty! Why we should weep I can't find out, Ualess for thee we weep in pity. Yet there is one I pity more; And much, alas! I think he needs it; For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, May once be read — but never after: Yet their effect's by no means tragic. Although by far too dull for laughter. But would you make our bosoms bleed. And of no common pang complain — If you would make us weep indeed. Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. Thou Power! who hast ruled me through in- fancy's days, [should part, Young offspring of fancy, 'tis time we Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays. The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. This bosom, responsive to rapture no more. Shall liush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; [to soar. The feelings of childhood which taught thee Are wafted far distant on Aj^alhy's wing. Though simple the themes of my rude flowing ■ Lyre, Yet even these themes are departed forever; No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire, My visions are flown, to return,- — alas ! never. When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl. How vain is the effort delight to prolong! When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my! soul, j What magic of fancy canlensithen mv sons? Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone. Of kisses and smiles which they now mustj resign? [flown?! Or dwell with delight on the hours that are Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? I Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, [.Sires? And raise my loud harp to the fame of my For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone ! For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast — [o'er; 'Tis hush'd and my feelde endeavors are And those who have heard it will pardon the past, [vilirate no more. When they know that lis murmurs shall And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot. Since early affection and love are o'ercast : Oh ! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; [are few; If our songs have been languid, they surely Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet — The present — which seals our eternal Adicy. ON FINDING A FAN. In one who felt as once he felt, This might, perliaps, have fann'd the flame: But now his heart no more will melt, Because that heart is not the same. As when the ebbing flames are low. The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their blaze in night. Thus has it been with passion's fires — As many a boy and girl remembers — • While every hope of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. The fii'sl, though not a spark survive, Some careful hand may teach to burn; The iasi, alas! can ne'er survive; No touch can bid its warmth return. Or, if it chance to wake again. Not always doom'd its heat to smother, It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) Its former warmth around another. TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. Young Oak ! when I planted thee deep in the ground, [mine: I hoped* that thy days would be longer than 4 ^- 4 a- ^ 50 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 1807 — That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's years. On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride; [tears, — ■ They are past, and I water thy stem with my Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, A stranger has dwelt in the hallof my sire; Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, [expire. Ikit liis, whose neglect may have bade thee Oh! hardy thou wert — -even now little care Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal: r>iit thou wert not fated affection to share — For who could suppose that a stranger would feel! Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; [I'un, Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall The hand of thy Master will teacli thee to smile, AVhen Infancy's years of probation arc done. Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds [decay. That clog thy young growth, and assist thy For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds. And still may thy branches their beauty dis- play. Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, Though / shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, [breath. Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid ; While the branches thus gratefully shelter liis grave, [shade. The chief who survives may recline in thy And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot. He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot; Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, [lay. Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. TO MY SON. Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, ]5right as thy mother's in their hue; Those rosy lips, whose dimples play And smile to steal the heart away. Recall a scene of former joy, And touch thy father's heart, my Boy! And thou canst lisp a father's name — Ah, William, were thine own the same, — No self-reproach — but, let me cease — My care for thee shall purchase peace; Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, And pardon all the past, my Boy! Iler lowly grave the turf has prest. And thou hast known a stranger's breast- Derision sneers upon thy birth. And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; Yet shall not these one hope destroy, — A father's heart is thine, my Boy! Why, let the world unfeeling frown, Must I fond Nature's claim disown? Ah, no — thougir moralists reprove, I hail thee, dearest child of love. Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — A father guards thy birth, my Boy! Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace, Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, Ere half my glass of life is run, At once a brother and a son; And all my wane of years employ Injustice done to thee, my Boy! Although so young thy heedless sire, Youth will not damp parental fire; And, wert thou still less dear to me. While Helen's form revives in thee. The breast, which beat to former joy, Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy! FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avaii'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air. But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; But in my breast and in my brain. Awake the pangs that pass not by. The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. ^ 4 fA . r K —1824. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 51 ^ My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Thy spirit deceive. Though grief and passion there rebel; If I should meet thee I only know we loved in vain — After long years, I only feel — Farewell! — Farewell! How should I greet thee? — With silence and tears. BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. Bright be the place of thy soul! Few years have pass'd since thou and I No lovelier spirit than thine Were firmest friends, at least in name. E'er burst from its mortal control And childhood's gay sincerity In the orbs of the blessed to shine. Preserved our feelings long the same. Oil earth thou wert all but divine, But now, like me, too well thou know'st As thy soul shall immortally be; What trifles oft the heart recall; And our sorrow may cease to repine. And those who once have loved the most^ When we know that thy God is with thee. Too soon forget they loved at all. Light be the turf of thy tomb! And such the change the heart displays. May its verdure like emeralds be; So frail is early friendship's reign. There should not be the shadow of gloom A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, In aught that reminds us of thee. Will view thy mind estranged again. Young flowers and an evergreen tree If so, it never shall be mine May spring from the spot of thy rest: To mourn the loss of such a heart; But nor cypress nor yew let us see; The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, For why should we mourn for the blest! WHiich made thee fickle as thou art. As rolls the ocean's changing tide. ^VHEN WE TWO PARTED. So human feelings ebb and flow; When we two parted In silence and tears, And who would in a breast confide Where stormy passions ever glow? Half broken-hearted It boots not that, together bred. To sever for years. Our childish days were days of joy: Pale grew thy cheek and cold, ]SIy spring of life has quickly fled; Colder thy kiss; Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. And when we bid adieu to youth. Slaves to the specious world's control. The dew of the morning We sigh a long farewell to truth; Sunk chill on my brow — That world corrupts the noblest soul. It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken. And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken. All, joyous season! when the mind Dares all things boldly but to lie; ^Vhen thought ere spoke is unconfined, And sparkles in the placid eye. And share in its shame. Not so in Man's maturer years. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me — When Man himself is but a tool; When interest sways our hopes and fears, And all must love and hate by rule. Why wert thou so dear? With fools in kindred vice the same, They know not I knew thee. We learn at length our faults to blend; Who knew thee too well: — And those, and those alone, may claim Long, long shall I rue thee, The prostituted name of friend. Too deeply to tell. Such is the common lot of man: In secret we met — Can wc then 'scape from folly free? In silence I grieve. Can we reverse the general plan. C That thy heart couid forget, Nor.be what all in turn must be? r -:^ > ' ^ a- -^ O CCASIONAL PIE CES. 1807- No; for myself, so dark my fate Through every tmn of life hath been; Man and the world so much I hate, I care not when I quit the scene. But thou, with spirit frail and light, Wilt shine awhile and pass away; As glow-worms sparkle through the night, But dare not stand the test of day. Alas! whenever folly calls Where parasites and princes meet (For cherish'd first in royal halls, The welcome vices kindly greet), Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add One insect to the fluttering crowd; And still thy trifling heart is glad To join the vain and court the proud. There dost thou glide from fair to fair, Still simpering on with eager haste. As flies along the gay parterre, That taint the flowers they scarcely tast^. But say, what nymph will prize the flame Which seems, as marshy vapors move, To flit along from dame to dame, An ignis-fatuus gleam of love? What friend for thee, howe'er inclined. Will deign to own a kindred care? "Who w^ill debase his manly mind, For friendship every fool may share? In time forbear; amidst the throng No more so base a thing be seen; No more so idly pass along; Be something, anything, but — mean. LINES INSCRIBED UrON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. Start not — nor deem my spirit fled; In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, W'hatever flows is never dull. I lived, I loved, I quaff d like thee: I died: let earth my bones resign; Fill up — thou canst not injure me; The worm hath fouler lips than thine. Better to hold the sparkling grape. Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood : And circle in the goblet's shape The drink of gods, than reptile's food. Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, In aid of others' let me shine; And when, alas! our brains are gone, What nobler substitute than wine? Quaff while thou canst: another race. When thou and thine, like me, are sped. May rescue thee from earth's embrace, And rhyme and revel with the dead. Why not? since through life's little day Our heads such sad effects produce; Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay. This chance is theirs, to be of use. WELL! THOU ART LIATPY. W^ell! thou art happy, and I feel That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly, as it was wont to do. Thy husband's blest — and 'twill impart vSomc pangs to view his happier lot: But let them pass — Oh! how my heart Would hate him if he loved thee not! W'hen late I saw thy favorite child, I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled, I kiss'd it for it's mother's sake. I kiss'd it, — and repress'd my sighs Its father in its face to see; But then it had its mother's eyes, And they were all to love and me. Mary, adieu! I must away: While thou art jjlest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay; My heart would soon again be thine. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride. Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; Nor knew till seated by thy side, My heart in all, — save hope, — the same. Yet was I calm; I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime — We met, — and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face. Yet meet with no confusion there; One only feeling couldst thou trace, The sullen calmness of despair. Awav! away! my early dream Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break. [NSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. iWHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory but upheld by birth. ^ ^ • 1824. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 53 The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rest below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been : But the jjoor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose lionest heart is still his master's own, ^Vho labors, fights, lives, bi'cathesfor him alone, Unhonor'tl falls, unnoticed all his worth. Denied in heaven the soal he held on earth: While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven. And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour. Debased by slavery or corrupt by power, Who knows thee well must quit thee with dis- Degraded mass of animated dust! [g^ist, Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! By nature vile, ennobled but by naiiic. Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold the simple urn, Pass on — it honors none you wish to mourn : To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; I never knew but one, — and here he lies. TO A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MV REASON TOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING. W^HEN Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, A moment linger'd near the gate. Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours. And bade him cuise liis future fate. But wandering on through distant climes He learnt to bear his load of grief; Just gave a sigh to other times. And found in busier scenes relief. Thus, lady! will it be with me. And I must view thy charms no more; For while I linger near to tliee, I sigh for all I knew before. In flight I shall be surely wise. Escaping from temptation's snare; I cannot view my ]iaradise W' ithout the wish of dwellinut some unconquerable spell Forbade my bleeding breast to own A kindred care for aught but one. 'Twould soothe to take one lingering view^ And bless thee in my last adieu: Yet wish I not those eyes to weep For him that wanders o'er the deep; llis home, his hope, his youth are gone. Yet still he loves, and loves but one. LINES TO MR. HODGSON. WRITTEN ON BOARD TJIE LISBON PACKET. Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo's off at last; Favorable breezes l)lowing Bend the canvas o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming, Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired. Here's a rascal Come to task all, Prying from the custom-house; Trunks unpacking. Cases cracking, Not a corner for a mouse 'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket. Ere we sail on board the Packet, Now our boatmen quit their mooring. And all hands must ply the oar; Baggage from the quay is lowering. We're impatient, push from shore. " Have a care! that case holds liquor — Stop the boat — I'm sick — oh, Lord!" ' Sick, ma'am; damme, you'll be sicker Ere you've been an hour on board." Thus are screaming Men and women, Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; Here entangling. All are wrangling. Stuck together close as wax — Such the general noise and racket. Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. Now we've reached her, lo! the captain, Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapt in. Some to grumble, some to spew. < Heyday! call you that a cabin? Why, 'tis hardly three feet square: Not enough to stow Queen Mab in — Who the deuce can harbor there?" "Who, sir? plenty — Nobles twenty Did at once my vessel fdl." — " Did they? Jesus, How you squeeze us! Would to God they did so still: Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where arc you? Stretch'd along the deck like logs — Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you! Here's a rope's end for the dogs. Hobhouse muttering fearful curses. As the hatchway down he rolls. Now his breakfast, now his verses. Vomits forth — and damns our souls. " Here's a stanza On Braganza — Help!" — "A couplet?" — " Ne, a cup ^ -4" s- ^ OCCASIONAL PIECES. iSc Of wai'm water — " " What's the matter?" " Zounds! my liver's coming up: I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Paclcet." Now at length we're off for Turkey, Lord knows when we sliall come back. Breezes foul and tempests murky May unship us in a crack. But, since life at most a jest is, As philosophers allow, Still to laugh by far the best is, Then laugh on — as I do now. Laugh at all things, Great and small things. Sick or well, at sea or shore; While we're quaffing. Let's have laughing — W'ho the devil care's for more? — Some good wine! and who would lack it, Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet? TO FLORENCE. On Lady! when I left the shore, The distant shore which gave me birth, I hardly thought to grieve once more. To quit another spot on earth; Yet here, amidst this barren isle. Where panting Nature droops the liead. Where only thou art seen to smile, I view my parting hour with dread. Though far from Albion's craggy shore. Divided by the dark blue main; A few brief rolling seasons o'er, Perchance I view her cliffs again: But wheresoe'er I now may roam. Through scorching clime and varied sea. Though Time restore me to my home, I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee: On thee, in whom at once conspire All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire. And, oh! forgive the word — to love. Forgive the word, in one who ne'er With such a word can more offend; And since thy heart I cannot share, Believe me what I am, thy friend. And who so cold as look on thee. Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? Nor be what man should ever be. The friend of Beauty in distress? Ah! who would think that form had past Througli Danger's most destructive path. Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast. And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath? Lady! when I shall view the walls Where free Byzantium once arose, And Stamboui's Oriental halls The Turkish tyrants now enclose; Though mightiest in the lists of fame That glorious city still shall be; On me 'twill hold a dearer claim. As spot of thy nativity: And though I bid thee now farewell. When I behold that wondrous scene. Since where thou art I may not dwell, 'Twill soothe to be where thou has been. LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA. As o'er the cold sepulchral stone Some name arrests the passer-by; Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, May mine attract thy pensive eye! And when by thee that name is read, Perchance in some succeeding year. Reflect on me as on the dead. And think my heart is buried here. STANZAS COMrOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM, AND AVllILE ];E\VILDERED near mount PINDUS IN AI.r.ANIA. CiiiLT, and mirk is the nightly blast. Where Pindus' mountains rise. And angry clouds are pouring fast The vengeance of the skies. Oar guides arc gone, our hope is lost. And lightnings, as they play, But show where rocks our path have crost. Or gild the torrent's spray. Is yon a cot I saw, though low? When lightning broke the gloom — Mow welcome were its shade! — ah, no! 'Tis but a Turkish tomb. Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, I hear a voice exclaim — My way-worn countryman, who calls On distant England's name. A shot is fired — by foe or friend? Another — 'tis to tell The mountain-peasants to descend And lead us where they dwell. Oh! who in such a night will dare To tempt the wilderness? r D- ^ ■07 -1824. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 57 And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear Our signal of distress? And who that heard our shouts would rise To try the dubious road? Nor rather deem from nightly cries That outlaws were abroad? Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! More fiercely pours the storm ! Yet here one thought has still the power To keep my bosom warm. While wandering through each broken path, O'er brake and craggy brow: While elements exhaust their wrath, Sweet Florence, where art thou? Not on the sea, not on the sea. Thy bark hath long been gone: Oh, may the storm that pours on me, Bow down my head alone! Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, When last I press'd thy lip; And long ere now, with foaming shock, Impell'd thy gallant ship. Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now Hast trod the shore of Spain; 'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou Should linger on the main. And since I now remember thee In darkness and in dread. As in those hours of revelry Which mirth and music sped; Do thou, amid the fair white walls. If Cadiz yet be free. At times, from out her latticed halls, Look o'er the dark blue sea; Then think upon Calypso's isles, Endear'd by days gone by; To others give a thousand smiles. To me a single sigh. And when the admiring circle mark The paleness of thy face, A half-form'd tear, a transient spark Of melancholy grace. Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun Some coxcomb's raillery; Nor own for once thou thought'st on one Who ever thinks on thee. Though smile and sigh alike are vain, When sever'd hearts repine, My spirit flies o'er mount and main. And mourns in searcli of thine. STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF. Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen. Full beams the moon on Actium's coast: And on these waves, for Egypt's queen. The ancient world was won and lost. And now upon the scene I look. The azure grave of many a Roman; Where stern Ambition once forsook His wavering crown to follow woman. Florence!* whom I will love as well As ever yet was said or sung (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell). Whilst thou art fair and I am young; Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times, When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes: Had bards as many realms as rhymes. Thy charms might raise new Antonies. Though Fate forbids such things to be. Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd! I cannot lose a world for thee. But would not lose thee for a world. THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS FLOWN! WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY l6, 1810. The spell is broke, the charm is flown! Thus is it with life's fitful fever: We madly smile when we should groan; Delirium is our best deceiver. Each lucid interval of thought Recalls the woes of Nature's charter; And he that acts as wise men ought. But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS.f If, in the month of dark Decembe'-, Leander, who was nightly wont * Mrs. Spencer Smith. 10n the 3d of May, iSio, while the Silscttc (Cnp- tain Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes swam from the European shore to the Asiatic — hy tlie by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more cor- rect. The whole distance from the place whence we started to our landing on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards of four Eng- lish miles, though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat cuii row di- rectly across ; and it may, in some measure, be esti- mated from the circumstance of the whole distance be- ing accomplislied by ( ne of the parties in an hour and fi/e, an J by the other in an hour and tan minutes. 'Jhe Hater was extremely cold, from the melting of the -6^ ^ r\ 58 O CCASIONAL PIE CES. 1807— (What maid will not the tale remember?) To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont! If, when the \vintry tempest roar'd, He sped to Hero, nothing loth, And thus of old thy current pour'd, Fair Venus! how I pity both! For vie, degenerate modern wretch. Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch. And think I've done a feat to-day. But since he cross'd the rapid tide. According to the doubtful story. To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside, And swam for love, as I for glory; 'Twere hard to say who fared the best; Sad mortals ! thus the gods still plague you ! He lost his labor, I my jest; For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVEL- LERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS. IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN: " Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart To trace the birth and nursery of art: Noble his object, glorious is his aim; H>e comes to Athens, and he writes his name." BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING: The modest bard, like many a bard unknown. Rhymes on cur names, but wisely hides his own; But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, [verse. His name would bring more credit than his MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART, ZuJT) jioO, cros dyaTToi). ]\L\ID of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart! liioiuUain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt; but having ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water bemg of an icy chilUness, we found it necessary to post- pone the completion till the frigate anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits, as just stated; en- tering a considerable way above the European and landing below the Asiati: fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress, and Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the Salsctte's crew were known to have accomplished a greater distance; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been enter- tained of the truth of Leander's story, no tiaveller had ever endeavored to ascertain its practicability. Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, ZuJT) jHoC, ao.% dyaTTu).* By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each /Egean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, ZujTj jtxoO, j,'' &c.* I ENTER thy garden of roses, Beloved and fair Haidce, Each morning where Flora reposes, For surely I see her in thee. Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee. Receive this fond truth from my tongue. Which utters its song to adore thee. Yet trembles for what it has sung; As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree. Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the young Haidee. But the loveliest garden grows hateful When Love has abandon'd the bowers; Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, That herb is more fragrant than flowers. The poison, when pour'd from the chalice. Will deeply embitter the bowl; But when clrunk to escape from thy malice. The draught shall be sweet to my soul. Too cruel! in vain I implore thee My heart from these horrors to save: Will nought to my bosom restore thee? Then open the gates of the grave. As the chief who to combat advances Secure of his conquest before. Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances. Hast pierced through my heart to its core. Ah, tell me, my soul, must I perish By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, For torture repay me too well? * The song from which this is taken s a great f ivoritc witii the youn; girls ot Athens of all classc^. Iheir man- ner of finging it is by verses in rotalion, the whole nuui- bcr present joining in the chorus. The air is plaintive and pretty. ^ 4 ^ -07 60 C CASIO. VAL PIE CES. 1807- Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Ilaidce! There Flora all withered reposes, And mourns o'er thine absence with me. ON PARTING. The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left Shall never part from mine. Till happier hours restore the gift Untainted back to thine. Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see: The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me. I ask no pledge to make me blest In gazing when alone; Nor one memorial for a breast Whose thoughts are all thine own. Nor need I write — to tell the tale My pen were doubly weak; Oh! what can idle words avail, Unless the heart could speak? By day or night, in weal or woe, That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show, And silent ache for thee. ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WA.S BROKEN. Ill-fated Heart! and can it be, That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain? Have years of care for thine and thee Alike been all employed in vain? Yet precious seems each shatter'd part. And every fragment dearer grown, Since he who wears thee feels thou art A fitter emblem of his own. LINES TO A LAUY WEEPING.^ Weep, daughter of a royal line, A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah! happy if each tear of thine Could wash a father's fault away! Weep — for thy tears arc Virtue's tears — Auspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles! THE CHAIN I GAVE. FROM THE TURKISH. The chain I gave was fair to view, The lute I added sweet in sound; * The Princess Charlotte. (Edit.) The heart that offered both was true. And ill deserved the fate it found. These gifts were charm'd by secret spell. Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well — Alas! they could not teach thee thine. That chain was firm in every link. But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet — till thou couldst think In other hands its notes were such. Let him who from thy neck unbound The chain which shivered in his grasp. Who saw that lute refuse to sound, Restring the chords, renew the clasp. When thou wert changed, they alter'd too; The chain is broke, the music mute. 'Tis past — to them and thee adieu — False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER. Stranger! behold, interr'd together, The soicls of learning and of leather. Poor Joe is gone, but left his ai/ : You'll find his relics m a stall. His works were neat, and often found W^'ll stitch'd, and with morocco bound. Tread lightly — where the bard is laid He cannot mend the shoe he made; Yet is he happy in his hole. With verse immortal as his sole. But still to business he held fast^ And stuck to Phoebus to the last. Then who shall say so good a fellow Was only " leather and prunella?" For character — he did not lack it; And if he did, 'twere shame to " Black it." FAREWELL TO MALTA. Adieu, ye joys of La Valette! Adieu, sirocco, sun and sweat! Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd! Adieu, ye mansions where — I've ventured! Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs! (How surely he who mounts you swears!) Adieu, ye merchants often failing! Adieu, thou mob forever railing! Adieu, ye packets — without letters! Adieu, yc fools — who ape your betters! Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine, That gave me fever and the spleen! Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs. Adieu, his Excellency's dancers! ^ ■^ ^ — IS24. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 6i Adieu to Peter — whom no fault's in, ]iut could not teach a colonel waltzing; Adieu, ye females fraught with graces! Adieu, red coats, and redder faces! Adieu, the supercilious air Of all that strut " en militaire!" I go — but God knows when, or why, To smoky towns and cloudy sky, l^o things (the honest trutli to say) As bad — but in a different way. Farewell to these, but not adieu, Triumphant sons of truest blue! While either Adriatic shore. And fallen cliicfs, and fleets no more. And nightly smiles, and daily dinners. Proclaim you war and woman's winners. Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is. And take my rhyme — because 'tis "gi'atis.' And now I've got to Mrs. Frascr, Perhaps you tliink I mean to praise her — And were I vain enough to think My praise was worth tliis drop of ink, A line — or two — were no hard matter, As licrc, indeed, I need not flatter: Put she must be content to shine In l)ctter praises than in mine, With lively air, and open heart. And fashion's case, without its art; Mer hours can gaily glide along, Nor ask the aid of idle song. And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us, Thou little military hothouse! I'll not offend v.'ith words uncivil. And wisli thee rudely at the Devil, Put only stare from out my casement. And ask, for what is such a place meant? Then, in. my solitary nook. Return to scribbling, or a book, Or take my physic while I'm able (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label), Prefer my nightcap to my beaver. And bless the gods I've got a fever. TO DIVES. A FRAGMENT. Unhappy Dives! in an evil hour [curst! 'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds ac- Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power; Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst. In Wit, in Genius, as in Wer.lth the first, I low wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose! [thirst Put thou wert smitten with th' unlialjow'd Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close [woes. In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPTiRA. Good plays are scarce. So Moore writes farce; The poet's fame grows brittle — • W' e knew before ThatZ?V//^'j Moore, Put now 'tis Moore that's little. EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO r.E CHEERFUL, AND TO " BANISH CARE." " Oh ! banish care '' — such ever be The motto of thy revelry! Perchance of mine, when wassail nights Renew those riotous delights. Wherewith the children of Despair Lull the lone heart, and " banish care." But not in morn's reflecting hour, W^hen present, past, and future lower, When all I loved is changed or gone, Mock with such taunts the woes of one, Whose every thought — but let them pass— Thou know'st I am not what I was. But, above all, if thou wouldst hold Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, By all the powers that men revere. By all unto thy bosom dear. Thy joys below, thy hopes above, Speak — speak of anything but love. 'Tv.-erc long to tell, and vain to hear, The tale of one who scorns a tear; And there is little in that tale Which better bosoms would bewail. Put mine has suffer'd more than well 'Twould suit philosophy to tell. I've seen my bride another's bride, — Have seen her seated l)y his side, — Have seen the infant which she bore. Wear the sweet smile tlie mother wore, W'hen she ami I in youth have smiled, As fond and faultless as her child; Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain. Ask if I felt no secret pain; And / have acted well my part. And made my cheek belie my heart, Return'd the freezing glance she gave, Yet felt the while that woman's slave, — Have kiss'd, as if without design. The babe which ought to have been mine, 4 ^ ^ 62 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 1807— And show'd, alas! in each caress Time had not made me love the less. Bullet this pass — I'll whine no more, Nor seek again an eastern shore; The world befits a busy brain, — I'll hie me to its haunts again. Ijut if, in some succeeding year. When Britain's " May is in the sere," Thou hear'stof one whose deepening crimes Suit with the sablest of the times, Of one, whom love nor pity sways. Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise; One, wlio in stern ambition's pride, Perchance not blood shall turn aside; One rauk'd in some recording page "With the worst anarchs of the age, Him wilt thou knoiv — and knowing pause. Nor with the effect forget the cause. Newstead Al;bey, Oct. il, 1811. ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, l8l2. In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, liow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. Ye who beheld (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, Whose radiance niock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven, [heaven; Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from Saw the long column of revolving flames Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, \Yhile thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, [home, Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own. Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall; Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Rcar'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle. Know the same favor which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him z.nAyou? Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name Defies the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame; On the same spot still consecrates the scene. And bids the Drama be where she hath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well ! As soars this fane to emulate the last. Oh! might we draw our omens from the past. Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu: But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you re- fuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse: With garlands deck your own Menanders head,'-' Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead! Dear are the days which made our annals bright. Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. Heirs to their labors, like all high-born heirs. Vain oi our ancestry as they oitlteirs; [glas-s While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass. And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line. Pause — ere their feebler offspring you con- demn. Reflect how hard the task to rival them I Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays Must sue alike for pardon or for praise. Whose judging voice and eye alone direct The boundless power to cherish or reject; If e'er frivolity has led to fame. And made us blush that you forbore to Idamc; If e'er the sinking stage could condescend To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, All past reproach may present scenes refuse, And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws. Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's pov.ers. And reason's voice be echoed back by ours ! This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd. The Drama's homage by her herald paid, Receive oiw welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. The curtain rises — may our stage unfold Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! Britons our judges. Nature for our guide. Still may we please — long, long \w^y you pre- side. * Sheridan. ^ Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm Singing " Glory to God " in a spick and span stanza, [never man saw. The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, [Russes, — The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman, [great man. And what dignity decks the flat face of the I saw him last week, at two balls and a party, — [hearty, For a prince, his demeanor was rather too You know lue are used to quite diflerent graces. * * :;: * * The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker, • But then he is sadly deficient in whisker; And wore but a starless blue coat, and in Ker- sey- [the Jersey, mere Ijreeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with Who lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted With Majesty's presence as those she invited. ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DE.VTII OE SIR I'ETER PARKER, EART. There is a tear for all that die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave; Ikit nations swell the funeral cry. And triumph weeps above the brave. For them is Sorrow's purest sigh O'er ocean's heaving bosom sent: In vain their bones unburied lie. All earth becomes their monument! A tomb is tlieirs on every page. An epitaph on every tongue: The present hours, the future age, For them bewail, to them belong. For them the voice of festal mirth Grows hush'd, ilicir iiatite the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth The goblet's tributary round. A theme to crowds that knew them not; Lamented by admiring foes, Who would not share their glorious lot? Who would not die the death they chose? ^ ^±^ ^ 70 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 1807— And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early valor, glowing, find A model in thy memory. But there are breasts that bleed with thee In woe, that glory cannot quell; And shuddering hear of victory, ^Vhere one so dear, so dauntless, fell. Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? When cease to hear thy cherish'd name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness. While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. Alas! for them, though not for thee. They cannot choose but weep the more; Deep for the dead the grief must be. Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. TO 15ELS1IAZZAR. Belshazzar! from the banquet turn. Nor in thy sensual fulness fall; Behold! while yet before thee burn The graven words, the glowing wall. Many a despot men miscall Crown'd and anointed from on high; But thou, the weakest, worst of all — Is it not written, thou must die? Go! dash the roses from thy brow — Grey hairs but poorly wreath with them: Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, INIore than thy very diadem. Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem: — Then throw the worthless bauble by, W'hich, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn; And learn like better men to die ! Oh! early in the balance weigh'd. And ever light of word and worth, ^Vhose soul expired ere youth decay'd. And left thee but a mass of earth. To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : But tears in Hope's averted eye Lament that even thou hadst birth — Unfit to govern, live, or die. STANZAS FOR JNIUSIC. There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charm'd ocean's pausing. The waves lie still and gleaming. And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving. As an infant's sleep: So the spirit bows l)efore thee. To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion. Like the swell of Summer's ocean, STANZAS FOR MUSIC. " O Lachryraarum fons, tenero sacros Ducentium onus ex animo: quatcr Felix ! in imo qui scatentcm Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." Gray's Poemaia. There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes aw'ay, [feeling's dull decay; When the glow of early thought declines in 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, [itself be past. But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness [excess : Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain [never stretch again. The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; [its own; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, [the ice appears. And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast. Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; [wreath, 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruind turret All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath. Oh ! could I feel as I have felt — or he what I have been, [a vanish'd scene; Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be. So midst the wilhcr'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me. DARKNESS. I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was cxtinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in tlie eternal space, Rayless, and pathless; and the icy earth [air; Swung blind and^blackening in the moonless Morn came and went — and came, and brought no day. And men forgot their passions in the dread s- -^ -1824. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 71 Of this their desolaticm; and all hearts Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings — tlie huts, The haljitations of all things which dwell, "Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed, And men were gathered round their blazing lionics To look once more into each other's face; Ilappy were those wlio dwelt within the eye Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch : A fearful hope was all the world contained; Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The ilaslies fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest [smiled; Their chins upon their clenched hands and And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up With mad disquietude on the dull sky. The pall of a past world; and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust. And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd. And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And llap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd And twined themselves among the multitude. Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food: And War, which for a moment was no more. Did glut himself again: — a meal was bought Witli blood, and each sate sullenly apart (Jorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thouglit — and that was death Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails — men [fiesh ; Died, and their bones were tombless as their The meagre by the meagre were devour'd. Even dogs as_saird their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay. Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no But with a piteous and perpetual moan, [food. And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Wliich answer'd not with a caress — he died. The crowd was famisli'd by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place. Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they raked up, [hands And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — Ev'n of their mutual hideousness they died. Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void. The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herblcss, treeless, manless, life- A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay, [less, The rivers, lakes, ami ocean all stood still. And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea. And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd. They slept on the abyss without a surge — The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave. The Moon, their mistress, had expired before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air. And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them — She was the Universe! MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. When the last sunshine of expiring day In summer's twilight weeps itself awa)^. Who hath not felt the softness of the hour Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes While nature makes that melancholy pause. Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, Who hath not shared that calm, so still and deep, [but weep. The voiceless thought which would not speak A holy concord, and a bright regret, A glorious sympathy with suns that set? 'Tis not harsh sorrow, but a tenderer woe, Nameless, but dear to gentle liearts below. Felt without bitterness, l)ut full and clear, A sweet dejection, a transparent tear, Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain. Shed without shame, and secret withoat pain. Even as the tenderness that hour instils When summer's day declines along the hills. ^ ^ ^ 72 OCCASIONAL PIECES, 1807— So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes, When all of Genius which can perish dies. A mighty spirit is eclipsed — a power [hour Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose Of light no likeness is bec]ueath'd — no name, Focus at once of all the rays of Fame! The flash of Wit, the bright intelligence. The beam of Song, the blaze of Eloquence, Set with their Sun, but still have left behind The enduring produce of immortal Mind; Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, A deathless part of him who died too soon. But small that portion of the wondrous whole. These sparkling segments of that circling soul, Which all embraced, and lighten'd over all. To cheer, to pierce, to please, or to appal. { From thecharm'd council to the festive board, Of human feelings the unbounded lord; In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied. The praised, the proud, who made his praise their jnide. When the loud cry of trampled Mindostan Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, Ilis was the thunder, his the avenging rod. The wrath — the delegated voice of God! Which iihook the nations through his lips, and blazed, [praised. Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they And here, oh ! here, wliere yet all young and The gay creations of his spirit charm, [warm, 'I'he matchless dialogue, the deathless wit. Which knew not what it was to intermit; The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring [spring; Home to our hearts the truth from which they These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought To fullness by the fiat of his tliought. Here in their first abode you still may meet. Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat; A halo of the light of other days, Which still the splendor of its orb betrays. But should there be to whom the fatal blight Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight. Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone Jar in the music which was born their own, Still let them pause — ah! little do they know That what to them seemed Vice might be but Woe. Flard is his fate on whom the public gaze Is fix'd forever to detract or praise; Repose denies her requiem to his name. And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. The secret enemy, whose sleepless eye Stands sentinel, accuser, judge, and spy; The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain. The envious, who but breathe in others' pain — Behold the host! delighting to deprave. Who track the steps of glory to the grave. Watch every fault that daring Genius owes Half to the ardor wiiich its birth bestows. Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, And pile the pyramid of Calumny! These are his portion — but if join'd to these Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Dis- If the high spirit must forget to soar, [ease; And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, To soothe Indignity — and face to face Meet sordid rage, and wrestle with Disgrace; To find in Hope but the renewed caress. The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness: — If such may be the ills which men assail, What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling's given [heaven, Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from 151ack with the rude collision, inly torn, By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne. Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst Thougb.ts which have turned to thunder — scorch, and burst. But far from us and from our mimic scene Such things should be — if such have ever been ; Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task. To give the tribute Glory need not ask. To mourn the vanish'd beam, and add our mite Of praise in payment of a long delight. Ye Orators! whom yet our councils yield, Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field! The worthy rival of the wondrous Three ^'^ Whose words were sparks of Immortality! Ve Bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, He was your master — emulate him here ! Ye men of wit and social eloquence, Fle was your brother — bear his ashes hence! While powers of mind almost of boundless range. Complete in kind, as various in their change; While Eloquence, Wit, Poesy, and Mirth, That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth, Survive within our souls — while lives our sense Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence. Long shall we seek his likeness, long in vain. And turn to all of him which may remain. Sighing that Nature formed but one such man. And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan! CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed The comet of a season, and I saw * Fox, Pitt, Uurke. r f> 'Ihe rock, 'the vulture, and the chain." Promktheus, page Ti. ^ -a? —1824. OCCASIOXAL PIECES. The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed With not the less of sorrow and of awe On that neglected turf and quiet stone, With name no clearer than the names un- known, Which lay unread around it; and I ask'd The Gardener of that ground, why it might be That for this plant strangers his memory task'd, Througli the thick deaths of half a century ? And thus he answer'd: " Well, I do not know Wliy frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; He died before my day of Sextonshi]), And I had not the digging of this grave." And is this all ? I thought — and do we rip The veil of Immortality, and crave I know not what of honor and of light. Through unborn ages, to endure this blight. So soon, and so successless ? As I said. The Architect of all on which we tread. For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay To extricate rememlsrance from the clay. Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's tliought, Were it not that all life must end in one. Of which we are but dreamers; — as he caught As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, Tlius spoke he: " I believe the man of whom You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, Was a most famous writer in his day, [way And therefore travellers step from out their To pay him honor, — and myself whate'er Your honor pleases." Then most pleased I From out my pocket's avaricious nook [shook Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere Perforce* I gave this man, though I could spare So much but inconveniently: — Ye smile, I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while. Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. You are the fools, not I; for I did dwell . Witli a deep thought, and with a soften'deye. On that old Sexton's natural homily. In which there was Obscurity and P^ame — The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. TROMETHEUS. Tit.\n! to whose immortal eyes The sufferings of mortality, Seen in their sad reality. Were not as things that gods despise, What was thy pity's recompense? A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, -All that the proud can feel of pain. The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness. And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until his voice is echoless. Titan ! to thee the strife was given Between the suffering and the will, W'hich torture where they cannot kill; And in the inexorable Heaven, And the deaf tyranny of Fate, The ruling principle of Hate, Which for its pleasure doth create The things it may annihilate, Refused thee even the boon to die: The wretched gift Eternity Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee, But would not to appease him tell; And in thy Silence was his Sentence, And in his soul a vain repentance. And evil dread so ill dissembled That in his hand the lightnings trembled. Thy godlike crime was to be kind, To render witli thy precepts less The sum of liuman wretchedness. And strengthen Man with his own mind; But baffled as thou wert from high, Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse Of thine impenetrable Spirit, [vulse. Which Earth and Heaven could not con- A mighty lesson we inherit: Tliou art a symbol and a sign To mortals of their fate and force; Like thee Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source; And Man in portions can foresee His own funereal destiny; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose Itself— and equal to all woes. And a" firm will, and a deep sense Which even in torture can descry Its own concentred recompense. Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Yictory! A FRAGMENT. Coui.D I remount the river of my years. To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, I would not trace again the stream of hoi-.r; Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers, ^ ^ €7 74 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 1807— But bid it ilow as now — until it glides Into the number of the nameless tides. :■: -^ :i: ^j: '<' What is this Death? — a quiet of the heart? The whole of that of which we are a part? For life is but a vision — what 1 see Of all that lives alone is life to me; And being so — the absent are the dead, AVho haunt us from tranquillity, and spread A dreary shroud around us, and invest With sad remembrances our hours of rest. The absent are the dead — for they are cold. And ne'er can be what o.^.ce we did behold; And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if yet The unforgotten do not all forget. Since thus divided — equal must it be If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea; It may be both — but one day end it must. In the dark union of insensate dust. The under-earth inhabitants — are they But mingled millions decomposed to clay? The ashes of a tht)usand ages spread Wlierever man has trodden or shall tread? Or do they in their silent cities dwell Flach in his incommunicative cell? Or have they their own language? and a sense Of breathless being? — darken'd and intense As midnight in her solitude? — O Earth! Where are the past? — and wherefore had they The dead are thy inheritors — and we [birth? But bubbles on thy surface; and the key Of thy profundity is in the grave, The elK)n portal of thy peopled cave, Where I would walk in spirit, and behold (3ur elements resolved to things untold, And fathom-hidden wonders, and explore The essence of great bosoms now no more. Which of the heirs of immortality Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real! SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. Rousseau — Voltaire — our Giblion — and De Stael — [shore,* Leman! these names are worthy of thy Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more. Their memory thy remembrance would recall: To them thy banks were lovely as to all, But they have made them lovelier, for the lore Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core Of human hearts the ruin of a wall [by //itv, W^here dwelt the wise and wondrous; but How much more. Lake of Beauty! do we feel, In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, * Geneva, Ferney Copet, Lausanne. A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA, Which, in the Arabic lang^iagc, is to the fol- lowing purport. The Moorish King rides up and down Through Granada's royal town; From Elvira's gates to those Of Bivaranibla on he goes. Woe is me, Alhama! Letters to the monarch tell How Albania's city fell; In the fire the scroll he threw. And the messenger he slew. Woe is me, Alhama! He quits his mule, and mounts his horse. And through the street directs his course; Through the street of Zacatin To the Alhambra spurring in. Woe is me, Alhama! When the Alhambra walls he gain'd. On the moment he ordain'd That the trumpet straight should sound With the silver clarion round. Woe is me, Alhama! And when the hollow drums of war, Beat the loud alarm afar, That the Moors of town and plain Might answer to the martial strain. V>'oe is me, Alhama! Then the Moors, by this aware That bloody Mars recall'd them there, One by one, and two by two. To a mighty squadron grew. Woe is me, Alhama! Out then spake an aged Moor In these words the king before, " Wherefore call on us, O King? What may mean this gathering?" Woe is me, Alhama! " Friends! ye have, alas! to know Of a most disastrous blow; That the Christians, stern and bold. Have obtain'd Albania's hold." Woe is me, Alhama! Out then spake old Alfaqui, With his beard so white to see; " Good King! thou art justly served. Good King! this thou hast deserved. Woe is me, Alhama! 4 ^ ongitude," Although this narrow paper would. My Murray. Venice, March. 25, 1818. ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO IIOPPNER. His father's sense, his mother's grace. In him, I liope, will always fit so; With — still to keep l-.im in good case — The health and appetite of Rizzo. Echruary, 1818. ODE ON VENICE. The " Ode toVenicc " was written during the period of Byron's residence in the " city of a liundrcd isles," in 1 8 1 8. Shelley, who visited him at that period, used to say that all he observed of the workings of Byron's mind during his visit, gave him a far higher idea of its powers than he had ever before entertained. The city, the history of which is so full of romantic and poetic incidents, suggested also the poet's two dra- mas, " Marino Falicro" and the " Two Foscari." The lament for the lost glory of the Ocean Queen has happily not proved prophetic. " There is no Hope for Nations," cannot be said of the ransomed Vcnetia, who shares the hopes, the ener- gies, and the future of young Italy. There was some- thing prosaic, and like this workaday nineteenth centu- ry, in the means employed for her deliverance; but the origin of her freedom may be traced back to the fields of Magenta .and Solferino, red with the best blood of her brethren. — Edit. I. Oh Venice! Venice! w'hen thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, A loud lament along the sweeping sea! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do? — anything but weep : And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, The dull green ooze of the receding deep, Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam That drives the sailor sliipless to his home, Are tliey to those that were; and thus they creep, [ping streets. Crouching and crab-like, through their sap- Oh! agony — that centuries should reap No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears. And every inonument the stranger meets. Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; And even the Lion all subdued apjDears, A nd the harsh sound of the barbarian ch'um. With dull and daily dissonance, repeats The echo of thy tyrant's voice along The sofc waves, once all musical to song, That heaved beneath the moonlight witJi the "Of gondolas — and to the busy hum [throng Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds Were but the overheating of the heart. And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. But these ar j l^etter than the gloomy errors. The weeds of nations in their last decay. When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; And Hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death. ^ 4 s- — IS24. OCCASIONAL PIECES. •9 When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, And apathy of limb, the dull beginning Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning. Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; Yet so relieving the o'cr-tortured clay, To him appears renewal of his breath, And freedom the mere numbness of his chain; And then he talks of life, and how again He feels his spirit soaring — albeit weak. And of the fresher air, which lie would seek: And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. And so the him comes o'er him, and the dizzy Chamber swims round and round, and shadows busy. At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream. And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth That which it was the moment ere our birth. There is no hope for nations ! — Search the page Of many thousand years — the daily scene, The flow and ebb of each recurring age. The everlasting to be which hath been, Hath taught us nought, or little: still we lean On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear Our strength away in wrestling with the air: For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts Slaughter'd in hourly hecatomljs for feasts Are of as high an order — they must go Ev'n where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. [water, Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as What have they given your children in return? A heritage of servitude and woes, A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. What! do not yet the red-hot plough-shares burn. O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal. And deem this proof of loyalty the real ; Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars. And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? All that your sires have left you, all that Time Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, Sfiring from a difterent theme ! Ye see and read. Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed! Save the few spirits who, despite of all. And worse than all, the sudden crimes en- gender'd Hy tlie down-thundering of the prison-wall. And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, Oushing from Freedom's fountains, when the crowd, IMadden'd with centuries of drought, are loud. And trample on each other to obtain The cup which brings oblivion of a chain Heavy and sore, in which long yoked they plough'd • [grain. The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow 'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bow'd. And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain ; Yes! the few spirits, — who, despite of deeds Which they abhor, confound not with the cause Those momentary starts from Nature's laws. Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth With all her seasons to repair the blight With a few summers, and again put forth Cities and generations — fair, when free — For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! III. Glory and Empire! once upon these towers With Freedom — godlike Triad! how ye sate! [hours The league of mightiest nations in those When Venice was an envy, might abate. But did not quench her spirit; in her fate All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew [hate. And loved their liostess, nor could learn to Although they humbled — with the kingly few The many felt, for from all days and climes She was the voyager's worship ; even her crimes Were of the softer order — born of Love, She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead. But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread ; For these restored the Cross, that from above Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which in- cessant Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, Which, if it waned and dwindled. Earth may thank The city it has clothed in chains, which clank Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles; Yet she but shares with them a common woe, Andcall'd the " kingdom " of a conquering foe. But knows what all — and, most of all, ive know — With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles! The name of Commonwealth is past and gone O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own A sceptre, and endures the j^urple robe; If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone ^ _^:i ^ ^ OCCASIONAL PIECES. 1807— His chaiiiless mountains, 'tis but for a time, For tyranny of late is cunninrr grown, And in its own good season tramples down 'J"]ie spaikles of our ashes. One great clime, Wjiose vigorous ofispring by dividing ocean Are Ivept apart and nursed in the devotion ( )f Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and iicqueath'd — a lieritage of heart and hand. And proud distinction from eacli other land, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Full of the magic of exploded science — Still one great clime, in full and free defiance. Vet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime. Above the far Atlantic! — slie has tauglit Her Esau-brethren that the haughty tlag, Tiie floating fence of Albion's feebler crag. May strike to those whose red right hands have bought [forever, Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still Better, tliough each man's life-blood were a river, That it should flow, and overflow, than creep Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains. And moving as a sick man in his sleeji, Tiiree paces, and then {altering: — ])etter be Where the extinguish'd Spartans stillarc free. In their proud eharnel of Thermopylae, 'I'han stagnate in our marsh, — oro'er the deejj Fly, and one current to the ocean add, One spirit to the souls our fathers had, One freeman more, America, to thee! TKAXSLATIOX FROM VITTORELLI, ON A NUN. Sonnet composed in ihc name of a father, whose daughter liad recently died shortly after her inarriau,e; and ad- dressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil. Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired. Heaven made us happy; and, now, wretched sires, [sires, I leaven for a nol)ler doom their worth de- And gazing ujion cither, liolli required. Mine, \^•hile the torch i>f Hymen newly fired liecomes exlinguisii'd, soon — too soon — ex- pires: But thine, within the closing grate retired, Fternal captive, to iier Cjotl aspires: 1,'ul thoii at least from out the jealous door, Wiiich shuts between your never-meeting eyes, [more: May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once 1 to the marble, where my daughter lies, Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, And knock, and knock, and knock — but none replies. STANZAS TO THE PO. RiVKR, that rollest by the ancient walls, Where dwells the lady ofmy love, whenshe Walks by thy brink, and there perchance re- A faint and fleeting memory of me; [calls What if thy deep and ample stream should be A mirror ofmy heart, where she may read The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, Wild as thy wave, and headltmg as thy speeci ! W' hat do I say — a mirror of my heart ? [strong ? Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; And such as thou art were my passions long. Time may liave somewhat tamed them, — not forever; Thou overflow's! thy banks, and not for aye Thy bosom overboils, congenial river! [away: 'Fhy floods subside, and mine have sunk But left long wrecks behind, and now again, Borne on our old unchanged career, we move: Thou lemlest wildly onwards to the main, And I — to loving one I should not love. The current I behold will sweep beneath Her native walls, and murmur at her feet: Fler eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twiligjil air, unharm'd by summer's heat. She will look on thee, — I havelook'd on thee. Full of that thought: and from that moment, ne'er Thy waters could I dream of, name, or sec. Without the inseparable sigh for her! Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream. Yes ! they will meet the wave I gaze on now : Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, That happy wave repass me in its flow ! The wave that bears my tears returns no more : W'ill she return by whom that wave shall sweep? [shore, r>oth tread thy banks, both wander on thy 1 by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. But that which keepeth us apart is not Distance, nor deptli of wave, nor space of But the distraction of a various lot, [cartel, As various as the climates of our birth. A stranger loves the lady of the land, [ Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood ^ -4^ c "^ . c\ -J ^ _i824. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 8i 1 Is all meridian, as if never fann'd Then for this reason l!y the hlaekwind that chills the polar flood. Let's love a season; But let that season be only Spring. My blood is all meridian, were it not, I had not left my clime, nor should I be. When lovers parted In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, Feel broken-hearted, A slave again of love, — at least of thee. And, all hopes thwarted, 'Tis vain to struggle — let me perish young — Expect to die; A few years older. Ah ! how much colder Live as I liverl, and love as I iiavc loved: To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, They might behold her For whom they sigh! And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. When link'd together. In every weather, SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, They pluck Love's feather ON THE REPEAL OF From out his wing — He'll stay forever, But sadly shiver Without his plumage, when past the Spring. LORD EUWARD I' ITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE. To be the father of the fatherless, [and raise Tostretcli the hand from the throne's height, His offspring, who expired in other dajs Like chiefs of Faction, To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, — His life is action — I'liis is to be a monarch and repress A formal paction Envy into unutterable praise. [traits, That curbs his reign. Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such Obscures his glory. For who would lift a liand, except to bless? Despot no more, he Were it not easy, sir, and is't not sweet, Such territory To make thyself beloved? and to be Quits with disdain. Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus Still, still advancing. Thy sovereignty would grow but more com- With banners glancing, plete: His power enhancing. A despot thou, and yet thy people free, He must move on — And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. Repose but cloys him. Retreat destroys him. Love brooks not a degraded throne. EPIGRAM. Wait not, fond lover! FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIERES. Till years are over, If, for silver or for gold, And then recover Vou could melt ten thousand pimples As from a dream. Into half a dozen dimples. While each bewailing Then your face we might behold, The other's failing. Looking, doubtless, much more snugly; With wrath and railing, Yet even then 'twould lie d d ugly. All hideous seem — While first decreasing, STANZAS. Yet not quite ceasing. Could I^ove forever Wait not till teasing Run like a river, All passion blight; And Time's endeavor If once diminish'd, Be tried in vain — Love's reign is finish'd — No other pleasure Then part in friendship — and bid good-night. With this could measure* So shall Affection And like a treasure To recollection We'd hug the chain. The dear connexion lUit since our sighing Bring back with joy: Ends not in dying, You had not waited And, form'd for Hying, Till, tired or hated, c Love plumes his wing; Your passions sated r ^ U ' ' ^ 1 ^ 82 OCCASIONAL PIECES. 1807— Began to cloy. Your last embraces Leave no cold traces — The same fund faces As through the past: And eyes, the mirrors Of your sweet errors, Reflect but rapture — not least though last. True, separations Ask more than patience; What desperations From such have risen! But yet remaining, "What is't but chaining Hearts which, once waning, Beat 'gainst their prison? Time can but cloy love And use destroy love: The winged boy. Love, Is but for boys — You'll find it torture. Though sharper, shorter, To wean, and hot wear out your joys. ON MY WEDDING-DAY. Here's a happy new year! but with reason I beg you'll permit me to say — Wish me viany returns of the season. But Sisfew as you please of the day. yanitary 2, 1820. EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. W'lTH death doom'd to grapple, ■ Beneath this cold slab, he Who lied in the Chapel, Now lies in the Abbey. EPIGRAM. In digging up your bones, Tom Paine, Will. Cobbett has dune well: You'll visit him on earth again, He'll visit you in hell. yanuary, 1820. STANZAS. When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home. Let him combat for that of his neighbors; Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, And get knock'd on the head for his labors. To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, And is always as nobly requited; Then battle for freedom wherever you can. And if not shot or hang'd you'll get knighted. EPIGRAM. The world is a bundle of hay. Mankind are the asses who pull; Each tugs it a different way, And the greatest of all is John Bull. THE CHARITY BALL. What matter the pangs of a husband and father. If his sorrows in exile be great or be small. So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather, And the saint patronizes her " charity ball I'' What matters — a heart which, though faulty, was feeling, Be driven to excesses which once could appal — [ing, That the sinner should suffer is only fair deal- As the saint keeps her charity back for "the ball!" EPIGRAM ON THE braziers' COMPANY HAVING RE- SOLVED TO PRESENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE. The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass An address, and present it themselves all in brass; A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord Harry ! They'll find where they're going much more than they carry. EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING-DAY. TO PENELOPE. This day, of all our days, has done The worst for me and you: 'Tis just six years since we were one, KnAJive since we were two. Janmny 2, 1821. ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. January 22, 1821. Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty, I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty What have these years left to me ? Nothing — except thirty-three. MARTIAL, Lid, I., Epig. L " Hie est, quern legis, ille, quem requiris, Tota notus in orbc Martialis," &c. He unto whom thou art so partial. Oh, reader! is the well-known Martial, The Epigrammatist: while living, Give him the fame thou wouldsl be giving; C^ 4 ^ ^ — 1824. OCCASIONAL PIECES. S3 So shall he hear, and feel, and know it — Post-obits rarely reach a poet. BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. To the tunc of " Why, how now, saucy jade ?" Why, how now, saucy Tom? If you thus must ramble, I will publish some Remarks on Mister Campbell. ANSWER. Why, how now, Billy Bowles? Sure the priest is maudlin! [souls! (7b the public.) How can you, d — n your Listen to his twaddling? EPIGRAMS. Oh, Castlereagh ! thou art a patriot now; Cato died for his country, so didst thou: lie perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved, Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may lie saved ! So Castlereagh has cut his throat! — The worst Of this is — that his own was not the first. So He kas cut his throat at last! — He! Who? The man who cut his country's long ago. EPITAPH. Posterity will ne'er survey A nobler grave than this: Here lie the bones of Castlereagh: Stop, traveler JOHN KEATS. Who kill'd John Keats? " I," says the (Quarterly, So savage and Tartarly; " 'Twas one of my feats." Who shot the arrow? "The poet-priest Milman (So ready to kill man), *' Or Southey, or Barrow." THE CONQUEST. [This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers after his departure fnjm Genoa for Greece.] The .Son of Love and Lord of War I sing; Him who bade England bow to Normandy, And left the name of conqueror more than To his unconquerable dynasty. ' ['^'ng Not fannM alone by Victory's iieeting wing. He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high: The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast, And Britain's bravest victor was the last. TO MR. MURRAY. For Oxford and for Waldegrave You give much more than me you gave: WHiich is not fairly to behave, My Murray. Because if a live dog, 'tis said, Be worth a lion fairly sped, A live lord must be worth tzvo dead, My Murray. And if, as the opinion goes. Verse hath a better sale than prose, — Certes, I should have more than those. My Murray. But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd. So, \i you will, /shan't be shamm'd. And if you zuoji't, yoic may be damn'd, ]\Iy Murray. THE IRISH AVATAR. "And Ireland, hke a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive the paltry rider." — Curran. Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, [the tide. And her ashes still float to their home o'er Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, [like his — bride! To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, [could pause The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom For the few little years, out of centuries won. Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her cause. True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, [more. The castle still stands, and the senate's no And the famine which dwelt on lier freedom- less crags Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. To her desolate shore — where the emigrant stands [hearth; For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his Tears fall dn his chain, though it drops from his hands, [birth. For the dungeon he quits is the place of his But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves; [conies. Then receive him as best such an advent be- With a legion of cooks and an army of slaves! ^ 4 a- -Qy OCCASIONAL PIECES. 1807- He comes in the promise and Ijloom of three- score, [part — To perform in the pageant the sovereign's But long live the shamrock, which shadows him o'er! [his heart ! Could the green in his /mi be transferr'd to Could that long-withcr'd spot but be verdant again, And a new spring of noble affections arise — Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain, [the skies. And this shout of thy slavery which saddens Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now ? [clay. Were he God — as he is but the commonest With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow — Such serviledevotion might shame lum away. Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride — Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. Ever glorious Grattan I the best of the good! So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest! With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun — [tomb But Grattan sprung up like a god from the Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one ! With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute; With the fire of Prometheus to kindle man- kind; Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute, And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his mind. But back to our theme! liack to despots and slaves! [Pain! Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by T'ue freedom but loelcoiiics, while slavery still raves, [chain. When a week's saturnalia hath loosen 'dher Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can afford [hide), (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord! Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his bless- ings denied! Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, It ilie idol of brass find his feet are of clay. Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd W^ith what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their prey? Each brute hath its nature ; a king's is to reign — To reig7i ! in that word see, ye ages, com- prised The cause of the curses all aimals contain. From Ccesar the dreaded to George the de- spised! Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! CVConnell, pro- claim [country convince His accomplishments! Ilis ! ! ! and thy Half an age's contempt was an error of fame. And that " Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young prince ! " Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs? Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns? Ay! "Build him a dwelling! " let each give his mite! [arisen! Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite — And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison ! Spread — spread, for Vitellius, the-royal repast, Till the gluttonous despot be stuff 'd to the gorge! [last And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at The fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd " George! " Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan ! Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe ! [throne, Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's Like their blood which has flow'd and which yet has to flow. But let not his name be thine idol alone — On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own! [jeers! A wretch never named but with curses and Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth, [her soil. Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her earth, [a smile. And for murder repays him with shouts and Without one single ray of her genius, Avithout The fancy, the manhoodjthe fire of her race — ^ --e ^ ut thou must eat thy heart away! The Roman, f when his burning heart Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger — dared depart In savage grandeur, home: lie dared depart, in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne. Yet lefc him such a doom ! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandon'd power. The SpaniP'd,:]: when the lust of sway Had lost Its quickening spell. Cast crowns for rosaries away. An empire for a cell; A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, His dotage trifled well: Yet better had he neither known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. But thou — from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung — Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art. It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean! And Earth hath spilt her Ijlood for him, Who thus can hoard his own ! And Monarchs bovv'd the trembling limb, And thank'd him for a throne! Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear, When thus thy mightiest foes their fear In humblest guise have shown. Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind A brighter name to lure mankind! Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, Nor written thus in vain — * Milo Crotoniensis. \ Sylla. t Charles V., son of Juana of Spain and Philip the Handsome, succeeded his grandfather Ferdinand in 1516 ; became Emperor of Germany in 1519 ; abdicated ill 1555. Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, Or deepen every stain: If thou hadst died as honor dies, Some new Napoleon might arise, To shame the world again — But who would soar the solar height, To set in such a starless night? Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust Is vile as vulgar clay; Thy scales. Mortality! are just To all that pass away: But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate. To dazzle and dismay: Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these the Conquerors of the earth. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,* Thy still imperial bride, How bears her breast the torturing hour? , Still clings she to thy side? Must she, too, bend : must she, too, share Thy late repentance, long despair. Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, — 'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem! Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, And gaze upon the sea; That element may meet thy smile — It ne'er was ruled by thee! Or trace with thine all idle hand, In loitering mood upon the sand. That Earth is now as free ! That Corinth's pedagoguef hath now Transferr'd his byword to thy brow. Thou Timour! in his captive's cage, J What thoughts will there be thine. While brooding in thy prison'd rage, ]5ut one — " The world luas mine!" Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone. Life will not long conHne That spirit pour'd so widely forth — So long obey'd — so little worth! Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,§ Wilt thou widisland the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven, His vulture and his rock? Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst, And that last act, though not thy worst. * Maria Louisa. t Dionysius of Sicily, who, after his fall, kept a school at Corinth. X The cage of Bajazet, by order ofTamcrl.nne. § Prometheus, said to have stolen fire from heaven. ^ 4 s- 4 s ■ ^ SATIRES. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS A SATIRE. WRITTEN 1808. " I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers." Shakspeake. " Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 'tis true. There are as mad, abandon'd critics too." Pope. PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged mc not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be " turned from the career of my humor by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have complied with their counsel ; but I urn not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked nane/f?-j-£;>/rt//y, who did not commence on the offensive. An au- thor's works arepubhc property : he who purchases may judn:e, and publish his opinion if he pleases ; and the authors I have endeavored to commemorate may do by me as I have done bj' them, l^arc say they will suc- ceed better in condemning my scribblings than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that 1 can write well, but, i/ possii Ic, to make others write better. As the poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavored in this edition to make some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusal. In the First Edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Eowles' Pope were written by, and inserted at the request of, :ai ingenious friend of mine,* who has now in press a volume of poetry. In the present edition they arc erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead ; my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner, — a determination not to publish with my name any production which v/as not entirely and cvclusively my own composition. With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion in the public at large ; though, liki other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of pro.'-elytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his foults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple .and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may bo pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten ; per- verted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the author, that some known .and able writer had undertaken their e.\posare ; but Rlr. Gilford has devoted himself to Massingcr, and in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to pre- scribe his nostrum to prevent the extension of so d:!plorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can re- cover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed require a Hercules to crush the Hydra ; but if the author succeeds in merely " bruising one of the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the encoun- ter, he will be amply satisfied. * Mr. Hobhouse. .Stii.1. must I hear? — shall hoarse Fitzgeraldl Oh! nature's noblest gift — my grey-goose. His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, [ijawl* quill! And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my j Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, muse? [wrong:iThat mighty instrument of little men! Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish, right orlThepen! foredooin'd to aid the mental throes Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. * Imitation: " Semper ego auditor tantum ? nunquamne reponam, Vcxatus toties rauci Ihescidc C.idri ;" — JUVEN'AL, Sat. I. Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the " Small liccr Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on Of brains that labor, big with verse or prose, Though nymphs forsake, and critics may de- ride. the " Literary Fund :" not content with writing, he spouts in person, after the company have imbibed a rea- sonable quantity of bad port, to enable thc.m to sust.iin the operation. ^ -e s- ass:;:z. Never was any plan so incongruous and absura as the ground- work of this production. The entrance of llumder and Lightning prologu;sing to B.iycs' Tragedy, unfortunately takes away the merit of originality iroiu the dialogue be- tween Messieurs the bpirits of Flood and Fell in ihc first canto. Then we have the amiable William of Deloraiac, "a stark mosstrooper," videlicet, a happy co.-npound of poacher, sheep-stcaler and highwayman. The propriety of his magical lady's injunction not to read can only be equalled by his candid acknowledgment of his indepen- dence of the trammels of spelling, although, to use his own elegant phrase, " 'twas his neck- vers j at ilarribee,' i. e. the gallows. tThe biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, who travelled twice as fast as his mas- ter's horse, without the aid ot seven-leagued boots, are c/u'y^-d'auvremthc improvement of taste. For inci- dent we have the invisible, but by no means sparing box on the ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a knight and charger into the castle, under the very natu- ral disguise of a wain of hay. IMarmion, the hero of the latter romance, is exactly what William of Delorainc would have been, had he been able to read and write. The poem was manufactured fjr Messrs. Constable, Murray and .Miller, worshipful book-sellers, in consider- ation of the receipt of .i .sum of money; and truly, con- sidering the inspiration, it is a very creditable production. If Mr. Scott will write for hire, let him do his best for his paymasters, but not disgrace his genius, which is un- doubtedly great, by a repetition of black-letter ballad imitations. ■4 \sense ! Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales; Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, JMore old than Mandeville's, and not so true. 'o! Southey! Southey! cease thy varied song :t 'A bard may chant too often and too long: Ias thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare! j A fourth, alas, were more than we coidd bear. I But if, in spite of all the world can say, I Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil, Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,:]; The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: <' God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too.g Next comes the didl disciple of thy school. That mild ai>ostate from poetic rule. The simple Wordswordi, framer of a la y *Th'^laha, Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in open defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. b. \yishcd to produce something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. ^oan of Arc was lu.irvclloiis enough, but Ihataba was one of those pocrs "which," in tne words of Person, "will be red when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, h\xX.--:.ottillthcn." tWe be'' Mr. Southey's pardon; "Madoc disdains the degraded tide of epic' See his preface. ^VhyIs epic degraded? and by whom i Certainly the 1."; lomaunls of Masters Cottle, Laureat Pye, Og.lvy Hole .and gentle Mistress Cowley, have not exalted the epic mi'se • but as Mr. Southey's poem " disdams the appel- lation" allow us to ask— Has he substituted anything i better in its stead? or must he be content to rival bir I Richard Llackmore in the quantity as well as quality ot his verse '( 1 t See The Old Woman 0/ Berkley , a ballad by Mr. 1 Southey, wherein an aged gentlewor.-.an is carried away jby Beelzebub on a "high trotting horse. I §The last line, "God help thee," is an evident plagiarism from the "Anti-Jacobin to Mr Southey on 1 his Dactylics. " God help thee, silly one. -Pcetry of I the " Anti-Jacobin," page 23. --^ s Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet Here heard; they trembled even as if the power," S:c. That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kis;;, very much astonished, as well they might be, at such a phe- nomcno.i. t The episode here alluded to is the story of " Robert aMachin" and "Anna d'Arfot,' a pair of constant lovers, who performed the kiss above mentioned, that startled the woods of Madeira. % Curll is one of the heroes of the Ditnciad, and was a bookseller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Hervcy, author oi Lines to the Imitator 0/ Horace. § Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his decease, because the poet had retained some copin of a work by Lord Bolingbroke (the Patriot Kinc). which that splendid but malignant genius had ordered .0 be destroyed. II " Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester: Silence, yc'wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls. Making night hideous^ answer him, yc owl? — " Dxnciad. ^ ^ ^ ^ 1808. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. •■' Anotlier epic! Who inflicts again More liooks of blank upon the sons of men? Bceotian Cottle, rich Bristovva's boast, Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, And sends his goods to market — all alive! Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-live? Fresh fish from Helicon! who'll buy, who'll buy? The precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat, Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat; If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. In him an author's luckless lot behold, [sold. Condemn'd to make the books which once he Oh, Amos Cottle! — Phoebus! what a name To fill the speaking trump of future fame! — Oh, Amos Cottle! for a monent think What meagre profits spring from pen and ink! Wlien thus devoted to poetic dreams, Who will peruse thy prostituted reams? Oh! pen perverted! paper misapplied! liad Cottle still adornetl the counter's side,f Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, Been taught to make the paper which he soils, riow'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, He had not sung of Wales, ncr I of him. As Sisyphus against the infernal steep Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may sleep, So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves Dull Maurice all his granite weight of leaves :| Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain! The petrifactions of a plodding brain, That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again. With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale, Lo! sad Alcteus wanders down the vale; Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd at last, I lis hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : * Sec TJowles's late edition of Pope's Works, fnr which he received ;^3oo; thus Mr. R. has experienced how liitic.i uasicr it is to profit by the reputation of another ih ui to elevate his own. t Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, but one or both, once sellers of books they did not write, and now writers of books that do not sell, liave published a pair of epics: Alfred— [■^oor Alfred ! I'ye lias been at him too \)— Alfred and the Fall of Cambr.a. t i\Ir. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a ponderous quarto, upon the Beauties of Kkli- mond Hill, and the like: it also takes in a charming view of Turnham Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and New, and the parts adjacent. Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, His blossoms wither as the blast prevails! O'er his lost works let classic .Sheffield weep; May no rude hand disturb their early sleep!* Yet, say ! why should the bard at once resign His claim to favor from the sacred Nine? Forever startled by the mingled howl Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl; A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, By hellish instinct all that cross their way; Aged or young, the living or the dead. No mercy find — these harpies must be fed. Why do the injured unresisting yield The calm possession of their native field? Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat?t llealth to immortal Jeffrey! once, in name, England could boast a judge almost the same; In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, And given the spirit to the world again, To sentence letters as he sentenced men. With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, With voice as willing to decree the rack; Bredin the courts betimes, though all that law As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw; Since well instructed in the patriot school To rail at party, though a party tool, Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore Back to the sway they forfeited before. His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat? Let Jeffreys' shade indulge the pious hope. And greeting thus, present him with a rope: " Heir to my virtues! man of equal mind! Skill'd to condemn as to induce mankind. This cord receive, for thee reserved with care. To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." Health to great Jeffrey ! I leaven preserve his life To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, And guard it sacred in its future wars. Since authors sometimes seek the field of Alars ! Can none remember that eventful day. That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray. When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, * Poor Montgomery, though praised by every English Review, has been bitterly reviled by the Edinburgn. After all, the bard of SJiefficld is a man of considerable genius; his IVaiidercr of Switzerland \i\von\\ :i thou- sand Lyrical Ballads, and at least fifty " degraded epics." t Arthur's Seat, the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. ^- -e ^ 114 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. And Bow-Street myrmidons stood laughin by?* Oh, day disastrous! on her firm-set rock, Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock; Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north; Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear, The other half pursued its calm career;f Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base, The surly Tolliooth scarcely kept her place. The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, On such occasions, feel as much as man — The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms. If Jeffrey died, except within her arms::); Nay, last, not least, on that portentous morn The sixteenth storey, where himself was born, His patrimonial garret, fell to ground. And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound: Strcw'd were the streets around with milk-white reams, Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams; This of his candor seem'd the sable dew, That of his valor shovv'd the bloodless hue; And all with justice deem'd the two combined The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er [Moore; The field, and saved him from the wrath of From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, And straight restc)r'ages, and that gilds its rear.;}: Lo! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamor'd grown. Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone; And, too unjust to other Pictish men. Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen! Illustrious Holland! hard would be his let, 1 1 is hirelings mentioned, and himself forgot 1 Holland, with Henry Petty§ at his back, The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may ca- rouse ! Long, long beneath that hospitable roof. Shall Grub Street dine, while duns are kept aloof. See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work. And, grateful for the dainties on his plate. Declare his landlord can at least translate !|| Dunedin! view thy children with delight, They write for food — and feed because they write : *Mr. brougham, in No. xxv. of the Edinburgh Re- •vie'.i', throushoiit the article conccrnincj Don Pedro de Ccvallos, has displayed more politics tlian policy; many of the worthy burgesses of Edinbur2:h bcini; so incensed at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have with- drawn their subscriptions. II ou^ht to apologize to the worthy deities for intro- duciiig a r.cw goddess with short petticoats to their no- tice; but, alas, v/hat was to be done 'i 1 could not say Caledonia's jjcnius, it being well known there is no genius to be found frjm Clackmannan to Caithness; yet without supernatural agency, how was JcfTrcy to be savedV 'Ihe national "kelpies," &c., arc too unpoetical, and the " brownies •'' and "r^ude neiv;hbors" (spirits of a good disposition) refused to extricate him. A goddess there- fore has been called for the purpose; and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only commu- nication he ever held, or ij lilcely to hold, with anything licavcnly. tSee the color of the back bindi;ig of the EdziiburgJi Rez'iew. § Marquis of Lansdowr.e. liLord I-I. has translated some specimens cf Lope de Ve;ta, inserted iihis life of the author; both are bc- praised by his disinterested guests. And lest, when healed with the unusual grape, Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape. And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, My lady skims the cream of each critique; Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul. Reforms each error, and refines the whole.* Now to the Drama turn — Oh! motley sight! What precious scenes the wondering eyes in- vite! Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent.-j- And Dibdin's nonsense, yield complete con- tent. J Though now, thank Heaven ! the Roscio- niania's o'er,§ And full-grown actors are endured once more; Yet what avail their vain attempts to please. While British critics suffer scenes like these; While Reynolds vents his "Dammes!" "Poohs!" and "Zounds!"|| [founds? And common-place and common-sense con- While Kenny's^ ]Vorld, — ah! where is Ken- ny's wit? Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit; And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords A tragedy complete in all but words?** [rage. Who but must mourn, while these are all the The degradation of our vaunted stage! Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone? Have we no living bard of merit? — none! .'Vwake, George Colman! Cumberland, awake! Ring the alarum-bell! let folly quake! Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen, Let Comedy assume her throne again; Abjure the mummery of the German schools; Leave new Pizarros to translating fools; Give, as thy last memorial to the age, Certain it is, her Ladyship is suspected cf having dis- played her natchlcss wit in the Ldi)ib:irg'i Review. However that may be, we know from good authority that t!ie manuscripts are submitted to her perusal — no doubt for correction. tin the melodrama of Tekeli, that heroic prince isclapt into a barrel en the stage— a new asylum for distressed heroes. JThomas Dibdin, author ot T/ie Cabinet, Eagiis/i Fleet, Mother Goose, &c., and son of the great English lyrist. §The performance of a child called the younjj Roseius; his name was Betty. [Edit.J II All these are favorite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, and prominent in his comedies, living and defunct. HAuthor of the farce oi Raising the Wind, and other pieces. **j\Ir. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lane Theatre, stripped the tragedy of Danduca of the dia- logue, and c.\f>ibited the scenes as the spectacle of Car- actacus. Was this worthy of his sire ? or of himself? --^ s- -^ ii6 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. One classic drama, and reform the stage. Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, Where Garricktrod, and Siddons lives to tread? On those shall Farce display Buffoon'ry's mask. And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask? Shall sapient managers new scenes produce From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose? While Shakespeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? Lo! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim The rival candidates for Attic fame! In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise. Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise, For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays Renown'd alike: whose genius ne'er confines Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay de- signs :* Nor sleeps with " Sleeping Beauties," but anon In five facetious acts comes thundering on,f While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene. Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean; But as some hands applaud, a venal few! Rather than sleep, why, John applauds it too. Such are we now. Ah! wherefore should we turn To what our fathers were, unless to mourn? Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame. Or, kind to duln^ss, do you fear to blame? Well may the nobles of our present race Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face; Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons. And worship Catalani's pantaloons, | Since their own drama yields no fairer tracs Of wit than puns, of humor than grimace. Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art To soften manners, but corrupt the heart. Pour her exotic follies o'er the town. To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down : Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, And bless the promise which his form displays; While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes: Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil ; Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow. Wave the white arm, and pointthe pliant to2; Collini trill her love-inspiring song. Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng! Raise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice I Reforming saints! too delicately nice! By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave; And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, dis- play Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. Or, hail at once the patron and the pile Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle!* Where yon proud palace. Fashion's hallow'd fane. Spreads wide her portals for the motley train. Behold the new Petronius of the day,-j- Our arbiter of pleasure and of play! There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre. The song from Italy, the step from France, The midnight orgie, and the mazy dance. The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine, For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine: Each to his humor — Comus all allows; Champagne, dice, music, or your neighbor's spouse. Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade! Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made: In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask. Nor think of poverty, except en masque, When for the night some lately titled ass Appears the begg*r which his grandsire was. The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, '■''■ Mr. Greenwood, scene-painter to Drury Lane Theatre. t Mr. Skeffington is the illustrious author of the Sleep- ing Beauty, and some comedies, particularly Maid: and Bachelors: Baccalaurii baculo magis quam lauro digni t Naldi and Catalani require little notice; for the vis- age of the one and the salary of the other will enable us :rabonds. Besides, * To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a strict fcr a man, 1 beg leave to state that it is the institution, and not the Duke of that name, which is here alluded to. A gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost in the Argyle Rooms several thousand pounds at back- gammon. It is but justice to the manager in this in- stance to say, that some degree of misapprobation was manifested: but why are the nuplemcnts of gaming al- lowed in a place devoted to the society of both sexes ? A pleasant thmg for the wives and daughters of those who are blest or cursed with such connections, to hear the billiard tables rattling ni one room and the dice in another ! That this is the case I myself can testify, as a late unworthy member of an mstitution which materially affects the morals of the higher orders, while the lower may not even move to the sound of a tabor and fiddle without a chance of indictment for riotous behavior. t Petronius, " Arbiter elegantiarum " to Nero, "and long to recollect these amusing vagabonds, iiesicles, v/e _ are still black and blue from the squeeze on the tirsti a very pretty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's Old night of the lady's appearance in trousers. 1 Bachelor saith of Hannibal. ^ -^y a- killed in a duel]; for had he fallen in like manner on the deck of thefrijatc to which he was just appointed, his last mo- ments would have been held up by his countrymen as ar example to succeeding heroes. " What art thou better, meddling fool, than they?" And every brother rake will smile to see That miracle, a moralist in me. No matter — when some bard in virtue strong, Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song. Then sleep my pen forever! and my voice Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice; Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles, ■'• Why should we call them from their dark abode. In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road ? Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare To scrawl in verse"! from Bond-street or the Square? If things of ton their harmless lays indite, Alost wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, What harm? In spite of every critic elf, Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try. And live in prologues, though his dramas die. Lords too are bards, such things at times befall, And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all. Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes? Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fled, No future laurels deck a noble head; No muse will cheer with renovating smile. The paralytic puling of Carlisle. The puny schoolboy and his early lay Men pardon, if his follies pass away; But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse. Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? What heterogeneous honors deck the peer! Lord, rhymester, pctit-inait7-e, and pam- phleteer If So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage; But managers for once cried, "Hold, enough!" Nor druss'd their audience with the trasic stuff. ''^ What would be the sentiments of the Persian Ana- creon, Hafiz, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sliecraz, where he reposes with Ferdousiand Sadi, the oriental Homer and Catullus, and behold his name as- sumed by one Stott of Dromorc, the most impudent and e.vccrable of literary poachers for the daily prints ? t ihj Eirl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen penny pamplilet on the state of the stage, and oficrs his plan for building a new theatre : it is to be hoped his Lordship will be permitted to bring forward anything for the stage — except his own tragedies. ^ 4 ^ ^ ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh, And case his volumes in congenial calf: Yes, doff that covering, where morocco shines, And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines.* With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead. Who daily scribble for your daily bread; With you I war not: Gifford's heavy hand lias crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. On " all the talents " vent your venal spleen; Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, And Melville's Mantle prove a blanket too;-|- One common Lethe waits each hapless bard. And peace be with you! 'tis your best reward. Such damning fame as Dunciads only give Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; 15ut now at once your fleeting labors close, With names of greater note in blest repose. Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade. Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind. Leave wondering comprehension far behind. J Though Crusca"s bards no more our journals fill, [still; Some stragglers skirmish round the columns Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells; And Merry's metaphors appear anew, Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q.§ W^hen some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, || Employs a pen less pointed than his awl. Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse; Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds How ladies read, and lilcrati laud ! [applaud ! If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, [best? 'Tis sheer ill-nature — don't the world know Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme. * "Doff that lion's hide. And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." — Shakspeare, Kin^ '^ohn. Lord C.'s works, most resplcndcntly bound, form a con- spicuous ornament to his book-shelves : "The rest is all but leather and prunella." t " Melville's Mantle, a parody on Elijah's Mantle," a poem. % i'liis lively little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew King, seems to be a follower ot the Dcllo Crusca school, and has published two volumes of very respect- able absurdities in rhyme, as times go ; besides sundry novels in the style of the first edition of Tli.e lilonk. § These arc the signatures of various worthies who figure in the poetical departments of the newspapers. II Joseph Blackett, the shoemaker And Capel Lofft declares 'tis quite sublime.* Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade! Swains, quit the plough, resign the useless spade! Lo, Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, Gifford was born beneath an adverse star. Forsook the labors of a servile stale, [fate: Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over Then why no more? If Phoebus smiled on you, Bloomfield, why not on brother Nathan too? Him too the mania, not the muse, has seized; Not inspiration, but a mind diseased: And now no boor can seek his last abode, No common be enclosed, without an ode.f Oh! since increased refinement deigns to smile On Briton's sons, and bless our genial isle, Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole, .'Vlike the rustic and mechanic soul. Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong. Compose at once a slipper and a song; So shall the fair your handiwork peruse. Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoes. May moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, ij" And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual lieaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems — when they pay for coats. To the famed throng now paid the tribute Neglected genius! let me turn to you. [due. Come forth, O Campbell! give thy talents scope; Who dar^is aspire if thou must cease to hope? And thou, melodious Rogers! rise at last,§ Recall the pleasing memory of the past; Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire. And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre; Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, Assert thy country's honor and thine own. What! must deserted Poesy still weep Where her last hopes with pious Cowpcr sleep? Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel. Burns? No! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood. The race who rhyme from folly, or for food. * Capel Lofft, Esq , the i\Ixcenas of shoemakers, and preface- writer-general to distressed verscmen : a kind of gratis accoucher to those who wish to be delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to bring forth. t See Kathaniel Bloomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever he or any one else chooses to call it, on the enclosure ot Honington Green. % Vide Recollect ions of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Staffordshire. § It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader the authors of The Pleasures of Bleiiiory and The Pleasures of Hope, the most beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except Pope's Essay on Man : but so many poetasters have started up, that even the names of Campbell aiid Rogers are become strange. 4> -# ^- ^ 1808. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 119 Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast, Who, least affecting, still affect the most; Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — Bear witness Gifford, Sotheby, ?klacneil.--' " Why slumbers Gifford?" once was ask'd in vainl-}- Why slumbers Gifford? let us ask again. Arc there no follies for his pen to purge? Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge? Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet? Stalks not gigantic Vice in evtiy street? That strain'd invention, ever on the wing. Alone impels the modern bard to sing, [write — 'Tis true that all who rhyme — nay, all who Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite; Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires. And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbc attest. Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. And here let Shee and genius find a place,* Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace: To guide whose hand the sister arts combine. And trace the poet's or the painter's line. Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow, Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path, And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wraLh?[Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow; Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, While honors, doubly merited, attend Eternal beacons of consummate crime? Arouse thee, Gifford! be thy promise claim'd. Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. Blest is the man who dares approach the bower UnhappyWhite! while life was in its spring,:j:i Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour: And thy young muse just waved her joyous | Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has Tlic spoiler swept the soaring lyre away [wing, mark'd afar, Which else had sounded an immortal lay. The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, Oh! what a noble heart >vas here undone. The scenes wdiich glory still must hover o'er. When Science' self destroy'd her favorite son! Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. Yes, she too much indulged tliy fond pursuit; But doubly blest is he whose heart expands She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow. And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low. With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands; Who rends the veil of ages long gone by. And views their remnants with a poet's eye. Wright !•)• 'twas thy happy lot at once to view Those shores of glory, and to sing them too: So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, And sure no common muse inspired thy pen No more through rolling clouds to soar again, JTo hail the land of gods and godlike men.' View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart: Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel. lie nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest. Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, That splendid lies are all the poet's ])raise; And you, associate bards! who snatch'd to lighlt [sight; Those gems too long w'ithheld from modern Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath Where Attic flowers Aonian odors breathe. And all their renovated fragrance flung To grace the beauties of your native tongue; Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse *Gifl"ord, author of the i7«OT«^ and ^ferzVirf, the first The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal. Though soft the echo, SCOrn a borrow'd tone : Sotheby, translator of NVicland's Oberon and Virgil's Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. (jeargics, and author ot baiil, an epic poem. ° ■' ^ Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular, par- Let these, or SUch as these, with just applause ticularly ScotlamVs Scaith : or, the ll'acs 0/ Jl-ar, of Tj„^.f,,,.\, .u„ ,„„>-„'= vinHtprl lnw«- which ten thousand copies were sold in one month. Kestoi e tile muse s Violated lau s, tMr Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad and 1 But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chinie, Mar^'iad ■i\\o\AA not be his last original works. Let him { That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme; remember" Mox in reluctantes dracones." — % Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, * Mr. Shee, Z-vAhor oi Rliymcs on Art, and Ele?>tents 1806, inconsequence of too much exertion in the \i\XTSu\t,of Art. of studies that would have matured a mind which dis- 1 f Mr. Wright, late Consul-Gcneral for the Seven Is- ease and poverty could not impair, and which death lands, author of a very beautiful poem, entitled Horee itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poemsabound Ijuicee; dcsciiptive of the isles and adjacent coast of in such beauties as must impress the reader with the 1 Greece. liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to {The translators of the .^«/'/20.'('^7 have since publish- talents which would have dignified even the sacred 'ed separate poems which evince genius that only requires fimctions he was destined to assume. 1 opportunity to attain eminence. ^ 4 ^ EXGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 1808. Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear; In show the simple lyre could once surpass, Ikit now, worn down, appear in native brass; While all his train of hovering sylphs around Evaporate in similes and sound: Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die: False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.^-= Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop. The meanest object of the lowly group. Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void. Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloyd ;f Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach: Tlie native genius with their being given Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. And thou, too, Scott, J resign to minstrels The wilder slogan of a border feud; [rude Let others spin their meagre lines for hire; Enougli for genius, if itself inspire! Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, Prolific every spring, be too profuse; [verse. Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse; Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most, To rouse the galleries or to raise a ghost; Let Moore still sigh; let Strangford steal from Moore, [yore; And swear that Camoens sang such notes of Let llayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave; Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine. And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line; Let Stott, Carlisle, g Matilda, and the rest • *rtic neglect of Uic Colaiiic C:irdc:i 13 some proof of returning taste, 'llic scenery is its sofc recommendation. t Messrs l.ambc and Lioyd, tlie most ignoble foitow- ers of Soutliey and Co. t 13y the by, I iiope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his hero or fieroine will be less addicted to Gra-siiarye, and more to grammar, than the Lady of the Lay, and lier bravo, William of Deloraiac. § Itmiy be asl-csd why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my guardian and relative, to whom 1 dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few years ago. 'i he guardian- ship v/as nominal, at least as far as I have been able to discover; the relationship I cannot help, and am very sorry for it; but as his Lordship seemed to forget it oa a very essential occasion to me, I shall not burden my memory with the recollection. I do not think that per- sonal differences sanction the unjust condemnation of a brother scx'ibbler: but 1 see no reason why they should act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ignoble, has for a series of years beguiled a " discerning public " (as the advertisements have itj with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides, I do not step aside to vituperate the Earl; no — his works come fairly ia re- view with those of other patrician literati. If, before 1 escaped from my teens, i said anything in favor of his Of Grub Street and of Grosvenor Place the best. Scrawl on till death release us from the strain. Or Common Sense assert her rights again. But thou, v.'ith powers that mock the aid of praise, Shouldst leave to liumbler bards ignoble lays: Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine, Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield The glorious record of some nobler field. Than the wild foray of a plundering clan. Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man? Or Murmion's acts of darkness, fitter food For Sherwood's outlaw'd tales of Robin Hood ? Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! Yet not with thee alone his name shoidd live, But own the vast renown a world can give; Be Ivnown, percliance, when Albion is no more, And tell the talc of what she was before; To future times her faded fame recall. And save her glory, though his country fall. Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, And other victors fill the applauding skies; A few brief generations fleet along. Whose sons forget the poet and his song: E'en now, what onee-loved minstrels scarce may claim The transient mention of a dubious name! When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, [last; Though long tlie sound, the echo sleei)s at And glory, like the phceni.K 'midst lier fires, Exhales her odors, blazes, and expires. Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons. Expert in science, more expert at puns? [flics, Sliall these approach the muse? Ah, no! slie Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize; Though printers condescend the press to soil Lordship's paper books, it was in the way of dutiful dedi- cation, and more from the advice of otfiers than my own judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronounc- ing my sincere recantation. 1 have heard that some persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord Carlisle; if so, I shall be most particularly liappy to learn what they arc, and when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated and publicly acknowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an opinion on his printed things, I am prepared to support, if necessary, by quota- tions from elegies, eulogies, odes, episodes, and certain facetious and dainty tragedies bearing his name and mark: " What can ennoble knaves, or /oo^.s, or cov/ards ? Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards 1" So says Pope. Amen 1 ^ ^ 1808. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 12 With rliyme by Hoarc, and epic blank byjWhat Athens was in science, Rome in power Iloyle Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist. Requires no sacred theme to ijid us list/'- Ye! who in Granta's honors would surpass. Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass; A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. There Clarke, still striving piteously " to please," Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, A. would-i)e satirist, a hired buffoon, A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, Condemn'd to drudge-, the meanest of the mean, And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, Devotes to scandal his congenial mind; IJimself a living libel on mankind. -j- Oh! dark asylum of a Vandal race!| At once the boast of learning, and disgrace! So lost to Phcebus that nor liodgson'sg verse Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson'sH worse ! But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, The partial muse delighted loves to lave; On her green banks a greener wreath she wove. To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove ; Where Richards wake3 a genuine poet's fireSj And modern Britons glory in their sires. f[ For me, who, thus unask'd, have dared to tell My country what her sons should know too well. Zeal for her honor bade me here engage The host of idiots that infest lier age: No just applause her honor'd name chall lose. As fust in freedom, dearest to the muse. Oh! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name! ■■^ The Games c/ Iloyle, well known to the votaries of whist, chess, &c., arc not tj be superseded by the vagar ics of his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, as expressly stated in the advertisement, all the "plagues ot Egypt." t This person was the writer of a poem denominated \he Art cf Fu'asi/i^, ^s " lucus a non lucenJo," con- taining liule pleasai. try and less poetry. He al-o acted as monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the Satirist. t " Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus trans- ported a considerable body of Vandals." — Gibbon's De- cline and Fall, page 83, vol. ii. There is no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion ; the breed is still in high perfection. S This gentleman's name requires m praise : the man who in translation displays Uiiq;icstionable genius may be well expected to excel in urig'nal composition What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 'Tis thine at once, fair Albion ! to have been — Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen: But Rome decay'd and Athens strew'd the plain, [main: And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurl'd, And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate. With warning ever scoff'd at, till too late; To themes less lofty still my lay confine. And uige thy bards to gain a name like thine. Then, hapless Britain! be thy rulers blest. The senate's oracles, the people's jest! Still hear thy motley orators ilispense The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense. While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit. And old dame Portland* fills the place of Pitt, Yet once again, adieu! ere this the sail That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale; And Afric's coast, and Calpe's adverse height, f And Stamboul'sf minarets, must greet my sight: [clime, g Thence shall I stray through beauty's native Where Kaff|| is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows sublime. But should 1 back return, no tempting press Shall drag my journal from the desk's lecess; Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far. Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carr: Let Aberdeen and Eigin^ still pursue The shade of fame through regions of virt.'i; Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks. Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques; And make their grand saloons a general mart For all the mutilated blocks of art. Of Dardan tt)urs let dilettanti tell, I leave topography to rapid Gell;** * A friend of nrn-i being asked why his Grace of P. was likened to an old woman, replied, '■ he supposed it was because he was past beari.ng" His Grace is now gathered to his grandmothers, where he sleeps as sound as ever; but even his sleep was better than his col- leagues' waking. iSii. t Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. t Slamboul is the '] urkish word for Constantinople. 8 Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants. II Mount Caucasus. ^ Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the fig- ures, v>'ith and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the „ . . of ^ work of Phidias 1 " Credat Judieus!" which, it is to be hoped, we shall soon sec a splendid ** Mr. Gell's Topography 0/ Trey and Ithaca can- specimen. _ not fail to ensure the approbation of every man possessed II Hewson Clarke, Esq., as it i» written. of classical t.iste, as well for the information Mr. G. con- ^ The Aboriginal Britons, an excellent poem by jveys to the mind of the reader, as for the ability and re- Richards. I search the respective works display. ^ -e ^ ^ ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH RFAHEWERS. iSoS. And, quite content, no more shall interpose To stun mankind with poesy or prose. Thus far I've held my iindislurlj'd career, Prepared for rancor, steel'd "gainst selfish fear: This thing of rhyme, I ne'er disdain'd to own — Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : My voice was heard again, though not so loud; My page, though nameless, never disavow'd; And now at once I tear the veil away: — Cheer on the pack! the quarry stands at bay, Unscared by all the din of Melbourne House, By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse. By JeftVey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, Edina^s brawny sons and brimstone page. Our men in buckram shall have IjIows enough, And feel they too are " penetrable stuff:" And though I hope not lience unscathed to go. Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall From lips that now may seem imbued with Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise [gall ; The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes; But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, [truth; I've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the jLearn'd to deride the critic's starch decree. And break him on the wheel he meant forme; To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss. Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss: Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, I too can hunt a poetaster down; And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. Thus much I've dared; if my incondite lay Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say; This, let the world, which knows not how to spare, I Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION. I HAVE been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that my trusty and \vc!!-beIoved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting Muse, whom they have already so bedeviled with their ungodly ribaldry: " Tantsene animis coslestibus irse:" I suppose I must say of JefTrey as Sir Andrew Aguecheck saith, " An' I had known he was so cunning offence, I had seen him d J ere I had fought hini/' What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the next number has passed the Tweed ! But I yet hope to liglit my pipe with it in Persia. My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literary anthropopha- gus, Jeffrey; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by " lying and slandering," and slake their thirst b" " evil speaking" ? 1 have adduced facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind 1 have stated my free opinion ; nor has he hence sustamcd any injury: — what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud ? It may be said that i quit England because 1 have censured there " persons of honor and v\it about town ;" but 1 am coming back again, and their vengeance will Iceep hot till my return. Those who know mc can testify that my motives lor leaving England are very different from fears, literary or personal; those who do not, may one day be ccnvinccd. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed: I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels; but, alas! " the age of chivalry is over," or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spiiit now-a-days. There is a youth yclept Ilewson Clarke {subaudi Esquire), a sizcr of Emanuel College, and I believe a denizen of Cerwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company tlian he has been ac- customed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can discover, except a per- sonal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having riven him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name till coupled with the Satirist. He has therefore no reason to complain, and 1 dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is x^^cx pleas :d than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done mc the honor to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except the Editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, is a gentleman — God wot ! I wish he could impart a little of his gen- tility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels lor his Mcecenas, Lord Carlisle. 1 hope not: he was one of the few who, in the very short intercourse I had v/ilh him, treated mc with kindness when a boy; and whatever he may say or do, "pour on, I will endure." I have nothing further to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publishers; and, in the wcrds of Scott, I wish " To all and each a fair goodnight. And rosy dreams and slumbers light." ^ HINTS FROM HORACE fb BEIXG AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE " AD PISONES, DE ARTE POETICA," AND INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO " ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." " Ergo fungar vice cotis, acv.tum Reddcre qus ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." HoR. Di: Arte Poet Rhymes are difficult things — they are stu'iborn things, sir." Fielding's A melia. Athens: Capuchin Convent, Marc^ 12, iSii. Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace His costly canvas with each flatter'd face. Abused liis art, till Nature, with a blush, Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush? Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, A maid of honor to a mermaid's tail? Or low Dubost^- — as once the world lias seen — [spleen? Degrade God's creatures in his graphic Not all that forced politeness, which defends Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. Believe me, jSIoschus, like that picture seems The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. Poets and painters, as all artists know, May shoot a little with a lengthen'd bow; We claim this mutual mercy for our task. And grant in turn tlie pardon which we ask; But make not monsters spring from gentle dams — Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. A labor'd, long exordium, sometimes tends (Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends; And nonsense in a lofty note goes down, As pertness passes with a legal gown: Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain: The groves of Granta, and her Gothic halls. King's Coll., Cam's stream, slain'd windows, and old walls: * In an English newspaper, which'findsits way abroad wherever there are Englishmen, I read an account of this dirty dauber's caricatureof Mr. H asa " beast," Or, in advent'rous numbers, neatly aims To paint a rainbow, or— the river Thames.* You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine — But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign; You plan a vase — it dwindles to a. pot ; [got; Then glide down Grub-street — fasting and for- Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint Review, Whose wit is never troublesome till — true. In fine, to whatsoever you aspire. Let it at least be simple and entire. The greater portion of the rhyming tribe (Give ear, my friend, for thou hast l^een a Are led astray by .some peculiar lure, [scribe) I labor to be brief — become obscure ; One falls while following elegance too fast; Another soars, inflated with bombast; Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly. He spins his subject to satiety; Absurdly varying, he at last engraves ["waves ! Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the Unless your care's exact, your judgment nice. The flight from folly leads but into vice; None are complete, all wanting in some part. Like certain tailors, limited in art. For galligaskins S'owshears is your man; But coats must claim another artisan. f Now this to me, I own, seems much the same As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame; Or, with a fair complexion, to expose Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose ! Dear authors, suit your topics to your strength. 4-- and the consequent action, &c. The circumstan^^ , probably, too well known to require further comment * " Where pure description held the place of sen^e." —Fo/>e. t Mere common mortals were commonly content with one tailor, and with one bill, but tiie more panicu- lar gentlemen found it impossible to confide their lower garments to the makers of their body clothes. I speak of the beginning of 1S09 ; what reform may have s';ice taken place I neither know nor desire to know. 4 ^ ^ 124 HINTS FROM HORACE. And ponder well your subject and its length; Nor lilt your load before you're quite aware What wei^jht your shoulders will, or will not, But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, [bear. Await the poet, skilful in his choice; With native eloquence he sours along, Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. Let judgment teach them wisely to combine With future parts the now omitted line: This shall the author choose, or that reject. Precise in style, and cautious to select; Nor slight applause will candid pens afford To him \\\\o furnishes a wanting word. Then fear not, if 'tis needful, to produce .Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, (.\s Pitt has furnish'd us a word or two,* Which lexicographers declined to do;) .So you indeed, with care, — (but be content To take this license rarely) — may invent. New words find credit in these latter days, If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. If you can add a little, say why not, \s well as William Pitt, and Waiter Scott? Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues; 'Tis then — and shall be — lawful to present Reform in writing, as in parliament. As forests shed their foliage by degrees, .So fade expressions which in season please;. And we and ours, alas! are due to fate, And works and words but dwindle to a date. Though as a monarch nods, and commerce calls, Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals; [sustain Though swamps subdued, and marshes tlrain'd. The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain, And rising ports along the busy shore Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar, All, all, must perish; but, surviving last. The love of letters half preserves the past. True, some decay, yet not a few revive ;-)- Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive. As custom arbitrates, w'hose shifting sway Oar life and language must alike obey. The immortal wars which gods and angels wage, Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page? * Mr. Pitt was liberal in his adJi'ions to oir parlia- mentary tongue ; as may be seen in many publications, particularly tli:: Edinburgh Review. t Old bailadj, old plays, and old v/omen's stories, are at present in as much request as old wine or new speeches. In fact, this is the millennium of black letter; thanks to our Hebers, Wcbers, and bcotts ! Ilis strain will teach what numbers best belong To themes celestial told in epic song. The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint The lover's anguish or the friend's complaint. 15 ut which deserves the laurel — rhyme or blank? Which hokis on Helicon the higher rank? Let squal)bling critics by themselves dispute This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's dean.-'-' Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side, [tiays, Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's No sing-song hero rants in modern plays; While modest Comedy her verse foregoes F'or jest and pitn in very middling prose, f Not that our Bens or ISeaumonts show the worse. Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. Put so Thalia pleases to appear, [year! Poor virgin! damn'd some twenty times a Whate'er th.e scene, let this advice have weight: — Adapt your language to your hero's state. At times Melpomene forgets to groan. And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone; Nor unregarded will the act pass by Where angry Townly lifts his voice on high. Again our Shakspeare limits verse to kings. When common prose will serve for common And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, [things; To "hollowing Hotspur" and the sceptred sire. J 'Tis not enough, ye bards, with all your art, To polish poems; they must touch the heart: Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song. Still let it bear the hearer's soul along; Command your audience or to smile or weep, j Whiche'er may please you — anything but sleep. The poet claims our tears; but, by his leave, Before I s!ied them, let me see him grieve. If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, Lull'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. * " MacFlecknoe," the "Dunciad," and all Swift's lampooning ballads. Whatever their other works may be, these originated in personal feelings, and angry re- tort on unworthy rivals ; and though the ability of these satires elevates the poetical, their poignancy detracts Iroin the personal character of tlie v.'riters. t With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence o^ puns, they have Aristotle on their side ; who permits them to orators, and gives them consequence by a grave disquisition. I " And in his ear I'll hollow, Mortimer !" — 1 Henry IV. ■^ ■^ ^ ^ HINTS riiOM HORACE. 125 Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, j And men look angry in the proper place. ] At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye: For nature form'd at first the inward man, And aciors copy nature — when»they can. She bids the beating heart with rapture bound, liaised to the stars, 'or levell'd with the ground ; And for expression's aid, 'tis said, or i.ung. She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue, \Vh(),worn with use, of late would fain dispense (At least in theatres) with common sense; ] O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit. And raise a laugh with anything — but wit. To skilful writers it will much imjjort, ^Vhence spring their scenes, from common life or court; Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, To draw a " Lying Valet," or a " Lear," A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, A wandering "Peregrine," or plain "John Bull;" [vails. All persons please when nature's voice pre- Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. Or follow common fame, or forge a plot; Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not? One precept serves to regulate the scene: — Make it appear as if it miglit have been. It' some Drawcansir you aspire to draw, Present him raving, and above all law: If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand; For tears and treachery, for good and evil, Constance, King Richard, Plamlet, and the But if a new design you dare essay, [Devil! And freely wander from the beaten way, True to your characters, till all be past, Preserve consistency from iirst to last. 'Tis hard to venture where our betters fail. Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale;* And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer *" Difficileestpropriecommuniadicere: tuque."] Mde Dacier, IMde de Sevigne, Boileau, and others, have left their dispute on the meaning of this passage in a tract considerably longer than the poem of Horace. It is printed at the close of the eleventh volume of Madame de Sevigne's Letters edited by Grouvellc, Paris, 1S06. Presuming that all who can construe may venture an opinion on such subjects, particularly as so many who can tiot have t.-ikcn the same liberty, I should have held my " farthing candlemas awkwardly as another, had not my respect for the wits of Louis the Fourteenth's Augustan siecle induced mc to subjoin these illustrious authorities, ist, Boileau: " II est difficile de trailer des sujcts qui sont a la portee de tout le mondc d'une man- iere qui vous les rende propres, ce qui s'appelle s'appro- prier un sujct par le tour quon y donne." 2ndly, Dat- teux: " Mais it est bien difficile de donner dcs traits pro- pres ct individuels aux etres purcment possibles." srdly, Uacier: " I! est difficile de trailer convenablement ces A hackney'd plot, than choose anew, and err; Yet copy not too closely, but record, [word; More justly, thought for thouglit than word for Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways. But only follow where he merits praise. For you, young bard! whom luckless fate may lead To tremble on th.e nod of all who read. Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls, Beware — for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles!* caractercs que tout le monde peut inventer." Mde do Sevigne's opinion and translation, consisting of some thirty pages, I omit, particularly as M. Grouvellc ob- serves, " La chose est bien rcmarquable, aucune de ces diverses interpretations ne parait etre la veritable." But, by way of comfort, it seems, fifty years afterwards, "Le lumineu.Y Dumarsais" made his appeal ancc, to set Hor- ace on his legs again, "dissiper tons les nuages, ct con- cilicr tons les dissentimcns;" and some lifty years hence, somebody, still more luminous, will doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais and his system on this v/cighty affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemy and Tycho, or his comments of no more consequence than astronom- ical calculations on the present comet, lam happy ta say, " la longueur de la dissertation " of 1. 1. D. prevents M. G. from saying any more on the matter. A better poet than Boileau, and at least as good a scholar as Se- vigne, has said, " A little learning is a dangerous thing." And by this comparison of communLs, it may be per- ceived how a good deal may be rendered as perilous to the proprietors. *About two years ago a young man named Townscnd was announced by Mr. Cumberland, in a review (f.iace deceased), as being engaged in an epic poem to be en- titled 'Armageddon.' The plan and specimen promise much; but 1 hope neither to offend Mr. Townscnd, nor his friends, by recommending to his attention the Imes of Horace to which these rhymes ahude. If i.Ir. Town- send succeeds in his undertalcing, as there is reason to hope, how much will the world be indebted to JMr. Cum- berland for bringing him before the pub.ic ! But, till that eventful day arrives, it may be doubted whether the premature display of this plan (sublime as the ideas confessedly arel has not — by r..ising expectations too high, or diminishing curiosity, by developing his argu- ment, — rather incurred ihehazarJ of injuring Mr. Town- send's future prospects. ^Ir. Cumberland (whose talents I shall not depreciate by the humble tribute of my praise) and Mr. Townscnd must not suppose mc actuated by unworthy motives in this suggestion. I wish the author all the success he can wiih himself, and shall be truly happy to see epic poetry weighed up from the bathos where it lies sunken with Southey, Cottle, Cow- ley (Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy, \Villiiey,s.n Anti'iiiaciius. I should deem myself pre- sumptuous, as a young man, in offering advice, were it not addressed to one still younger. Mr. Townsend has the greatest dilficultics to encounter: but in conquering them he will find employment; in having conquered them, his reward. I know too well "the scribbler's scoff, the critic's contumely;" and I am afraid time will teach Mr. 7'ownsend to know them better. Those who succeed, and those who do not, must bear this alike, and it is hard to say which have most of it. I trust that Mr. Townsend's share will be from enziy; he will soon kiMW mankind well enough not to attribute this expression to malice. -4" ^ ^ 126 HINTS FROM HORACE. " Awake a louder and a loftier strain," — And pray, what follows from his boiling Ijrain? — He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, Whose epic mountains never fail in mice! Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire The lempcr'd warblings of his master-lyre; Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, " Of man's first disobedience and the fruit " lie speaks, but as his subject swells along, Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song. Still to the midst of things he hastens on. As if we witness'd all already done; Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean To raise the subject, or adorn the scene; Gives, as each page improves upon the sight. Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness —light; And truth and fiction with such art compounds, We know not where to fix their several bounds. If you woukl please the public, deign to hear What soothes the many-headed monster's ear: If your heart triumph when the hands of all Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall. Deserve those plaudits — study nature's page. And sketch the striking traits of every age; While varying man and varying years unfold Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told; Observe his simple childhood's dawning days. His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays; Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens! Behold him Freshman! forced no more to groan O'er Virgil's devilish verses and his own;* Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse, He Hies from Tavell's frown to " Fordham's Mews;" (Unlucky Tavell! doom'd to daily caresf By pugilistic pupils, and by bears;) Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain, Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket jilain. l<(jugh with his elders, with his equals rash, *Harvcy, the circti'ator of the c:rculation of the j blood, used to fling away Virgil in his ecstasy of admira- tion and say, "the book had a devil.'' Now, such ai character as I am copying would probably fling it away • also, hut rather wish that the devil had the book; not from dislike to the poet, but a well-founded horror of: hexameters. Indeed, the public school penance of' " Long and Sliort'' is enough to beget an antipathy to poetry for the residue of a man's life, and, perhaps, so far : may be an advantage. t" In.andum, regina, jubes renovate dolorem." I dare say Mr. Tavell (to whom I mean no affront) will under- stand me; and it is no matter whether any one else docs or no. — To the above events, "qua;que ipse mistrrima! vidi, ct quorum pars magna fui," all t:i!ics and tcrins\ bear testunony. I Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash; Constant to nought — save hazard and a whore, Yet cursing both — for both have made him sore ; Unread (unless, since books beguile disease, The p — X becormes his passage to degrees); Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term And unexpell'd, perhaps, retires M.A.; [away, Master of arts! Vih hells and f/;^^^ proclaim,* Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name! Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire. He apes the selfish prudence of his sire; Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; Sits in the Senate; gets a son and heir; Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd to cheer, His son's so sharp — he'll see the dog a peer! Manhood declines — age palsies every limb; He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him; Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, And avarice seizes all ambition leaves; Counts cent, per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets [dtb's: O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy. Complete in all life's lessons — but to die; Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please. Commending every time, save times like these; Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot. Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot! But from the Drama let me not digress, Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. [stirr'd. Though woman weep, and hardest hearts are When what is done is rather seen than heard. Yet many deeds preserved in history's page Are better told than acted on the stage; The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, And horror thus subsides to sympathy. True Briton all beside, I here am French — • Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench; The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show; We hate the carnage, while we see the trick. And find small sympathy in being sick. Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth Ajjpals an audience with a monarch's death; To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear * " Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk little, and are cheated a good deal. " Club," a pleasant purgatory, where you lose more, and are not supposed to be cheated at all. ^ 4 ^ d Arthur struts in mimic majesty. Moschus! with whom once more I hope to And smile at folly, if we can't at wit; [sit, Yes, friend! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell. And bear Swift's motto, "Vive la bagatelle!" Which charm'd our days in each /Egean clime. As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. Then may Euphrosyne, who s]3ed the past, Soothe thy life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last; But find in thine, like pagan Plato's bed,:}: Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. Now to the drama let us bend our eyes. Where fetter'd by whig W'alpole low she lies; * "The first theatrical representations, entitled ' Mys- tcrias and Moralities,' were generally enacted at Christ- mas, by monks (as the only persons who could read), and latterly by the clergy and students of the universi- ties. The dramatis persona; were usually Adam, Pater Coslestis, Faith, Vice, &c., &c." — See Warton's History of English Poetry. t Benvolio docs not bet: but every man who main- tains race-horses is a promoter of all the concomitant evils of the turf. Avoiding to bet is a little pharisaical. Is it an exculpation '? 1 think not. I never yet heard a bawd praised for chastity, because sh^ herself did not commit fornication. X Under Plato's pillow a volume of the Mimes of Sophron was found the day he died, — Vide Barthelcmi, De Pauw, or Dicigcnes Laertius, if agreeable. Dc Paviw calls it a jest-book. Cumberland, in his Observer, terms it moral, like the sayings of Publius Syrus. ^ -cy s- ^ 128 HINTS FROM HORACE. Conuj:ilion foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance; Decorum left her for an opera dance! Yet Chesterfield, whose polish'd pen inveighs* 'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays; Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains, And damning dulness of lord chamberlains. Repeal that act! again let Humor roam Wild o'er the stage — we've time for tears at home. Let " Archer" plant the horns on "Sullen's" brows, And " Eslifania " gull her " Copper" spouse ;"[■ The moral's scant — but that may be excused, Men go not to be lectured, but amused. He whom our plays dispose to good or ill Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill; Ay, but Macheath's example — psha! — no more! It furm'd no thieves — the thief was form'd before? And, spite of puritans and Collier's curse,:}: riays make mankind no better, and no worse. Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men! Nor burn damn'd Urury if it rise again. But why to brain-scorcii'd bigots thus appeal? Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal? For times of fire and faggot let them hope! Times dear alike to puritan or pope. As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, So would new sects on newer victims gaze. E'en now the songs of Solyma begin; Faith cants, perplex'd apologist of sin! While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves, [" shoves. "II And Simeon kicks, § where liaxter only W'hom nature guides, so writes that every dunce. Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once; But after inky thumbs and bitten nails. And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. Let Pastoral be dumb; for who can hope To match the y(;uthful eclogues of our Pope? Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, For art too rude, for nature too refined. * His speech on the Licensing Act is one of his most eloquent efforts. t Michael Perez, the Copper Captain, m " Rule a Wife and have a Wife." t Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, &c., on the subject of the drama, is too well known to require further comment. S Mr. Simeon is the very bully of beliefs, and casti- gator of " good works." He is ably supported by John Stickles, a laborer in the same vineyard : — but I s:iy no more, for, according to Johnny in full congregation, " No hopes for them as laughs." II •' Baxter's Shove to heavy-a— 'd Christians," the veritable title of a book once in good repute, and likely enough to be £0 again. j Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced In this nice age, when all aspire to taste! The dirty language, and the noisome jest, Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest. Proscribed not only in the world polite, But even too nasty for a city knight! Peace to Swift's faidts! his wit hath made them pass, Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hudibras! Whose author is perhaps the first we meet. Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet; Nor less in merit than the longer line. This measure moves a favorite of the Nine. Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious sti^ain. Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late This measia-e shrinks not from a theme of And, varied skilfully, surpasses far [weight, Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war, Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, Are curb'dtoo much by long-recurring rhyme. But many a skilful judge abhors to see, What few admire — irregularity. This some vouchsafe to pardon; but 'tis hard When such a word contents a British bard. And must the bard his glowing thoughts confine. Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line? Remove whate'er a critic may suspect. To gain the paltry suffrage of '^ corrcci" ? Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase. To fly from error, not to'merit praise? Ye, who seek finish'd models, never cease. By day and night, to read the works of Greece. But our good fathers never bent their brains To heathen Greek, content with native strains. The few who read a page, or used a pen, Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben; The jokes and numbers suited to their taste Were quaint and careless, anything but chaste ! Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules. It will not do to call our fathers fools! Though you and I, who eruditely know To separate the elegant and low. Can also, when a hobbling line appears, Detect with fingers, in default of ears. In sooth I do not know, or greatly care To learn, who our first English strollers were; Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days. There's pomp enough, if little else, in plays; ^ -e a- ■Q? THE CURSE OF MINERVA. m To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest; Hear and believe, for time will tell the rest. '< First on the head of him who did this deed My curse shall light, on him and all his seed; Without one spark of intellectual fire, IjC all the sons as senseless as the sire; If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, Believe him bastard of a brighter race: Still with his hireling artists let him prate. And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hale; Long of their patron's gusto let them tell, Whose noblest, native gusto is — to sell: To sell, and make — may Shame record the The state receivei'of his pilfer'd prey, [day ! — Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard. West, Europe's worst dauber, and poor llritain'sbest. With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, And own hilnself an infant of fourscore.* Be all the bruisers cuU'd from all St. Giles', That art and nature may compare their styles; While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare. And marvel at his Lordship's ' stone shop ' there, f Round the throng'd gates shall sauntering coxcombs creep. To lounge and luculnatc, to prate and peep; While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, On giant statues casts the curious eye; [skim. The room with transient glance appears to Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb; iClourns o'er the difference oi no'^v and then; Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were proper men ! ' Draws slight comparisons o{ tJicsc with those. And envies Lai's all her Attic beaux, [these? When shall a modern maid have swains like Alas, Sir Harry is no Hercules! And last of all amidst the gaping crew. Some calm spectator, as he takes his view. In silent indignation mix'd with grief. Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. Oh, loath'd in life, nor pardon'd in the dust. May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust! Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome. Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb. And Eratostratos| and Elgin shine. '■■ Mr. West, on seeing the " Elgin Collection" (I sup- pose we shall hear of the " Abershaw " and "Jack Shcp- pard" collection), declared himself "a mere tyro" ia art. t Poor Cribb was sadly puzzled when the marbles were first exhibited at Elgin House; he asked if it was not " a stone shop?" — He was right: it is a shop. + Eratostratos, who, in order to mnke his name re- membered, set fire to the Temple of Diana at Ephcsus. In many a branding page and burning line; Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed. Perchance the second blacker than the first. " So let him stand through ages yet unborn, Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; Though not for him alone revenge shall wait. But fits thy country for her coming fate. Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son To do what oft liritannia's self had done. Look to the Baltic — l)lazing from afar, Vour old ally yet mourns perfidious war. Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, « Or break the compact which herself had made; Far from such councils, from the faithless field She fled — but left behind her (Jorgon shield; A fatal gift that turned your friends to stone. And left lost Albion hated and alone. " Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base; Lo! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, And glares the Nemesis of native dead; Till Indus rolls a deep purpurea! flood. And claims his long arrear of Northern blood. So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. "Look on your Spain! — she clasps the hand she hates, [gates. But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her Bear witness, bright Barossa! thou canst tell Whose were the sons that bravely fought and But Lusitania, kind and dear ally, [fell. Can spare a few to light, and sometimes fly. Oh, glorious field! by Famine fiercely won, The Gaul retires for once, and all is done! But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat Retrieved three long Olympiads of defeat? " Look last at home — you love not to look there. On the grim smile of comfortless despair: Your city saddens: loud though Revel howls, ,Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine See all alike of more or less bereft; [prowls. No misers tremble when there's nothing left. ' Blest paper credit,'* who shall dare to sing? It clogs, like lead Corruption's weary wing. Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear. Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear; But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state. On Pallas calls, — but calls, alas! too late: Then raves for * * *; to that Mentor bends. Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. * " Blest paper credit ! last and best supply, That lenJs Corruption lighter wings to fly." Pope. ^ ^ ^ -Q? 138 TI/£ WALTZ. Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard. Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. So, once of yore, each reasonable frog Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign • log.' Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, As Egypt chose an onion for a god. " Now fareye well! enjoy your little hour; Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power; Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme; Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind. And pirates barter all that's left behind. f No more the hirelings, purchased near and far. Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war; The idle merchant on the useless quay Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away; Or, back returning, sees rejected stores Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores: The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom. And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom. Then in the senate of your sinking state Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. [command; Vain is each voice where tones could once E'en factions cease to charm a factious land: Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, [pile. And light with maddening hands tlic mutual " 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in The Furies seize her al^dicated reign: [vain; Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands. t The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie. And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. But one convulsive struggle still remains. And Gaul siiall weep ere Albion wear her chains. The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles : The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, That bid the foe defiance ere they come; The hero bounding at his country's call. The glorious death that consecrates his fall. Swell the young heart with visionary charms, And bid it antedate the joys of arms. But know, a lesson you may yet be taught, W^th death alone are laurels cheaply bought: Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, His day of mercy is the day of fight. But when the field is fought, the battle won, Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but begun : His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name; The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame. The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. Say with what eye along the distant down Would flying burghers mark the blazing town! How view the column of ascending flames Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? [thine Nay, frown not, Albion! for the torch was That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine: Now should they burst on thy devoted coast. Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. The law of heaven and earth is life fcr life. And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife." THE WALTZ. AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN. 1813. " Qualis in Eurotcs ripis, aut per juga Cynthi, Kxcrcct Dijna choro;:." Virgil. " Such on Eurotas' banks, or Cynthia's height, Diana seems: and so slic charms the !;ight. When in the dance the graceful goddess leads The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads." Drvden's Virgil. TO THE PUBLISHER. Sir, — I am a country gentleman of a midland county. I might have been a Parliament man for a certain borough; having had the ofTer of as many votes as General T. at the general election in 1812.* But I was r.U for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on .a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid of honor. Wc lived happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my v.'ifc and 1 v/ere invited by the Countess of Waltzaway *3tate of the poll (last day J, 5. 4^ ^ !" crer! it •, poster I ! If thi; be the ap- pellation annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to ■^ 4 ^ -e? X40 THE WAL TZ. 1S13. In some few qualities alike — for hock Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art Intoxicates alone the heedless heart: Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, And ^\■akes to wantonness the willing limbs. O Germany! how much to thee we owe, As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, And only left us thy d d debts and dances! Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, [left! We bless thee still — for George the Third is Of kings the best, and last not least in worth. For graciously begetting George the Fourth. To Germany, and highnesses serene, Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend, [sets She came — Waltz came — and with her certain Of true despatches, and as true gazettes: Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch. Which Aloiiiteiir nor Alorniitg Post C2,n match; And, almost crush'd beneath the glorious news, Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's; One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, [fairs; And loads from Frankfort and from Lcipsic JMeincr's four volumes upon womankind. Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind; [it, Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back {)i Ileyne, such as should not sink the packet. Fraught with this cargo, and her fairest Deliglitful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, [freight, Whoowe us millions — don't vveowethequeenPiThe v/elcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, To Germany, what owe we not besides? So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides: Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud; Who sent us — so be pardon'd all our faults — A doxen dtdces, some kings, a queen — and Waltz. But peace to her, her emperor and diet, Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's "fiat!" Back to my theme — O Muse of motion! say. How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way? Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yethad mails) , Ere yet unlucky Fame, compelled to creep T,. t.^lr^,„>r f v.ff^.,1 ■ UMDj .1 ^o vou oi nmc years less, wno oniy Dear lo snowy Oottenburg, was chill'd to sleep; t, •',],■ ■' , rA ,. / , ,, (\,- cMvfi.irr fv^,„, 1,=,., 1,. 1 7 • !i ■ I 1 hc buddiHg sprou ts oi those that you s/mU Ui, staitmg Irom her slumbers, deign d arise, . . Heligoland, to stock thy mart with lies; While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send,'-i And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. Not decent David, when, before the ark, His grand /a^-Jf?// excited some remark; Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought The knight's fandango friskier than it ought; Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread, Her nimble feet danced off another's head; Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, Display'd so much of Ay, or more oiiicck. Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tunc! [moon To you, ye husbands of ten years whose brows Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse; To you of nine years less, who only bear the name of a man v.-ho has not yet saved thorn — (query, are ihcy worth saving, even i-i this world? for, according to the mildest modifications of any Christian creed, those three words make the odds much agamst them in the next). " Saviour of the world," quotha! — it were to be wished that he, or any one else, could save a corner of i_: — his country. Yet this stupid mis- nomer, although it shows the near connection between superstition and impiety, so far has its use, that it proves Torments for life, or pleasures for a week; wear. With added ornaments around them roll'd Of native brass, or law-awarded gold: To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch To mar a son's, or make a daughter's, match; To you, ye children of — whom chance ac- cords — Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords; To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek there can be little to dread from those Catholics (m- , As Love or Hymen your endeavors guide, quisitorial Catholics too) who can confer such an appcUa-Ur • t i ^u i 1 • i lioiona/y^^.'^w/. I suppose next year he will be ^o gam your own, or snatch another s bride ;— entitled the " Virgin Mary ;" if so. Lord George Gordon I To one and all the lovely Stranger came, himself would have nothing to object to such liberal [And every ball-room echoes with her name. bastards of our Lady of Dabylon. - =■■ The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot bci thirty-three thousand persons were starved to death by sufficiently^comrnended — nor subscribed for. Amongst \ being reduced to wholesome diet ! The lamplighters of other de.ails omitted in the various despatches of our i London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a piece, and eloquent ambassador, he did not state (being too much ! the tallow-chnndlers have unanimously voted a quantity occupied with the exploits of Colonel C , in swim- ' of best moulds (four to the pound), to the relief of the rning rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impassable) 'surviving Scythians, — the scarcity will soon, by such ex- that one entire province perished by famine in the most \ ertions, and a proper attention to the qicality rather than rnelancholy manner as follows :— In General Rostop- 1 the quantity of provision, be totally alleviated. It is chm's consummate conflagration, the consumption of|said, in return, that the untouched Ukraine has sub- tallow and train oil was so great, that the market was I scribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal to our inadequate to the demand: and thus one hundred and | suffering manufacturers. '^ -^ s- ^ iSi 7'I/E IVAL TZ. 141 Endearing Waltz! to thy more melting tune No damsel faints when rather closely ]Mess'd, Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon Scotch reels, avaunt! and country dance, fore- Your future claims to each fantastic toe! [go AValtz, Waltz alone, both legs and arms demands, Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands; Hands which may freely range in public sight Where ne'er before — but — pray " put out the light." Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier Shines much loo far, or I am much too near; And true, though strange. Waltz whispers this remark, " My slippery steps arc safest in the dark!" But here the Muse with due decorum halts, And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. Observant travellers of every time! Ye quartos publish'd upon every clime! Oh, say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round, Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound; Can Egypt's Almas* — tantalizing group — Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn [l)orne? With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be Ah, no! from jMorier's pages down to Gait's, Each tourist pens a paragraph for " Waltz." Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore, [before! — With George the Third's — and ended long Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive. Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive Back to the ball-room speed your spectred Fools' Paradise is dull to that you lost, [host; No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake; No stiff-starch'd -stays make meddling lingers ache (Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape Goats in their visage, women in their shape) ;f But more caressing seems when most caress'd; Superfluous hartshorn and reviving salt; Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial, " Waltz." Seductive Waltz! — though on thy native .shore [whore; Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a Werter — to decent vice though much inclined, Yet warm, not wanton; dazzled, but not blind- Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stael, Would even proscribe thee from a Paris liall ; The fashion hails — from countesses to queens, And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes; Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads. And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads; With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, And cockneys practise what they can't pro- nounce. Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts. And rhyme finds partner rhyme, in praise of " Waltz!" Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut: [new,* The' court, the Regent, like herself, were New face for friends, for foes some new re- wards; New ornaments for black and royal guards; New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread; [lied; New coins (most new) to follow those that New victories — nor can we prize them less. Though Jenkyf wonders at his own success; New wars, because the old succeed so well, That most survivors envy those who fell; New mistresses — rR), old — and yet 'lis true. Though they be old, the ihi)ig is something new; * Dancing girls. t It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baus- siere's time, of the " Sieur de la Croix," that tfiere be " no whiskers ;" but how lar these are indications ol valor in the field, or elsewhere, may still be question- able. Much maybe, and hath been, avouched on both sides. In the olden time philosophers had whiskers, and soldiers none — Scipio himself was shaven— -Hannibal thought his one eye handsome enough without a beard; but Adrian, the emperor, wore a beard (having warts on his chin, which neither the Empress i-abina nor even I bard means (if ho means anything) Waltz w.is not the courtiers could abide) — Turennc had whiskers. Marl- 1 much in vogue till the Regent attained the acme of his borough none — Buonaparte is unwhiskercd, the Regent popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the new whiskered; "rt)jj-rt/" greatness of mind and whiskers I government, illuminated heaven and earth, in all their may or may not go together; but certainly the different glory, much about the same time: of these the comet occurrences, since the growth of the last mentioned, go | only has disappeared; the other three continue to a;- further in behali of whiskersthan the anathema of An- , tonish us still. — Printer's Dcsil. sL'lm did Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full Parliament," a rancorous renegado" ? i\th!y. Is ho not Poet Laureate, with his own lines on Martin the regitide staring him in the face ? And si^/i/y, Putting the four preceding items together, with what conrcien;e dare ke call the attention of the laws to the publications of others, bo they what they may ? I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding; its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch upon the 7not.ve, which is neither more nor less than that Mr. .S. has been laughed at a little in some recent publica- t'ons, ai he was of yore in the Anii- Jacobin by his present patrons. Hence all this "skimble-scamble stuff " about " S-itanic," and so forth. However, it is worthy of htm — "ijualis ab inccpto." If there is anything obno.xious to the political opinions of a portion of the public in the following poem, they may thank Mr. Southey-. He might have written hexameters, as he has written everything else, for aught that the writer cared — had they been upon another subject. Butto attempt to canonize a. monarch who, whatever were his household virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot king, — inasmuch as several years of his reign piis^ed^in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of the aggression upon France, — like all other e.vaggcra- tfTiii. necessarily begets opposition. In whatever manner Ir:? may be spoken of iu this new / isiji:, his^.vW/c career V. ill not be more laVorably transmtttc;d By history. Of his private virtues (although a little c.\pensive to the nation)-therecan be no doubt. With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I can only say that I know as much about them, and {as an honest man) have a better right to talk of them than Robert Southey. I have also treated them more tolerantly. 'Hic way in which.jliat poor insane creature, the LaureatCj deals about his judgments in the nc.\' world, is like his own jnd-nients in this. If it was not completely ludicrous, it would be something worse. I don't think that there is much more to say at present. QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. ^ -^-C^ a- ^ 144 7//E VISION OF JUDGMENT. 1822 P.S. — It is possible that some readers may object, in these objectionable times, to the freedom with which saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse in this Vision. But, for precedents upon such points, 1 must refer him to Fielding's 'JoHr?icy from this IVorld to the next, and to the Visions of myself, the said Quevedo, in Spanish or translated. The reader is also requested to observe that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or dis- cussed ; that the person of the Deity is carefully withheld from sight, which is more than can be said fur the Laureate, who hath thou:;ht proper to make Uim talk, not " like a school divine," but like the unscholar-likc Mr. Southey. The whole action passes on the outside of heaven ; and Chaucer's Wife qf Bath. Pulci's Mor^ante Alasigiore, Swift's Tale 0/ a Tub, and the other works above referred to, are cases in point of the freedom witli which saints, &c., may be permitted to converse in works not intended to be serious. — Q. R. *.{.* Mr. Southey being, as he says, a {jood Christian and vindictive, threatens, I understand, a reply to thij our answer It is to be hoped that his visionary faculties will in the meantime have acquired a little more judg- ment, properly so-called : otherwise he will get himself into new dilemmas. These apostate Jacobins furnish rich rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. Mr. Southey laudeth grievously " one Mr. Landor," who cultivates much |irivate renown in the shape of Latin verses; and not long ago. the Poet Laureate dedicated to lum, it appeareth, one of his fugitive lyrics upon the strength of a poeai called Gebir. Who could suppose that in this same Gchir the aforesaid Savage Landor ((or such i; his grim cognomen) putteth into the infernal regions no less a person than the hero of his friend Mr. Southey's heaven, — yea, even George the Third ! i>ee also how personal Savage becometh, when ho hath a mind. The following is his portrait of our late gracious sovereign : (Prince Gebir having descended into the infernal regions, the shades of his royal ancestors arc, at his request, called up to his view ; and he exclaims to h.is ghostly guide) — " Aroar, what wretch that nearest us? what wretch Is that wit'n eyebrows white and slanting brow '? Listen him yonder who, bound down supine. Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung. He too amongst my ancestors I hate The despot, but the dastard 1 despise. Was he our countryman V "Alas, O king! Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst Inclement winds blew blighting from north-east." " lie was a warrior, then, nor fcar'd the godsT' " Gebii, he feai d the demons, not the gods, 'I'hough them indeed his daily face adored : And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives Squander d, as stones to exerci.se a sling. And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — Oh, madness of mankind ! address'd, adored !" — Gebir, p. 28. I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of .Savagius, wishing to keep the proper veil over them, if his grave but somewhat indiscreet worshipper will iuffer it ; but certainly these teachers of " great moral lessons," arc apt to be found in strange company. I. Saixt Peter sat by the celestial gate; His key.s were rusty, and liie lock was dull, So little trouble had been given of late: Not that the place by any means was full, But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight," The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull. And " a pull all together," as they say At sea — which drew most souls another way. n. The angels all were singing out of tune, And hoarse with having little else to do, Excepting to wind up the sun and moon. Or curb a runaway young star or two. Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue. Splitting some planet witii its playful tail, As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 4 The guardian seraphs had retired on high. Finding their charges past all care below; Terrestrial business fiU'd nought in the sky Save the recording angel's black bureau; Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply With such rapidity of vice and woe. That he had stripp'd off botii his wings in And yet was in arrear of human ills. [[quills, His business so augmented of late years. That he was forced, against his will no doubt (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers), For some resource to turn himself about, And claim the help of his celestial peers, To aid him ere he should be quite worn out By the increased demand for his remarks: Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks. -(P a- ^ -e? THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 151 Lxvm. " Sir," replied Micliael, " you mistake; these things Are of a former life, and what we do Above is more august; to judge of kings Is the tribunal met: so now you know." "Then I presume those gentlemen with wings," Said Wilkes, " are cherubs; and that soul below [mind Looks much like George the Third, but to my A good deal older — Bless me! is he blind?" " He is what you behold him, and his doom Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. "If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb (Jives licence to the humblest beggar's head To lift itself against the loftiest." — "Some," Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid in lead For such a liberty — and I, for one, [sun." Have told them what I thought beneath the LXX . ''Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast To urge against him," said the Archangel. " Why," Replied the spirit, "since old scores are past. Must I turn evidence? In faith, not I. Besides, I beat him hollow at the last. With all his Lords and Commons: in the I don't like ripping up old stories, since [sky His conduct was but natural in a prince. LXXI. " Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress A poor unlucky devil without a shilling; But then I blame the man himself much less Than Bute and Grafton;* and shall be un- willing To see him punish'd here for their excess. Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in Their place below: for me, I have forgiven, And vote his habeas corpus into heaven." LXXII. " Wilkes," said the devil, " I understand all this; You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, And seem to think it would not be amiss To grow a whole one on the other side Of Charon's ferry; you forget that Ids Reign is concluded; whatsoe'er betide. He won't be sovereign more: you've lost your labor. For at the best he will Init be your neighbor. * George Ill.'s Ministers. LXXIII. " However, I knew what to think of it, When I beheld you ia your jesting way, Flitting and whispering round about the spit Where Belial, upon duty for the day, With Fox's lard was basting William I'itt, His pupil; I knew what to think, I say: That fellow even in hell breeds further ills: I'll have him gagg'd — 'twas one of his own bills. LXXIV. "Call Junius!" From the crowd a shadow stalk'd, [squeeze, And at the name there was a general So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd In comfort, at their own aerial ease, [balk'd. But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to be As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees, [der, Like wind compress'd and pent within a blad- Or like a human colic, which is sadder. LXXV. The shadow came — a tall, thin, grey-hair'd figure. That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; Quick in its motions, with an air of vigor, But nought to mark its breeding or its birth; Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger. With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth; But as you gazed upon its features, they [say. Changed every instant — to zakai, none could LXXVI. The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less Could thSy distinguish whose the features were; [guess; The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to They varied like a dream — now here, now there; And several people swore from out the press. They knew him perfectly; and one could He was his father; upon which another [swear Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother: LXXV II. Another, that he was a duke, or knight, An orator, a lawyer, or a priest A nabob, a man-midwife; but the wight Mysterious changed his countenance at least As oft as they their minds: though in full sight He stood, the puzzle only was increased: The man was a phantasmagoria in Himself — he was so volatile and thin. I.XXVIII. The moment that you had pronounced him one, Presto! his face changed, and he was another; ^ 4 s- ^ 152 T//E riSIOy OF JUDGMENT. And when that change was hardly well put on, It varied, till I don't think his own mother (If that he had a mother) would her son Have known, he shifted so from one to t'other; Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, At this epistolary " Iron Mask." LXXIX. For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — " Three gentlemen at once" (as sagely says Good Mrs. Malaprop) : then you might deem I'hat he was not even one; now many rays Were Hashing round him; and now a thick steam . [days: Hid him from sight — like fogs on London Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies. And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. LXXX. I've an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own: I never let it out till now, for fear Of doing people harm about the throne, And injuring some minister or peer, On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown : It IS — my gentle public, lend thine ear! 'Tis that what Junius we are wont to call Was really, truly, nobody at all. LXXXI. I don't see wherefore letters should not be Written without hands, since we daily view Them written without heads: and books, we Are filled as well without the latter too : [see. And really till we fix on somebody For certain sure to claim them as his due. Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother > The world to say if there be mouth or author. LXXXII. " And who and what art thou ?" the Archan- gel said. " For that you may consult my title-page," Replied this mighty shadow of a shade: " If I have kept my secret half an age, I scarce shall tell it now." " Canst thou up- braid," Continued Michael, '-'George Rex, or allege Aught further?" Junius answer'd, " You had better First ask him for his answer to my letter : i.xxxni. " My charges upon record will outlast The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." " Repent'st thou not," said Michael, " of some past Exaggeration? Something which may doom Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou wast Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom Of passion?" "Passion!'' cried the phantom dim, I loved my country, and I hated him. LXXXIV. "What I have written, I have written: let The rest be on.his head or mine!" So spoke Old " Nominis Umbra;" and while speaking Away he melted iji celestial smoke. [y'^L) Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget To call George Washington and John Home Tooke, [heard And Franklin." But at this time there was A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. LXXXV. At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid Of cherubim appointed to that post. The devil Asmodeus to the circle made His way, and look'd as if his journey cost Some trouble. When liis burden down he laid, [not a ghost!" " What's this ?" cried Michael; " why, 'tis " I know it," quoth the incubus; " but he .Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. LXXXVI. "Confound the renegadol I have sprain'd My left wing, he's so heavy; one would think Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. But to the point: while hovering o'er the brink Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain'd), I saw a taper, far below me, wink. And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — No less on history than the Holy Bible. LXXXVII. " The former is the Devil's .Scripture, and The latter yours, good Michael; so the affair Belongs to all (jf us, you understand. I snatch'd him up just as you see him there. And brought him off for sentence out of hand : I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — At least a quarter it can hardly be: I dare say that his wife is still at tea." LXXXVIII. Here Satan said, " I know this man of old. And have expected him for some time here; A sillier fellow you will scarce behold. Or more conceited in his petty sphere: But surely it was not worth while to fold Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear : .^ vO-- -^-Q? 1822. T//E VISION OF JUDGMENT. 153 We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored With carriage) coming of his own accord. LXXXIX. " But since he's here, let's see what he has done." ' 'Done!" cried Asmodeus; " he anticipates The very l:)usiness you are now upon, And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates?" [to say; " Let's hear," quoth Michael, " what he has You know we're bound to that in every way," XC. Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which By no means often was his case below. Began to cough, and liawk, and hem, and pitch His voice into that awful note of woe To all unhappy hearers within reach Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow; But stuck fast with his first hexameter. Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. XCI. But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd Into recitative, in great dismay. Both cherubim and seraphim were heard To murmur loudly through their long array; And Michael rose ere he could get a word Of all his founder'd verses under way, And cried, " For God's sake stop, my friend; 'twere best — N'oti Di, non hommes — you know the rest." XCII. A general bustle spread throughout the throng. Which seem'd to hold all verse in detesta- tion: The angels had of covu-se enough of song When upon service; and the generation Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long Before, to profit by a new occasion ; The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, " What! what! [that!" Pye^ come again ? No more — no more of XCIII. The tumult grew; an universal cough Convulsed the skies, as during a debate. When Castlereagh has been up long enough (Before he was First Minister of State, I mean — the slaves hear now\ ; some cried, "Off, off!" As at a farce, till, grown quite desperate, The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interposi; (Himself an author) only for his prose. XCIV. The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave; A good deal like a vulture in the face, With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave. Was by no means so ugly as his case; But that indeed was hopeless as can be, 'Quite a poetic felony " de J(?." xcv. Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise With one still greater, as is yet the mode On earth besides : except some grumbling voice Which now and tlien will make a sligiit Upon decorous silence, few will twice [inroad Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd; And now the bard could plead his own bad With all the attitudes of self-applause, [cause, XCVI. Pie said — (I only give the heads) — he said. He meant no harm in scribbling; 'twas his Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread, [way Of which he butter'd both sides: 'twould delay [dread). Too long the assembly (he was pleas'd to And take up rather more time than a day, Tonamehis works — he would but cite a few — " W at Tyl er," " Rhymes on Blenheim," «' Waterloo." xcvn. He had written praises of a regicide; He had written praises of all kings whatever; He had written for republics far and wide, And then against them bitterer than ever; For pantisocracy he once had cried [clever; AtoTKl^^^^arscfreme less moral than 'twas Then grew a hearty anti-Jacobiii — [his skin. Had turn'd his coat — and would have turn'd XCVIII. He had sung against all battles, and again In thefr high praise and glory: he had call'd Reviewing " the ungentle craft," and then'-= Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men By whom his ni^use and morals had been maul'd: [prose. He had written much blank verse, and blanker And more of both than anybody knows. * George IIl.'s Poet Laureate. ' Sec Life of Henry K:rke iV.iite. ^ ^ €7 154 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 1822. xcix. He had written Wesley's life: — here turning round To Satan, " Sir, I'm ready to write yours, In two octavo volumes, nicely bound. With notes and preface, all that most allures The pious purchaser; and there's no ground For iear, for I can ciioose my own reviewers; So let me have the proper documents. That I may add you to my other saints." C. Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you With amiable modesty decline My offer, what says Michael? There are few Wiiose memoirs could be render'd more Mine is a pen of all work: not so new [divine. As it was once, but I would make you shine Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. CI. " But talking about trumpets, liere's my Vision ! Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall Judge with my judgment, and by my decision Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. I settle all these things by intuition, [and all. Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, Like King Alfonso. •'= When I thus see double, I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." CII. He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no Persuasion on the part of devils, saints. Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so He read the first three lines of the contents; But at the fourth, the whole spiritual shoW Had vanish'd, with variety of scents, Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang Like lightning, off from his " melodious twang."t * Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolemcan system, said that ' had he been consulted at the creation of the world, he would have spared the Maker some absurdities." t See Aubrey's account of the apparition which dis- appeared " with a curious perfume and a inost melo- dious twang;" or see the Antiquary, vol. i. p. 225. Those grand heroics acted as a spell; The angels stopp'd their ears and plied tlicir pinions: The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell ; The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions — (For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell. And I leave every man to his own opinions); Michael took refuge in his trump; but, lo, His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow! CIV. Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down; Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease. Into his lake, for there he did not drown; A different web being by the destinies Woven for the Laurcate'sfinal wreath, whene'er Reform shall happen either here or there. He first sank to the bottom-^like^is works, But soon rose to the surface — likeTTimself; For all corrupted things are lJuoy*d~like, corks, '^^ By their own rottenness, light as an c1T; Or wisp that flits o'er a morass; he lurks. It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf. In his own den, to scrawl some " Life " or . " Vision," [inn." As Welborn says — " the devil turn'd precis- CVI. As for the rest, to conic to the conclusion Of this true dream, the telescope is gone Which kept my optics free from all delusion. And show'd me what I in my turn have All I saw further, in the last confusion, [shown; Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one; And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, I left him practising the hundredth psalm. * A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten ; it then floats, as most people l.now. 4 -e? THE AGE OF BRONZE; OR, CARMEN SECULARS ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. ■ Impar Congressus Achilli." I. The " good old times " — all times when old are good — Are gone; the present might be if they would; Great things have been, and are, and greater \Yant little of mere mortals buttheirwill: [still A wider space, a greener field, is given To those who play their " tricks before high heaven." I know not if the angels weep, but men Have wept enough — for what? — to weep again ! II. .^.11 is exploded — be it good or bad. Reader! remember when thou wert a lad. Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so much, His very rival almost deem'd him such. We, we have seen the intellectual race Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea C)f eloquence between, which flow'd all free, As the deep billows of the TEgean roar Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. But where are they — the rivals! a few feet Of sullen earth divide each winding-sheet. How peaceful and how powerful is the grave, Which hushes all! a calm, unstormy wave, Wiiich oversw'ceps tlie world. The theme is old Of " dust to dust;" but half its tale untold: Time teni23ers not its terrors — still the worm Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its Varied above, but still alike below; [form. The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow, Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea O'er which from emjiire she lured Anthony; Though Alexander's urn a show be grown On shores he wept to conquer, though un- known — ["appear How vain, how worse than vain, at length The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear! He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth. And desolation; while his native Greece Hath all of desolation, save its peace. He. "wept for worlds to conquer!" he who ne'er Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare! With even the busy Northern Lsle unknown. Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. III. But where is he, the modern, mightier far. Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car; The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings. Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings, [of late. And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state? Yes! where is he, the champion and the child Of all that's great or little, wise or wild; Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones; [bones? Whose table earth — whose dice were human Behold the grand result in yon lone isle. And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. .Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage; Smile to survey the queller of the nations Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations; Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, O'er curtail'e lull'd by tyrant victories. Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need liy Christians, unto whom they gave their The desolated lands, the ravaged isle, [creed, Tiie foster'd feud encouraged to beguile. The aid evaded, and the cold delay, Prolong'd Init in the hope to make a prey; — • Tlicse, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show The false friend worse than (he infuriate foe. But this is well: Greeks only should free Greece, Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. How should the autocrat of bondage be Die king of serfs, and set the nations free ? Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan; Better still toil for masters, than await, Tlie slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — Number'd by hordes, a human capital, A live estate, existing but for thrall. Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward I'or the first courtier in the Czar's regard; ^^'hile their immediate owner never tastes His sleep, sa7is dreaming of Siberia's \vastes. Better succumb even to their own despair. And drive the camel than purvey the bear. VII. But not alone within the lioariest clime Where Freedom dates her birth with that of Time, [crowd And not alone where, plung'd in night, a Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud. The dawn revives; renown'd, romantic Spain Holds back the invader from her soil again. Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword; Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth Bollute the plains, alike abhorring both; Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears The warlike fathers of a thousand years. That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. Long in the peasant's song or poet's page Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage; The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung Back ti- the barbarous realm from whence they sprung. [their sway, But these are gone — their faith, their swords, Yet left more anti-christian foes than they; The bigot monarch, and the butcher priest, The Inquisition, with lier burning feast. The faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel, While sate the Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, Enjoying, with inexorable eye. That fiery festival of agony ! The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was The long degenerate noble ; the debased [sloth ; Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced. But more degraded; the unpeopled realm; The once ]U'oud navy which forgot the helm; The once impervious phalanx disarray'd; The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade; The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore. Save hers who carn'd it with the natives' gore; The very language which might vie v:ith Rome's, [homes, And once was known to nations like their Neglected or forgotten: — such was Spain; But such she is not, nor shall be again. These worst, these home invaders, felt and fee] The new Numantine soul of old Castile. Up! up again I undaunted Tauridor! The bull of Phalaris renews his roar; Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain Revive the cry! — " lago! and close Sixain!"* Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round. And form the Vjarrier which Napoleon found, — - The exterminating war, the desert plain, The streets without a tenant, save the slaini The wild sierra, with its wilder troop Of vulture-plumed guerillas, on the stoop For their incessant prey; the desperate wall Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall; The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid Waving her more than Amazonian blade; The knife of Arragon,-j- Toledo's steel; The famous lance of chivalrous Castile; The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; The Andalusian courser in the van; The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid; And in each heart the spirit of the Cid: — Such have been, such shall be, such are. Ad- vance, [France! And win — not Spain! but thine own freedom, * " St. lago ! and close Spain !" the old Spanish war- cry. t The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in the use of this weapon, and displayed it particularly in former French wars. '9- 4 ^ i ])oet'.s, «// the gourmand's art: A scholar always, now and then a wit, And gentle when digestion may permit; — But not to govern lands enslaved or free; The gout was martyrdom enough for thee. Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase From a bold Briton in her wonted praise? " Arts — arms — and George — and glory, and the isles — [smiles — And happy Britain — wealth, and Freedom's White clifts, that held invasion far aloof — Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd. That nose, the hook where he suspends the world I''- [yet And Waterloo — and trade — and — (hush! not A syllable of imposts cr of debt) — And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, Whose penknife slit agoose-quiU t'other day — And " pilots who have wealher'd every storm," — (But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Reform). These are the themes thus sung so oft before, Methinks we need not sing them any more; I'"ound in so many volumes far and near, There's no occasion you should find (hem here. Vet something may remain perchance to chime With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme. Even this thy genius. Canning! may permit, Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit. And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame; Our last, our best, our only orator. Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more: Nay, not so much; — they hale thee, man, because Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo. And where he leads the duteous pack will follow; But not for love mistake their yelling cry; Their yelp for game is not an eulogy; Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. Thy saddle-girths arc not yet quite secure, Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure; The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast With his great self and rider in the mud; But what of that? the animal shows blood. Alas, the country! how shall tongue or pen Bewail her now z/wcountry gentlemen? *" Naso suspendit adunco." — Horace. The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious to hij acquaintance. ^ ^ ^ ^ THE AGE OF BROXZE. i6i The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, jThcy roar'd, they dined, they drank, they The first to make a ir.alady of peace. | swore, they meant [rent ! For what were all these country patriots born? To die for England — why then live? — for To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn? ]Sut corn, like every mortal thing, must fall. Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. And must ye fall with every ear of grain? Why would you trouble lUionaparte's reign? lie was your great Triplolemus; liis vices Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your lie amplified to every lord's content [prices; The grand agrarian alchymy, high rent. Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, And lower wheat to such desponding quarters? Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone? The man was wortli much more upon liis The ])eace has made one general malcontent Of these high-market patriots; v.ar was rent! Their love cjf country, millions all misspent, How reconcile? l)y reconciling rent! And will they not repay the treasures lent? No; down with everything, and up with rent! Their good, ill, liealih, wealth, joy, or discon tent. Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent! Thou soid'st thy birthright, Esau! for a mess; Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less; Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy de- Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands, [mands thron?. [spilt, ! Such, landlorils! was your appetite for war, True, blood and treasure l)oundlessly were: And gorged with blood, you grumlde at a scar! But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt; j What! would they spread their earthquake But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, I even o'er cash? [crash? And acres told upon the appointed day. And when land crtimbles, bid firm paper But where is now the goodly audit ale? So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall. The purse-proud tenant, nevcrknown to fail? I And found on 'Change a /-Vz/^fiV;;^ Hospital! The farm which never yet was left on hand? jLo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes, Tiie marsh reclaim'dto most improving land?; Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tiihes; The impatient hope of the expiring lease? |Thc prelates go to — where the saints have The doubling rental? What an evil's peace I JAnd proud pluralities subside to one; [gone, In vain the prize excites the ploughman'sskill, Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark. In vain tlic Commons pass tiieir patriot bill; Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. The landed interest — (you may understand Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, The phrase much better leaving out the /<7«(/) — Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. The land self-interest groans from shore to And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants. shore, For fear that plenty should attain the poor. Up, up again, ye rents! exalt your notes, Or else the ministry will lose their votes. Ami patriotism, so delicately nice. Her loaves will lower to the market price; And jDrop the iiill of these agrarian ants. " Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and bo wise;" Admire their patience through each sacrifice. Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride. The price of taxes and of homicide; For ah I " the loaves and fishes," once so high. Admire their justice, which would fain deny Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry And nought remains of all the millions spent. Excepting to grow moderate and content. They who are not so, //«r/ their turn — and turn About still flows from Fortune's equal urn; Now let their virtue be its own reward. And share the blessings which themselves pre- pared. See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, Farmers of war, dictators of the farm; The debt of nations : -pray, XV. .'ho Diadc it hizh ? Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks. The new Symplcgades — the crushing Stocks, Where Midas might again his wish J^ehold In real paper or imagined gold. That magic palace of Alcina shows More wealth than Ihitain ever had to lose, Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore. Their ploughsh.-ire was the sword in hireling 'And all her pebbles from I'actolus' shore. hands, .There Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the Their fields manured by gore of o'her lands; stake. Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent And the world trembles to bid brokers break. Their brethren out to battle — why? for rent! How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines. Year after year they voted cent, per cent.. Or jjeace, or plenty, corn or oil, or wines; IJlot)d, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why?'No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, for rent! .Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money B-- l ^ 162 7'//E AGE OF BRONZE. But let us not to own the truth refuse, Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews? Those parted with their teetli to good King John, [own; And now, ye kings! they kindly draw 3'our All states, all things, all sovereigns they con- trol, And waft a loan " from Indus to the pole." The banker — broker — baron — brethren, speed To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. Nor these alone: Columbia feels no less Fresh speculations follow each success; And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain Her mild per-centage from exhausted Spain. Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march; [arch. 'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's Two Jevv's, a chosen people, can command In every realm their scripture-promised land: — Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold The accursed Ilun, more brutal than of old: Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct The world, with all the spirit of their sect. Wliat is the happiness of earth to them? A congress forms their " New Jerusalem," Where baronies and orders both invite — Oh, holy Abraham! dost thou see the sight? Thy followers mingling with these royal swine. Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," But lienor them as portion of the show — (Where now, oh, Pope! is thy forsaken toe? Could it not favor Judah with some kicks? Or has it ceased to "Ivick againstthe pricks?") On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh. To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of flesh." XVI. Strange sight this Congress! destined to unite All that's incongruous, all that's opposite. I speak not of the sovereigns — they're alike, A common coin as ever mint could strike; But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings. Have more of motley than their heavy kings. Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, Wliile Europe wonders at the vast design: There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, Cajoles: there Wellington forgets to hght; There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ;■=• And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars; * Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the author in the minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary sovereign : " Ah ! Monsieur C, are you related to that Chateaubriand who — who — who has wr tten something f (ecrit quelqiie chose!) It is said that the author of Atala repented him for a mo- ment of his legitimacy. j There Montmorenci,the sworn foe to charters, Turns a diplomatist of great eclat, jTo furnish articles for the " Debats;" Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure As his dismissal in the " Moniteur." Alas! how could his cabinet thus err! Can pface he worth an ultra-minister? He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again, "Almost as quickly as he conquer'd S))ain." XVII. Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos The averted eye of the reluctant muse. The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride; The mother of the hero's hope, the boy. The young Astyanax of modern Troy;-j- The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen; She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour. The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare A daughter ? What did France's widow there? Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave, Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. But, no — she still must hold a petty reign, Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain;* The martial Argus, whose not lumdred eyes Must watch her through these paltry pageant- ries, [in \'ain, What though she share no more, and shared A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas! Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese. Where Parma views the traveller resort. To note the trappings of her mimic court. But she appears! Verona sees her shorn Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn — Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time To chill in their inhospitable clime; (If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold; — But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould;) [cine's. She comes! — the Andromache (but not Ra- Nor Homer's,) — Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans! Yes! tlie right arm, yet red from Waterloo, Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through. Is offer'd and accepted ? Could a slave Do more? or less? — and he in his new grave! Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, And the ^jr-empress grows as ex a wife! t The Duke de Reichstadt, Napoleon's son. * Count Neipperg, chamberlain and second husband to Maria Louisa. 4 p^- V7 1822. THE BLUES. 16: So much for human ties in royal breasts! Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ? XVIII. But tired of foreign follies, I turn home, And sketch the group — the picture's yet to come. My muse 'gan weep, but ere a tear was spilt, She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt! While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman! Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, [more!" While all the Common Council cry " Clay- To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt Gird the gross surloin of a city Celt, She burst into a laughter so extreme, That I awoke, — and lo! it was no dream! Here, reader, will we pause: — if there's no harm in [" Carmen." This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second THE BLUES A LITERARY ECLOGUE. 1822. " Nimium ne crede colori." — Virgil. O trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue. Though your ha ir were as red as your stockings are hhie. ECLOGUE THE FIRST. London. — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. ////'. You're too late. Tra. Is it over ? Ink. Nor will be this hour. But the l)enches are cramm'd like a garden in flower, [it the fashion; With the pride of our belles, who have made So, instead of " beau.\ arts," we may say "la belle passion " [in For learning, which lately has taken the lead The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. [out my patience Tra. I know it too well, and have worn W^ith studying to study your new publications. There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Wordswords and Co. With their damnable Litk. HoUl, my good friend, do you know Whom you speak to ? Tra. Right well, boy, and so does ' ' the You're an author — a poet — [Row:" Ink. And think you that I Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry The Muses ? Tra. Excuse me: I meant no offence To the Nine; though the number who m:ike some pretence To their favors is Sjuch but the subject to drop, I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, (Next door to the pastry-cook's; so that when I Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces. As one finds every author in one of those places:) [critique. Where I just had been skimming a charming So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek! [got such a threshing, W'here your friend — you know who — has just That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely " re- What a beautiful word! \_freshing.''' Ink. Very true; 'lis so soft And so cooling — they use it a little too oft; And the papers have got it at last — but no So they've cut up our friend, then? [matti:r. Tra. Not left him a tatter — Not a rag of his present or past reputation, Which they call a disgrace to the age and tlie nation. Ink. I'm sorry to hear this! for friendship, you know — [minate so. Our poor friend! — but I thought it would tt-r- --4^ a- — 17 164 THE BLUES. Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock it. [pocket? You don't iiappen to have the Review in your Tra. No; I left a round dozen of authors and others [brother's) (Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a All scraniblingand jostling, like so many imps. And on fire with impatience to get the next Ink. Let us join them. [glimpse. Tra, \Vhat, won'tyou return to the lecture? Ink. Why, the place is so cramni'd, there's not room for a spectre. Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — Tra. How can you know that till you hear him? Ink. I heard Quite enough; and, to tell you the truth, my retreat [heat. Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the Tra. I have had no great loss, then? Ink. Loss! — such a palaver! I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours [pours, To the torrent of trash which around him he I'ump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such labor, [one's neighbor. That come — do not make me speak ill of Tra. I make you! /;;/•. Yes, you! I said nothing until You compell'd me, by speaking the truth — — Tra. To speak ill ! Is that your deduction? Ink. When speaking of Scamp ill, I certainly /o/^tc, not Set an example. The fellow's a fool, an impostor, a zany. Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one fool makes many. But we two will be wise. If^k. Pray, then, let us retire. Tra. I would, but Ink. There must be attraction much higher Than Scamp, or the Jew's harp he nicknames To c'xW yon to this hot bed. [liis lyre, Ira. I own it — 'tis true — '- A fair lady Ink. A spinster? Tra. Miss Lilac ! Ink, The Blue! The heiress? Tra. The angel! Ink. The devil! why, man, Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. You wed with Miss Lilac! 'twould be your perdition: She's a poet, a chemist, a mathematician. Tra. I say she's an angel. Ink, Say rather an angle. If you and she marry, you'll certainly wran- gle. I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. Ira. And is that any cause for not coming together? [happy alliance Ink, Humph! I can't say I know any Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with science. [cerning She's so learned in all things, and fond of con-' Herself in all matters connected with learning. That Tra. What? hik. I perhaps may as well hold my tongue; [you're wrong. But there's five hundred people can tell you Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a Jew. [pursue? Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank \\ith you — something of both. The girl's a fine girl. Ink. And you feel nothing loth To her good lady-mother's reversion; and yet Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes : I demand [and hand. Nothing more than the heart of her daughter Ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand — that hand on the pen. Tra. Apropos — Will you write me a song now and then? Ink. To wliat purpose? [prose Tra. You Icnow, my dear friend, that in My talent is decent, as far as it goes; But in rhyme Ink. You're a terrible stick, to be sure. Tra. I own it; and yet, in these times, there's no lure For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two; And so, as I can't, wi-U you furnish a few? /;;/'. In your name? Tra. In my name. I will copy them out. To slip into her hand at the very next rout. Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard Tra. Why, [this? Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme [eye. What I've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime? [Muse. /;//'. As siiblhne! If it be so, no need of my Tra, But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of the " Blues." [to say. Ink. As sublime! — Mr. Tracy — I've nothing Stick to prose — As sublime! ! — But I wish you good day. ^ -■^^ ^ And church and court did mingle their ar- And mass and revel were alternate seen; Lurdlings and freres — ill-sorted fry, I ween ! r>ut here the Babylonian whore had built'-' A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, [spilt, That men forget the blood which she hath And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to gar- nish guilt. XXX. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!) W'hereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. [chase, Though sluggards deem it but a foolish And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace. Oh, there is sweetness in the mountain air. And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. XXXI. More bleak to view the hills at length recede. And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend: Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed! Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, Spain's realms appear, whereon her sheji- herds tend [knows — Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend; For .Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes. And all must shield their all, or share Subjec- tion's woes. XXXII. Where Lusitania and her Sister meet. Deem ye what bounds the rival realms di- vide? Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet, Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? Or dark -Sierras rise in craggy jjride? Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? — Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall. Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul. 4- sage. * The extent of IMafra is prodigious; it contains a pal- ace, convent, and most superb church. The si.i: crf;ar.s are the most beautiful I ever beheld, in point of decora- tion: \vc did not hear them, but were told that their tones were correspondent to their splendor. Mafra b termed the Escurial of Portugal. ^ eauty brings; Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore. That will not look beyond the tomb. But cannot hope for rest before. What Exile from himself can flee? To zones, thougli more and more remote, Still, still jiursues, where'er I be. The blight of life — the demon Thought! Yet others wrapt in pleasure seem, And taste of all that I forsake: Oh! may they still of transport dream. And ne'er, at least like me, awake! Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, With many a retrospection curst; And all my solace is to know, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. What is that worst? Nay, do not ask — In pity from the search forbear: Smile on — nor venture to unmask [there. Ivlan's heart, and view the Hell that's Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! [stood? Who may forget how well thy walls have When all were changing, thou alone wert First to be free, and last to be subdued, [true. And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, vSome native blood was seen thy streets to A traitor only fell beneath the feud :* [dye, Here all were noble, save Nobility; None hugg'd a conqueror's chain save fallen Chivalry! Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! [free : They fight for freedom, who were never A kingless people for a nerveless state. Her vassals combat when their chieftains True to the veriest slaves of Treachery; [flee. Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Pride points the path that leads to Liberty; * Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the governor of Cadiz, in May, 1809. ^ # -^ 182 CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 1812. Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, " War even to the knife!"* hxxxvn. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe Can act, is acting there against man's life: From flashing scimitar to secret knife, War mouldeth there each weapon to his need — ■ So may he guard the sister and the wife, So may he make each curst oppressor bleed. So may such foes deserve the most remorse- less deed ! LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain; Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain. Then to the vulture let each corse remain, Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw; Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's un- bleaching stain. Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe. Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas, the dreadful work is done; Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: It deepens still, the work is scarce begun. Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n nations gaze on Spain: if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd. Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sus- tain'd, [unrestrain'd. While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder XC. Not all the blood at Talavera shed. Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, Not Albuera lavish of the dead. Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. Wh'jn shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? [ingtoil? When shall she breathe her from the blush- iiow many a doubtful day shall sink in night, Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil , And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil! xci. And thou, my friend!* since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain — Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to com- plain : But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast. And mix iinbleeding with the boasted slain, While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefully to rest? XCII. Oh, known the earliest, and estcem'd the most! [dear! Dear to a heart where nought was left so Though to my hopeless clays forever lost. In dreams deny me not to see thee here! And Morn in secret shall renew the tear Of Consciousness awaking to her woes. And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, Till my frail frame return to whence it rose. And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. XCIII. Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: Ye who of him may further seek to know. Shall find some tidings in a future page, If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. Is this too much? Stern Critic, say not so: Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld In other lands where he was doom'd to go; Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were qnell'd. * Palafox's answer to the French general at the siege of S:aragoza. * The Honorable John Wingfield, of the Guards, who died of a fever at Coimbra (May 14, i8ii). I had known him ten years, the better half of his life, and the hap- piest part of mine. In the short space of one month I have lost Iicr who gave me being, and most of those who had made that being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no fiction: — " Insatiate archer! could not one suffice ? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, And thrice ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn." I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing Col- lege, Cambridge, were he not too much above all praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the attainment of greater honors, against the ablest candidates, than those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have suf- ficiently established his fame on the spot where it was acquired; while his softer qualities live in the recollection of friends who loved him too well to envy his superiority. -^ s- ^ I8I2. CIHLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 181 CANTO THE SECOND. Come, blue-ej'ed maid of heaven I — but thou, alas, Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — Goddess of Wisdom! liere thy temple was, •And is, despite of war and wasting fire,* And years that bade thy worship to expire: But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow. Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow. f II. Ancient of days! august Athena! where, "Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? [things that were: Gone — glimmering through the dream of First in the race that led to Glory's goal. They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole? A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole •' Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explcs.on cf a magazine during the Venetian siege. t We can all feel, or imagine, the 1 egret with which the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are be- held: the reflections suggested by such objects are too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the little- ness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt, and of valor to defend, his country, appear mere conspicuous than in the record of what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, is now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturb- ance, between the bickering agents of certain Critish no- bility and gentry. "The wild foxes, the owls, and ser- pents in the ruins of Babylon," were surely less degrad- ing than such inhabitants. The Turks have the plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the bravest; but how are the mighty fallen, when two painters contest the privilege of plundering the Parthenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor ofeachsucceeding iirman ! Sylla could but punish, Philip subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens; but it remained for the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to render her contemptible as himself and his pursuits. The Parthenon, before its de- struction, in part, by fire during the VenetiLin siege, had been a temple, a church, and a mosque. In each point of view it is an object of regard: it changed its wor- shippers: but still it was a place of worship thrice sacred to devotion; its violation is a triple sacrifice. But — " Man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority. Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven As make the angels weep." Are sought in vain, and o'er each moulder- ing tower, [of power. Dim witti the mist of years, grey flits the shade Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn; Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre! Abode'ofgods, whose shrines no longer burn. Even gods must yield — religions take their turn : [creeds 'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's; and other Will rise with other years, till man shall learn Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on reeds. Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to heaven — Is't not enough, unhappy thing, to know Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, • That being, thou wouldst be again, and go. Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what re- gion, so [skies? On earth no more, but mingled with the Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: That little urn saith more than thousand homi- lies. Or btarst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound; Far on the solitary shore he sleeps:* He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around: But now not one of saddening thcvasands weeps. Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps: Is that a temple where a god may dwell? Why, ev'n the worm at last disdains her shat- ter'd cell! *It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn their dead; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred entire. Almost all the chiefs became .qods after their decease; and he was indeed neglected who liad not annual games near his tomb, or festivals in honor of his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, &c., and at last even Antinous, whose death was as heroic as his life was infamous. ^- --e^ ^ ut Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome Yet if, as holiest men have dceni'd, there be A land of souls beyond tiiat sal)le shore, To shame the doctrine of the SadcUicec And sopiiists, madly vain of duliious lore; llow sweet it were in concert to adore With those who niaile our mortal labors liglit! [more! To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, ThcBactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! IX. There, thou! — whose love aiKllife, together fled, ^ Have left me here to love and live in vain — Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, When busy Memory flashes on my brain? W^ell — I will dream that we may meet again, And woo the vision to my vacant breast: If aught of young Remend)ranee then re- Be as it may Futurity's behest, [main. For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! X. Here let me sit upon this maSsy stone. The marble column's yet unshaken base! Here, son of Saturn, was thy favorite throne;* Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. It may not be: not ev'n can Fancy's eye Restore what Time liath labor'd to deface. Yet these proud pillars claim no jiassing sigh ; Unmoved tlie Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. XI. But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to Ike The latest relic of her ancient reign; The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was Ik ? Blush, Caledonia! such thy son coulil be! England! I joy no chikl he was of thine; Thy free-born men should spare what once was free; Yet they could violate each saddening shrine. And bear these altars o'er the long- reluctant brine. ■[• XII. But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, To rive what Cioth, and Turk, and Time hath spared::}: Cold as the crags upon his native coast. His mind as barren and his heart as hard, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand jirepared. Aught to displace Athena's jioor remains: Her sons, too weak the sacred shrine to guard, pains, i^ Yet felt some ])ortion of their mothers And never knew, till then, the weight of Des- pot's chains. xui. What! sliall it e'er be said by British tongue, Albion was happy in Athena's tears? Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung. *The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of whitih sixteen columns, entirely of marble, yet survive: orij;inalIy there were one hundred and fifty. These columns, huvv- ever, are by many supposed to have belonged to the Pantheon. tThe ship was wrecked hi the Archipelago, tSce Notes at the end of the volume. § I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no comment with the public, but whose sanction will add teiilcld weight to my testimony, to insert the following extract from a very obliging letter of liis to me, as a note to the above lines: — " When the laist of the J\Ictopes was taken from the I'arthenon, and, in nioviug of it, great part of the superstructure with one of the triglyphs was thrown down by tlie workmen whom Lord Elgin employed, the Disdar, who beheld the mischief done to the building, took his pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, in a. supplicating tone of voice, said to l.usicri, TtAo« ! — 1 was present." The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present Disdar. 4>- ^ ■^ lSl2. CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 185 Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears; The last poor plunder from a bleeding land :j Yes, she, whose generous aid her name en-, dears, [hand,| Tore down those remnants with a harpy's The white sail set, the gallant frigate light; Masts, spires, and strand retirini' to the right. The glorious main expanding o er the bow, The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight. The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left So gaily curl the waves before each dashing to stand. XIV. thine /Egis, Pallas! that ap- Where was pall'd Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?* Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain in- thralled, nis shade from Hades upon that dread day Bursting to light in terrible array! [more. What! could not Pluto spare the chief once To scare a second robber from his prey? Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore. Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. XV. Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks cm thee. Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed By British hands, which it had best behoved To guai'd those relics ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, And once again thy hapless bosom gored, And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr'd! XVI. But where is Harold? shall I then forget To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? Little reck'd he of all that men regret; No loved one now in feign'd lament could rave; No friend the parting hand extended gave. Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes; Hard is his heart whom charms may not cn- But Harold felt not as in other times, [slave; And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes, XVII. He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight; When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, * According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles fright- ened Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others relate that tlie Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scot- tish peer. — Sec Chandler. prow. XVIII. And oh, the little warlike world within! The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,'^' The hoarse command, the busy humming din, [high: When, at a word, the tops are manned on Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry! [gJides; While through the seaman's hand the tackle Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by. Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. XIX. White is the glassy deck, without a stain, Where on the watch the staid Lieutenani: walks: Look on that part which sacred doth remain P"or the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks With aught beneath him, ifhe would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks Conquest and fame : but Britons rarely .swerve From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve. XX. Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale ! [ray ; Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail. That lagging barks may make their lazy way. Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay. To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze, f^^^)'' What leagues are lost, before the dawn of Thus loitering pensive on the wdling seas. The flapping sail haul'd down to halt lor logs like these! XXI. ; The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! i J-vOng streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; [believe: Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids Such be our fate when we return to land! Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand *To prevent blocks and splinters falling during act:on. ^ 4 ^ -e? i86 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 1812. Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; A circle there of merry listeners stand, Or to some well-known measure featly move, [free to rove. Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were Througli Calpc's straits survey the steepy shore, Europe and Afric on each other gaze! Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze; How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown. Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase; ]>Lit ^lauritania's giant shadows frown. From mountain-cliff to coast descending som bre down. 'Tis night, when Meditation l)ids us feel We once have loved, though love is at an end: The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal. Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. [to bend. Who with the weight of years would wish When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy? . Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend. Death hath but little left him to destroy! Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy? XXIV. Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side. To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere. The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride, [year. And flies unconscious o'er each backward None are so desolate but something dear. Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; A flashing pang! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart di- vest. To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell. To slowly trace the forest's shady scene. Where things that own not man's dominion dwell. And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; To climb thetrackless mountain all unseen. With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's c'harms, and view her stores unroll'd. XXVI. But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men. To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess. And roam along, the world's tired denizen. With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendor shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness en- dued , If we were not, would seem to smile the less, Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued; This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! XXVII. More blest the life of godly eremite, Such as on lonely Athos may be seen. Watching at eve upon the giant height. Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene. That he who thereat such an hour hath been Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot; Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, [lot, Sigh forth one wish that such had been his Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind; I^ass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, [wind; And each well-known caprice of wave and Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, Coop'tl in their winged sea-girt citadel; The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind. As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell, Till on some jocund morn — lo, land! and all is well. XXIX. But not in silence pass Calypso's isles. The sister tenants of the middle deep; There for the weary still a haven smiles, Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep. And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep For him who dared prefer a mortal bride: Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide; [doubly sigh'd. While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen --4^ fb l8l2. CHII.DE HAROLD'S FILGRIMAGE. 187 Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: Eut trust not this: too easy youth, beware! A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, And thou mayst find a new Calypso there. Sweet Florence! could another ever share This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine: I'ut check'd by every tie, I may not dare To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine. Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. XXXI. Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye He look'd, and met its beam without a thought Save admiration glancing harmless by: Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, AVho knew his votary often lost and caught, Ijut knew him as his worshipper no more. And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought: Since now he vainly urged him to adore, ^Yell deem'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er. XXXII. Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, [saw. One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law; [claims: All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen And'much she marvell'd that a youth so raw Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, [rarely anger dames. Which, though sometimes they frown, yet XXXIII. Little knew she that seeming marble heart. Now mask'd by silence or withheld by pride, Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art. And spread its snares licentious far and wide; Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, As long as aught was worthy to pursue: 15ut Harold on such arts no more relied; And had he doted on those eyes so blue. Vet never would he join the lover's whining crew. XXXIV. Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, [sighs: Wiio thinks that wanton thing is won by Wliat careth she for hearts when once pos- scss'd? Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; ]5ut not too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tro})es ; Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise; ]5risk Confidence still best with woman copes; [crowns thy hopes. Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion XXXV. 'Tis an old lesson : Time approves it true. And those who know it best deplore it most. When all is won that all desire to woo. The paltry prize is hardly worth tlie cost: Youth wasted, minds degraded, honor lost. These are thy fruits, successful Passion! If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, [these! Still to the last it rankles, a disease. Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. XXXVI. Away! nor let me loiter in my song, For w^e have many a mountain jjath to tread. And many a varied shore to sail along. By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led— Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head Lnagined in its little schemes of thought; Or e'er in new Utopias were ared. To teach man what he might be, or he ought; If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. XXXVII. Dear Nature is the kindest mother still; Though always changing, in her aspect mild : From her bare bosom let me take my fill. Her never-wean'd, though not her favor'd Oh! she is fairest in her features wild, [child. W'here nothing polish'd dares pollute her path : To me by day or night she ever smiled. Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, [best in wrath. And sought her more and more, and loved her XXXVIII. Land of Albania! where Iskander rose; Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise; And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled fijcs Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise : Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes^= On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men! The cross descends, thy minarets arise. And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen. Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken. * See a long characteri-stic Note by Lord Byron at the end of the volume. ^ ^ ^ ■^ i88 CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 1812. xxxix. Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave;* And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save That breast imbued with such immortal fire? Could she not live who life eternal gave? If life eternal may await the lyre, That only heaven to which Earth's children may aspire. XL. 'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve, Childe Harolde hail'd l.eucadia's cape afar;f A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave: Uftdid he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar :| Mark them unmoved, for he would not de- light (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight. But loath'd the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial wight. XI. I. But when he saw the evening star above Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe. And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : 1 And as the stately vessel glided slow Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, j He watched the billows' melancholy flow, And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid front. XLII. Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's hills. Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, Array'd in many a dun and purple streak. Arise; and, as the clouds along them break. Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer; Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, [pear. Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men ap- And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. Now Harold felt himself at length alone. And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu: Now he adventured on a shore unknown. Which all admire, but many dread to view: His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were few : Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : The scene was savage, but the scene was new; This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed summer's heat. Here the red cross, for still the cross is here. Though sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised. Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear : Churchman and votary alike despised. Foul superstition! howsoe'er disguised. Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, For whatsoever symbol thou art prized. Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss! Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross? XLV. Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing! In yonder rippling bay, their naval host Did many a Roman chief and Asian king* To doubtful cfinflict, certain slaughter,bring : Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose,t ['"85 Now, like the hands that reared them, wither- Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes! God! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose? XLVI. From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, [tales: Through lands scarce noticed in historic Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails. * Ithaca. t Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the pro- n^.ontory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown herself. % Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, but less known, was fought in the gulf of Patras. Here the author oi Don Quixote lost his left hand. * It is said that on the day previous to the battle ol Actium, Antony had thirteen kings at his levee. t Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some distance from Actium. where the wall of the Hippo- drome survives in a few fragments. These ruins are large masses of brickwork, the bricks of which are joined by interstices of mortar, as large as the bricks themselves, and equally durable. ^ ■^ s- ^ 1812. CIIILDE HAROLD'S riLGRIMAGE. 189 Though classic ground and consecrated most, To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. XLVII. lie pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,* And left the primal city of the land, And onwards did his further journey take, To greet Albania's chief, whose dread corn- man df Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand He sways a nation, turbulent and bold: Yet here and there some daring mountain- band Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to goid4 XLVIII. Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow,§ Thou small, but favor'd spot of holy ground ! j \V]iere'er we gaze, around, above, below, \Vhat rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound. And bluest skies that harmonize the whole: l>eneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul. XI.IX. Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still. Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, [high; The convent's white walls glisten fair on Here dwells the caloyer;|| nor rude is he. Nor niggard of his cheer: the passer-by •'= According to Pouqueville, the lake of Yanina: but Poiiquevillc is always out. t 1 hs celebrated AH Pacha. Of this extraordinary man there is an incorrect accounl in Pouqueville's Travels. + Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the castle of Suli, withstood thirty thousand Albanir.ns for eighteen years; the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this contest there were several acts performed not un- worthy of the better days of Greece. § The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' journey from Joannina, or Vanina, the capital of the pachalic. In the valley the river Kalamas (once the Acheron) flows, and not far from Zitza forms a fine cat- 1 aract. The situation is, perhaps, the finest in Greece,! tliough the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acar- nania and yEwlia may contest the palm. Delphi, Par- nassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port' Raphti, are very inferior; as also every scene in Ionia, or the Troad: I am almost inclined to add, the approach to Constantinople; but from the different features of the' last, a comparison can hardly be made. | li i'he Greek monks arc so called. Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see. L. Here in the sultriest season let him rest. Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast. From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : Tlie plain is far Ijencalh — oh! let him seize Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease: Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay. And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away. LI. Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, •'■ Chimsera's alps extend from left to right: Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir Nodding above; behold black Acheron I-j- Once consecrated to the sepulchre. Pluto! if this be hell I look upon. Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none. LIT. No city's towers pollute the lovely view; Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, [few, Veil'd by the screen of hills: here men are Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot; But, peering down each precipice, the goat Browseth: and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock. The little shepherd in hi,s white capote:]: Doth lean his boyish form along the rock. Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. LIII. Oh! where, Dodona! is thine aged grove. Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? What valley echoed the response of Jove? What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine? All, all forgotten — and shall man repine That his frail bonds to fleeting life are br jke? Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine: Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak; When nations, tongues, and words must sink beneath the stroke? *rhe Chimariot mountains appear to have been vol- canic. tNow called Kalamas. JAlbanese cloak. ^ 4 ^ ittle in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was queli'd [pell'd, In youth by his own thoughts; still uncom- He would not yield dominion of his mind To spirits against whom his own rebell'd; Proud though in desolation; which could find ^ [kind. A life within itself, to breathe without man- Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; [home; W^here roll'd the ocean, thereon was his Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, ex- tends, He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, W^ere unto him companionsliip; they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land's tongue, which he wouhl oft forsake [lake. For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the ^ r 198 CIIILDE irAR OLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 1816. Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars. Till he had peopled them witli beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth- born jars, And human frailties, were forgotten quite: Could he have kept his spirit to that flight. He had been happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal, envying it the light To \vhich it mounts, as if to break the link That keeps us from yon heaven which -woos us to its brink. But in Man's dwellings he became a thing Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, Droop'd as a wild-born falcon w:ith dipt wing, To whom the boundless air alone were home; Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome. As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat His breast and beak against his wiry dome Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. XVI. Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again. With nought of hope left, but witli less of gloom ; The very knowledge that he lived in vain, That all was over on this side the tomb, Had made Despair a smilingness assume. Which, though 'twere wild — as on the plun- der'd wreck When mariners would madly meet their doom [deck — With draughts intemperate on the sinking Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. XVII. Stop! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, As the ground was before, thus let it be; — How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! And is this all the world has gain'dby thee. Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? XVIII. • And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! How in an hour the power which gave annuls Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! In " pride of place "^- here last the eagle flew, Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, Pierced Ijy the shaft of banded nations through ; Ambition's life and labors all were vain: He wears the shatter'd links of the world's bi^ken chain. XIX. Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit, And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free? Did nations comljat to make One submit; Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? What! shall reviving Thraldom again be The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days? Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze And servile knees to tlirones? No; prove be- fore ye praise ! XX. If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more! In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears For Europe's flowers long rooted up before The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, Have all been borne, and broken by the accord Of roused-up millions : all that most endears Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord.f XXI. There was a sound of revelry by night. And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell;:]: But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! XXII. Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; * "In pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means the highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth, &c. " An eagle towering in his pride of place," &c. t See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogiton. The best English translation is ia Bland's Anthology, by Mr. (now Lord Chief Justice) Denman: '• With myrtle my sword will Iwreathe," &c. % On the night previous to the action, it is said that a bail was given at Brussels. ^ ^ ^ I8I6. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. 199 On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleas- ure meet To chase the glowing Hours \\ith flying feet. But hark! that heavy sound l)reai 206 CHILD E HAROLD'S FILGRIMAGE. 1816. LXXII. I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around nie: and to me, High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture; I can see Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, Anduiththe sky, thepeak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. LXXIII. And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: I look upon the peopled desert past. As on a place of agony and strife. Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion; which I felt to spring. Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling. LXXIV. And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form, Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be Existent happier in the fly and worm, — When elements to elements conform. And dust is as it should be, shall I not Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot ? Of which, even now, I share at times the im- mortal lot ? LXXV. • Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? [part Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion ? should I not contemn AH objects, if compared with these ? and A tide of suffering rather than forego [stem Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow ? LXXVI. But this is not my theme; and I return To that which is immediate, and require Those who And contemplation in the urn. To look on One whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air for awhile — a passing guest. Where he became a being — whose desire W'as to be glorious: 'twas a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all rest. LXXVII. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rous- The apostle of affliction, he who threw [seau, Enchantment over passion, and from woe W^rung overwhelming eloquence, first drew The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O'er erring deeds and thoughts, a heavenly hue [past Of words like sunbeams,\lazzling as they The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feel- ingly and fast. I.XXVIII. His love was passion's essence — as a tree On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame. Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams. But of ideal beauty, which became In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. LXXIX. This breathed itself to life in Julie, i/iis Invested her with all that's wild and sweet: This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss* Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, [meet: From hers who but with friendship his would But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast [lieat; Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest. Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. LXX.X. His life was one long war with self-sought foes. Or friends by him self-banish'd; for his mind Flad grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind ■'■ This refers to the account in his Coa/cssiotts of his passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot (the mistress of St. Lambert), and his long walk every morning, for the sake of the single kiss which was the common salutation of French acquaintance. Rousseau's description of his feel- ings on this occasion may be considered as the mo;t pas- sionate, yet not impure, description and expression of love that ever kindled into words ; which, after all, must be felt, frorh their very force, to be inadequate to the delineation. A painting can give no sufficient idea of the ocean. ^ 4 ^ rts in the composition, that I determined to abandon it altogethei — and have done so. The opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference ; the work is to depend on itself and not on t'le writer : and the author, who has no resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the fate of authors. In the course of the following canto it was my intention, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, 1 soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of external objects, and the consequent reflections; and for the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these were necessarily limited to the elucidation of the text. It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so dis- similar; and requires an attention and impartiality which would induce us — though perhaps no inattentive ob- servers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of t!ie people amongst whom we have recently abode — to dis- trust, or at least defer, our judgment, and more narrowly examine our information. The Ftate of literary as well as political party appears to run, or to have run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between them is next to impossible. It may be enough, then, atleastfor my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful language—-" ]\li pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la piii nobile cd insieme la pi J dolce, tutte tutte le vie di- verse si pojsono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri c di Monti non ha perduto I'.antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima." Italy has great names still: Canova, Monti, Ugo Foicolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, Moreili, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will secure to the present gener- ation an honorable place in most of the departments of art, science, and belles lettres; and in some the very high- est. Europe — the World — has but one Canova. It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La pianta uomo nasce piii robusta in Italia che in qualunque altra terra — e ch^ gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono ne sono una prova." Without subscribing to the latter part of his proposition— a dangerous doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on better grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than their neighbors — that man must be willfully blind, or i'jnorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admissible, their cap.^bilitics, the f ccility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sen; " " " ' ' " ' " ' " " and the despair ( And when we o _ . _ _ ^ _ . . "Roma! Roma! Roma! Roma non e piu come era prima," it was difficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For me, — " Non movero mai corda Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes ascertained that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; it is enough for them to look at home. For what they have done abroad, and especially in the south, " verily they ivill have their reward," and at no very distant period. Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable return to that country whose real welfare can be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to ycu this poem in its completed state; and repeat once more how truly I am ever, your obliged and affectionate friend, BYRON. *His marriage. ^ --e ^ CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand : I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying glory smiles O'er the far times when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! II. She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,* Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was; her daughters liad their dowers [East From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. III. In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more. And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear: Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. States 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! IV. But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mightyshadows, whose dim forms despond Above the Dogeless city's vanish'd sway; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away— The keystones of the arch! though all were For us repeopled were the solitary shore, [o'er, V. The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray And more beloved existence: that which Prohibits to dull life, in this our state [Fate Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, * Sabellicus, describing the appearance of Venice, has made use of the above image, which would not be poet- ical were it not true. — " Quo fit ut qui supcrne urbem contcmpletur, turritam telluris imaginem medio Occano figirratam se putet inspicerc." First exiles, then replaces what we hate; Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, [void. And with a fresher grow'th replenishing the A'l. Such is the refuge of our youth and age. The first from H(jpe, the last from Vacancy; And this worn feeling peoples many a page, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye ; Yet there are tilings whose strong reality Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues More beautiful than our fantastic sky. And tTie strange constellations which ihc Muse O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: VII. I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go, — They came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams; And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so; I could replace them if I would : still teems My mind with many a form which aptly seems Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; Let these too go — for waking Reason deems Such overweening phantasies unsound. And other voices speak, and other sights sur- round. VIII. I've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find A country with — ay, or without mankind; Yet was I born where men are proud to be. Not without cause ; and should I leave behind The inviolate island of the sage and free, And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, IX. Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay My ashes in a soil which is not mine, My spirit shall resume it — if we may Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine My hopes of being remember'd in my line With my land's language: if too fond and far These aspirations in their scope incline, — If my fame should be, as my fortunes arc. Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar X. My name from out the temple where the dead Are lionor'd by the nations — let it be — And light the laurels on a loftier head ! ^ # ^t^* ^' 214 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 1818. And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — " Sparta hath many a vvorthierson than he."* Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted, — they have torn me — and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored. Neglected garment of her widowhood! St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood Stand, but in mockery of his withei'd power. Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — [knelt; An Emperor tramples where an Emperor Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt Prom power's high pinnacle, when they have felt The sunshine for a while, and downward go Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt: Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquer ing foe. XIII. Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass. Their gifted collars glittering in the sun; But is not Doria's menace come to pass? Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and won, [done, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun. Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign foes, From whom submission wrings an iniamous repose. XIV. In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — lier very byword sprung from victory, The " Planter of the Lion," * which through fire [sea; And blood she bore o'er subject earth and Though making many slaves, herself still free, And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite: Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. XV. Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file Of her dead Doges are declined to dust; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptu- ous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust. Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign asjjects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. XVI. When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,-j- Her voice their only ransom from afar; See! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car Of the o'ermastered victor stops, the reins Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, [his strains. And bids him thank the bard for freedom and Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine. Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, Thy choral memory of the Bard divine. Thy Love of Tasso, should have cut the knot W'hich ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot Is shameful to the nations — most of all, Albion, to thee : the Ocean Queen should not Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. XVIII. I loved her from my boyhood — she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart. Rising like water-columns from the sea. Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; * The answer of the mother of Brasidas, the Lacedae- monian general, to the strangers who praised the mem- ory of her son. * That is, the Lion of St. l\Iark, the standard of thcre- pubHc, which is the origin cf the word Pantaloon — Pian- talcone, Pantaloon, Pantaloon. t The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. -4 s- I8I8. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 215 And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shaks- peare's art,* Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, Although I found her thus, we did not part, Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. XIX. I can repeople with the past — and of The present there is still for eye and thought, And meditation chasten'd down, enough; And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; [wrought And of the happiest moments which were Within the web of my existence, some From thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught: [numb. There are some feelings time cannot be- Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. XX. But from their nature will the tannen growf Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, Rooted in barrenness, where nought below Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks [and mocks Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk. The howling tempest, till its height and frame Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came, Antl grew a giant tree; — tlie mind may grow the same. XXI. Existence may be borne, and the deep root Of life and sufferance make its firm abode In bare and desolated bosoms: mute The camel labors with the heaviest load, And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd In vain should such examples be; if they. Things of ignoble or of savage mood. Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. XXII. All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, Even by the sufferer; and, in eacii event, I£nds: — .Some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, [tent. Return to whence they came — with like in- * Venice Preserved; Mysteries 0/ Udoipho; The Ghost-Seer, or Armenian; The Merchant of Venice; Othello. t Tannen is the plural oitanne, a species of fir pecu- li.ar to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can be found. On these spots it grows to a greater height than any other mountain tree. And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent, [time. Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their Andperish with the reed on which they leant; Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb. XXIII. But ever and anon of griefs subdued There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness im- bued ; [bring And slight withal may be the things which Back on the heart the weight which it would Aside forever: it may be a sound — [Ai'ig A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound, [darkly bound : Striking the electric chain wherewith we are And how and why we know not, nor can trace Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, When least we deem of such, calls up to view The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, — The cold — the changed — perchance the dead - anew, [yet how few! The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — too many ! — XXV. But my soul wanders; I demand it back To meditate amongst decay, and stand A ruin amidst ruins; there to track Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a land Which 7c»(M the mightiest in its old command. And is the loveliest, and must ever be The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, Wherein were cast the heroic and the free. The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea. XXVI. The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! And even since, and now, fair Italy! Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility: Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. ^ ■e ^ 2I6 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 1818. XXVII. The moon is up, and yet it is not night — Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colors seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the Day joins the past Eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest!* XXVIII. A single star is at her side, and reigns With hero'erhalf the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhcetian hill, As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaim'd her order: — gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows, XXIX. Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar. Comes down upon the waters; all its hues. From the rich sunset to the rising star. Their magical variety diffuse: And now they change; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang im- With a new color as it gasps away, [bues The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is grey. XXX. There is a tomb in Arqua; — rear'd in air, Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover; here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woes, The pilgrims of his genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: Watering the tree which bears his lady's name [fame. With his melodious tears, he gave himself to XXXI. They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride — *The above description may seem fantastical or exag- gerated to those wlio have never seen an Oriental or an Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient delineation of an August evening {the eighteenth), as con- templated m one of many rides along the banks of the Brenta, near La Mira. An honest pride — and let it be their praise, To offer to the passing stranger's gaze His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain And venerably simple, such as raise A feeling more accordant with his strain, Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. XXXII. And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt Is one of that complexion which seems made For those who their mortality have felt. And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade. Which shows a distant prospect far away Of busy cities, now in vain display'd. For they can lure no further; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, XXXIII. Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers. And shining in the brawling brook, where- by, [hours Clear as its current, glide the sauntering With a calm languor, which, though to the Idlessc it seem, hath its morality. [eye If from society we learn to live, 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone — man with his God must strive: XXXIV. Or, it may be, with demons, who impair'-'^ The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey In melancholy bosoms, such as were Of moody texture from their earliest day, And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay. Deeming themselves predestined to a doom Which is not of the pangs that pass away; Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb. The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. XXXV. Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets. Whose symmetry was not for solitude, There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood Of Este, which for many an age made good Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before. * The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demons as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilderness for the temptation of our Saviour. And our unsullied John Locke preferred the presence of a child to complete solitude. n ^ ^ I8I8. CIIILDE J/.U^OLD\S PI LGR IMAGE. 217 XXXVI. And Tasso is their glory and their shame. Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell! And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell. The miserable despot could not quell [blend The insulted mind he sought to quench, and With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell Where he had plunged it. Glory without end Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend XXXVII. The tears and praises of all time, while thine Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink [line Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted Is shaken into nothing; but the link Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think Ofthy poor malice, namingthee with scorn — Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink From thee! if in another station born. Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou madest to mourn: XXXVIII. Thoul^oKvcCiS. tocat,and be despised, and die. Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty; //e thy sad weapon of defence, and so, [foe.-^= Victororvanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or XLIV. Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him>t [mind. The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal * 1 he two stanzas XLII. and XLIII. are, with the ex- ception of a liae or two, a translation of the famous son- net of Fiiicaja:— " Italia, Italia, O tj cui fee la sorte !" t 'ihc celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero, on the death of his daughter, describes as it then was, and now ii, a path which 1 often traced in Greece, both by sea and land, in different journeys and voyages. •• On my return from Asia, as 1 was sailin;^ from S;;;ina towar^ls Mesara, I began to contemplate the prospect of the coun- tries around me: .^gina was behind, Mcgara before me; Pirceus on the right, Corinth on the left; all which towns,' once famous and flourishing, now lie overturned and buried ia their ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but think ijresently within myself, Alas! how do «c poor mortals fret and vex ourselves if any of our friends hap- ^ s- ^ CHILDE HAROLD' 5 PILGRIMAGE. iSi8. The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim j The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, Came Megara before nie, and behind ^'Egina lay, Piraeus on the right, And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined Along the prow, and saw all these unite In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight; XLV. For time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, And the crushed relics of their vanish'd might. The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, These sepulchres of cities, which excite Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pil- grimage. XLVI. That page is now before mc, and on mine IHs country's ruin added to the mass Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, And I in desolation: all that ivas Of then destruction h; and now, alas! R(;me — Konre imperial, bows her to the storm, [pass In the same dust and blackness, and we The skeleton of her Titanic form,* [warm. Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are XLVII. Vet, Italy! through every other land Thy Wrongs should wring, and shall, from side to side; Mother of Arts! as once of Arms; thy hand Was then our guardian, and is still our guide; Parent of our Religion! whom the wide Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! Europe, repentant of her parricide, [driven. Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. XLVIII. IJut Arno wins us to the fair white walls. Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls. Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Hercorn,and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps, pcii to die or be killed, whose life is yet so short, when the carcasses of so many noble cities lie here exposed be- fore me in one view." — See Middleton's Cicero, vol. ii. p. 371. * It is Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline hill upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the exclamation, " Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, instar gigantci cadaveris corrupt! atque undique exesi." Was modern Luxury of Commerce born. And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. XLIX. There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and The air around with beauty; we inhale [fills The ambrosial aspect, which, Ijeheld, instils Part of its immortality; the veil Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold What Mind can make, when Nature's self And to the fond idolaters of old [would fail; Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould: L. We gaze and turn away, and know not where, [heart Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the Reels with its fulness; there — forever there — Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, We stand as captives, and would not depart. Away! — there need no words, nor terms pre- The paltryjargon of the marble mart, [cisc. Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes; Blood, — pulse, — antl breast, confirm the Dar- dan Shepherd's prize. LI. Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise? Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or. In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of And gazing in thy face as toward a star, [War ? Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn. Feeding on thy sweet cheek!* while thy lips With lava kisses melting while they burn, [are Shovver'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn ! LII. Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love. Their full divinity inadequate That feeling to express, or to improve. The gods become as mortals, and man's fate Has moments like their brightest! but the Of earth recoils upon us; — let it go! [weight W'e can recall such visions, and create From what has been, or might be, things which grow, [low. Into thy statue's form, and look like gods be- l.iil. I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, The artist and his ape, to teach and tell How well his connoisseurship understands The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell: ' Atque oculos pascat uterquesuos." — Ovid. AmorX\!oX\. ^ ^ a- occaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd His dust, — and lies it not her Great among, With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed [tongue? O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren That music in itself, whose sounds are song. The poetry of speech? No; — even his tomb Uptorn, must bear the hyeena bigots' w^rong, No more amidst the meaner dead find room. Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! LIX. And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust: Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Ccesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, Did but of Rome's best son remind her more : Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore. Fortress of falling empire! honor'd sleeps The immortal exile; — Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics pioudly claims and keeps. While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead, and weeps. LX. What is her pyramid cf precious stones? Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead. Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, Are gently prest with far more reverent tread Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. LXI. There be more things to greet the heart and eyes In Arncj's dome of Art's most princely shrine. Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies; [mine; There be more marvels yet — but not for For I have been accustom'd to entwine My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, Than Art in galleries; though a work divine Culls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields Is of another temper, and I roam By Thrasimene's lake, in the defile^ Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; P"or there the Carthaginian's warlilce wiles Come back before me, as his skill begijiles The host between the mountains and the shore. Where Courage falls in her despairing files. ^ ^ ^ ■(b CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 1818. And torrents, swoU'n to rivers with their gore, [scatter'd o'er. Reek through the siiUry plain, with legions LXIII. Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds; And such the storm of battle on this day, And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds To all save carnage, that, Ijeneath the fray, An earthquake reel'd unheededly away! None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet. And yawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! The Earth to them was as a rolling bark Which bore them to Eternity; they saw The Ocean round, but had no time to mark The motions of their vessel: Nature's law. In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds [draw Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and with- From their down-toppling nests; and bel- lowing herds [dread hath no words. Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's LXV. Far other scene is Thrasimene now; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en — A little rill of scanty stream and bed — A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead Made the earth >vet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red. LXVI. But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave Of the most living crystal that was e'er The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear [steer Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white Grazes; the purest god of gentle v.-aters! And most serene of aspect, and most clear: Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — [daughters! A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest LWII. And on thy happy shore a Temple still. Of small and delicate proportion, keeps. Upon a mild declivity of hill. Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps The finny darter with the glittering scales. Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails [bubbling tales. Down where the shallower wave still tells its I.XVIII. Pass not unblest the Genius of the place! If through the air a zephyr more serene Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace Along this margin a more eloquent green. If on the heart the freshness of the scene Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust Of weary life a moment lave it clean With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. LXIX. The roar of waters! — from t!ie headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; The fall of waters! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, And boil in endless torture; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of ;et That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set. And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again [round, Returns in an unceasing shower, which With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain. Is an eternal April to ihe ground, Making it all one emerald; how profound The gulf! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent [fearful \ent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a To the broad column which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea Torn from the womb of mountains by the Of a new world, than only thus to be ' [throes Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, With many windings through the vale; — Look l)ack! Lo! where it comes like an eternity. ^ •e ^ ^ I8I8. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. As if to sweep down all things in its track, Charming the eye with dread,* — a matchless cataract, LXXII. Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn. An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, f Like Hope upon a deathljed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn l!y the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams un- shorn : Resembling, mid the torture of the scene. Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. l.XXIII. Once more upon the woody Apennine, The infant Alps, which — had I not before Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar The thundering lauwine,.]: — might be wor- shipp'd more; But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear Her never-trodden snow, ami seen the hoar Glaciers of bleak Mont lilanc both far and near, [fear, And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of LXXIV. The Acroceraunian mountains of old name; And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame. For still they soar'd unutterably high: * 1 saw the Cascata del RIarmore of Tcmi twice, at different periods — once from the summit of the precipice, and again from the valley below. The lower view b far to be preferred, if the traveller has time for one only ; but in any point of view, either from above or below, it is worth all the cascades and torrents of Switzerland put together : the Staubach, Reichenbach, Pisse Vache, fall of x\rpenaz, &c., are rills in comparative appearance. Uf the full of .Schaffhausen I cannot speak, not yet having seen it. t Of the time, place and qualities of this kind of iris, the reader will see a short account in a note to jllan- frid. The fall looks so much like " the hell of waters," that Addison thought the descent alluded to by the gulf in which Alecto plunged into the infernal regions. It is smgular enough, that two of the finest cascades in Eu- rope should be artificial — this of the Velino, and the one at Tivoli. The traveller is strongly recommended to trace the Velino, at least as high as the little lake called Fie' di Lup. The Reatine territory was the Italian Tempe (Cicer. Epist. ad Attic, xv. lib. iv.), and the an- cient naturalists (Plin. Hist. Nat. lib. ii. cap. Ixii.), amongst other bsautiful varieties, remarked the daily rainbows of the lake Velinus. A scholar of great name has devoted a treatise to this district alone. See Aid. Manut. " De Reatina Urbe Agroque," ap. Sallengre, 'Ihesaur. torn. i. p. 773. % In the greater part of Switzerland, the avalanches are known by the name of lauwiiie. I I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye; Athos, Olympus, ^tna. Atlas, made These hills seem things of lessor dignity, All, save the lone Soracte's height display'd, Not noti) in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid LXXV. For our remembrance, and from out the plain Heaves like a long-swept wave al)(>ut to break. And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain May he who will his recollections rake, And quote in classic raptures, and awake The hills with Latin echoes; I abhorr'd Too much to conquer for the ])oet's sake,. The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word* In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record LXXVI. Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught My mind to meditate what then it learn'd. Yet such the tix'd inveteracy wrought By the impatience of my early thought. That, with the freshness wearing out before My mind could relish what it might have sought, * These stanzas may probably remind the reader cf Ensign Northcrton's remarks, " D — n Homo,'' S:c. ; but the reasons for our dislike Ere not exactly the same. I wish to express, thr.t we become tired of the task before we can comprehend the beauty ; that we Ijarn by rote before v/c can get by heart ; that the freshness is worn away, and the iuture pleasure and advantage deadened and destroyed, by the didactic anticipation, at an age when wccan neither feel nor understand the power of compositions which it requires an acquaintance with life, as well as Latin and Greek, to relish, or to reason upon. For the same reason, we can never be aware of the ful- ness of some of the finest passages of Shakspeare ("To be, or not to be," for instance), from the habit of having them hammered into us at eight years old, as an exer- cise, not of mind, but of memory : so that when we are old enough to enjoy them, the taste is gone, and the ap- petite palled. In some parts of the continent, young persons are taught from more common authors, and do not read the best classics till their maturity. 1 certainly do not speak on this point fiom any pique or aversion towards the place of my education. I was not a slow, though an idle boy ; and 1 believe no one could, or can be, more attached to Harrow than I have always been, and with reason : — a part of the time passed there was the happiest of my life ; and my preceptor, the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury, was the best and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but too well, though too late, when I have erred, — and whose counsels 1 have but followed when I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect record of my feeling", to- wards him should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of him but with gratitude and veneration — of one who would more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, by more closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any honor upon his in- structor. cx 4 a- ^ CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. iSi8. If free to choose, I cannot now restore Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor. LXXVII. Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse To understand, not feel thy lyric flow. To comprehend, but never love thy verse. Although no deeper Moralist rehearse Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art. Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce. Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, [part. Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we LXXVIII. O 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 [Ye! O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Whose agonies are evils of a day — A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. LXXIX. The Niobe of nations! there she stands. Childless and crownless in lier voiceless woe; An empty urn within her wither'd hands, Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago; The Scipio's tomb contains no ashes now; The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow. Old Tiljer! through a marbled wilderness? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. LXXX. The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride : She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride. Where the car climb'd the Capitol; far and . wide [site: — Temple and tower went down, nor left a Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say," Here was, or is," where all is doubly night? LXXXI. The double night of ages, and of her. Night's daughter. Ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap All round us; we but feel our way to err: The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map, And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o'er recollections: now we clap Our hands, and cry " Eureka!" it is clear — When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. LXXXII. Alas, the lofty city! and alas. The trebly hundred triumphs !"■•• and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! Alas for Tully's voice, aiid Virgil's lay, [be And Livy's pictured page! But these shall Her resurrection; all beside — decay. Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free! LXXXIII, O thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel. Triumphant Sylla ! Thou, w'io didst subdue Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel [due The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy Annihilated senates — Roman, too, [frown With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — LXXXI V. The dictatorial wreath, — couldsl *'iou divine To what would one day dwindle tiiat which made Thee more than mortal? and thai -^o supine By aught than Romans Rome shculd thus be laid? She who was named Eternal, anc' arrav'd Her warriors but to conquer — she i^ho vril'd Earth with her haughty shadow, ,ind dis- play'd, Until the o'er-canopied horizon fr>l'd. Her rushing wings — Oh! she who was mighty hail'd! I.XXXV. Sylla was first of victors; but our o'nx\, The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell! — hf Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne Down to a block — immortal rebel ! Sto What crimes it cost to be a moment free And famous through all ages! But benep^h A.1- *Orosius gives 320 for the number of triumphs. He 's followed by Panvinius, and Panvinius by Mr. dbbo-i and the modern writers. 4- 4 ^ CHILD E IIAROLD-S PILGRIMAGE. ■>22 Mis fate the moral lurks of destiny; Mis day of double victory and death Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. •'•• LXXXVI. Tlie third of the same moon whose former course [day Had all but crown'd him, on the self-same Deposed him gently from his throne of force, And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. [sway, And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and And all we deem delightful, and consume Our souls to compass through each arduous way, Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom! LXXXVII. And thou, dread statue! 'Vet existent in The austerest form of naked majesty, Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, At thy bathed base the bloody Ca:sar lie, Folding his robe in dying dignity. An offering to thine altar from the queen Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die. And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been Victors of countless kings, or pupjjets of a scene? Lxxxvm. •And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art, Thoustandest : — Mother of the mighty heart. Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart. And thy limbs black'd with lightning — dost thou yet [charge forget? Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond LXXXIX. Thou dost; — but all thy foster-babes are dead — The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled In imitation of the things they fear'd. And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'd, At apith distance; but as yet none have, Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, Save one vain man, who is not in the grave. But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave, XC. The fool of false dominion — and a kind Of bastard Crcsar, following him of old With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold. And an immortal instinct which redeem'd The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, Alcides with a distaff now he seem'd At Cleopatra's feet, — and now Jiimself he beam'd, xci. And came, — and saw, — and conquer'd ! But the man [Hec, Who would have tamed his eagles down to Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, Which he, in sooth, long led to victory. With a deaf heart, which never seem'd to be A listener to itself, was strangely framed; With but one weakest weakness — vanity: Coquettish in ambition, — still he aim'd — At what? Can he avouch, — or answer what he claim'd? XCII. And would be all or nothing — nor could wait For the sure grave to level him; few years Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate. On whom we tread: For ^//is the contiueror rears The arch of triumph! and for this the tears And blood of earth flow on as they liave An universal deluge, which appears [tlow'd. Without an ark for wretched man's abode. And ebbs but toreflow! — Renew thy rainbow, God! XCIII. What from this barren being do we reap? Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,* Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, [scale; And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest Opinion an omnipotence — wliose veil Mantles the earth with darkness, until right ' Omiies pcne vctcrcs ; qui niliil cognosci, r.il.il percepi, nihil sciri pi;sse dixerunt : angustos sensiis ; imbecillos animns, brcvia curricula vita; ; in profuncio vcritatem demcrsam ; opinionibus et institutis omnia tencri ; nihil veritati rclinqui : dcinccps omnia tcnebris circumfusa esse dixerunt." — Academ. 1. 13. TLie which have elapsed s:nce removed any of the inipcr- - i- , 1 , , • ■' ■ - -1 — - .lity : and tlie complaints of the ancient saiiie^day.jvhich he had ever esteemed the most fyrtu- | philosophers may, without injustice or affactation, ba I transcribed in a poem written yesterday. •K)n the 3rd of September Cromwell gained the victory eighteen hundred years wJ of Dunbar;^^a year afterwards he obtained •' his crown- 1 Cicero wrote this have not rci mg mercy " of Worcester; and a few years after, on the ' fections of humanity : and tlie natc for liim, died. ^ ~(P s- ^ 224 CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 1818, And wrong arc accidents, and men grow pale Lesttheir own judgments should become too bright, [have too much light. And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth And thus they plod in sluggish misery, Rotting fr(nn sire to son, and age to age, I'roud of their trampled nature, and so die, l?eciueathing their hereditary rage To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and rather than l)e free, Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage Within the same arena where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. xcv. I speak not of men's creeds, they rest be- tween Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, Averr'd, and known, — and daily, hourly seen — The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, And the intent of tyranny avow'd, The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud, [throne; And shook them from their slumbers on the Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. XCVI. Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, And Freedom find no champion and no child Sucli as Columbia saw arise when siie Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild. Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursifig nature smiled On infant Washington? lias Earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore? ■ XCVII. But France got drunk with blood to vomit And fatal have her Saturnalia been [crime. To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime; Because the deadly days which we have seen, And vile Ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall. And the base pageant last upon the scene. Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his second fall. XCVIII. Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but fly- ing, [wind; Streams like the thunder-storm airainst the Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and dying, The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; Thy tree hath lost its Islossoms, and the rind, Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth. But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. XCIX. There is a stern round tower of other days,"* Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone. Such as an army's baffled strength delays, Standing with half its battlements alone. And with two thousand years of ivy grown, The garland of eternity, where wave The green leaves overall by time o'erthrown ; What was this tower of strength? within its cave [man's grave. What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid? — A wo- C. But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed? What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? What daughter of her beauties was the heir? Flow lived — how loved — howdiedshe? Was she not So honor'd — and conspicuously there. Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? Was she as those who' love their lords, or they [been W^ho love the lords of others? such have Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien. Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen. Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war. Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs? — for such the affections are. CII, Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd [tomb With woes far heavier than the ponderous That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eyes, prophetic of the doom * Al'.uding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called Capo di Cove. ^' -^ s- ■^ 1818. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 225 Heaven gives its favorites — early clealli ;* yet A sunset charm around her, and illume [shed With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead. Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. cm. Perchance she died in age — surviving all, Charms, kindred, children — with the silver grey On her long tresses, which might yet recall, It may be, still a something of the day [ray When they were braided, and their proud ar- And lovely form were envied, praised and eyed [stray? By Rome — But whither would Conjecture Thus much alone we know — Metella died, The wealthiest Roman's wife: Behold his love or pride! CIV. I know not why — but standing thus by thee It seems as if I had thine inmate known, Thou tomb! and other days come back on With recollected music, though the tone [me Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan Of dying thunder on the distant wind; Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Till I had bodied forth the heated mind Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind; cv. And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks. Built me a little bark of hope, once. more To liattle with the ocean and the shocks Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar Which rushes on the solitary shore Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: But could I gather from the wave-worn store [steer? Enough for my rude boat, where should I There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. cvr. Then let the winds howl on! their harmony Shall henceforth jje 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 the bird of darkness' native site. Answer each other on the Palatine, [bright, W ith tlieir large eyes, all glistening grey and * "Of oi fl.ol cJiAoOcrii', a.T:o6vr\ a,\\' aio-xpiis Oafelv. Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poetcs Gnomici, p. 231, edit. 1784. And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs? — let me not num- ber mine. CVII. Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heapM On what were chambers, arch crush'd, col- umn strown , [steep'd In fragments, choked-up vaults and frescoes In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, [halls? Deeming it midnight: — Temples, baths, or Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reap'd [walls — P'rom her research hath been, that tliese are Behold the Imperial Mount! 'lis thus the mighty falls. CVIII. There is the moral of all human tales ;■■=• 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past. First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails. Wealth, vice, corruption — barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast. Hath but (9«t'page, — 'tis better written here. Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass'it All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away with words! draw near, CIX. Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep — for here There is such matter for all feeling: — Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. Ages and realms are crowded in this span; This mountain, whose obliterated plan The pyramid of empires pinnacled, Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van * The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and his con- temporary Romans, has the following eloquent passage: — " From their railleries of this kind, on the barbarity and misery of our island, one cannot help reflecting 0.1 the surprising fate and revolutions of kingdoms ; hov/ Rome, once the mistress of the world, the scat of arts, empire, and glory, now lies sunk in sloth, ignorance, and poverty, enslaved to the most cruel as well as to the most contemptible of tyrants, superstition and religious imposture ; while this remote country, anciently the jest and contempt of the polite Romans, is become the happy seat of liberty, plenty, and letters ; flourishing in all the arts and refinements of civil life ; yet running, perhaps, the same cour^^e which Rome itself had run be- fore it, from virtuous industry to wealth ; from wealth to luxury ; from luxury to an impatience of discipline, and corruption of morals : till by a total degeneracy and loss of virtue, being grown ripe for destruction, it fall a prey at last to some hardy oppressor, and, with the loss of liberty, losing everything that is valuable, sinks grad- ually again into its original barbarism." (See " History of the Life of M. TuUius Cicero," sect. vi. vol. ii. p. 102.) 15 ^ 4 ^ [your ire. And unavenged?— Arise! ye Goths, and glut C.XLII. But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam; [ways. And here, where buzzing nations choked the And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain- stream Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. My voice sounds much— and fall the stars' faint rays [bow'd— On the arena void — seats crush'd, walls And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. CXLIII. A ruin — yet what ruin! from its mass Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rcar'd; Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd? Alas! developed, opens the decay. When the colossal fabric's form is near'd: It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away. ^ ^ ^ 230 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CXLIV. But when the rising moon begins to climb Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, [air, And the low night-breeze waves along the The garland-forest, which the grey walls wear, LilvC laurels on the bald first Caesar's head;* When the light shines serene, but doth not glare, Then in this magic circle raise the dead: Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread. CXLV. " While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ;y When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls — the World." From our own land Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall In Saxon times, which we are wont to call Ancient; and these three mortal things are still On their foundations, and unalter'd all; Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye will. CXLVI. Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, From Jove to Jesus| — spared and blest by time; Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods Arcli, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods [dome! His way through thorns to ashes — glorious Shalt thou not last? — Time's scythe and tyrants' rods * Suetonius informs us that JuRus CoEsar was particu- larly gratified by that decree of the senate which enabled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror of the world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor should we without the help of the historian. t I'hisis quoted in the "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,' as a proof that the Coliseum was entire, when seen by the Anglo-Saxon pilgrims at the end of the seventh, or the beginning of the eighth, century. X " i'hough plundered of all its brass, except the rinj which was necessary to preserve the aperture above though exposed to repeated fires ; though sometimes flooded by the river, and always open to the rain, no monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as this rotundo. It passed with little alteration from the Pagan into the present worship ; and so convenient were its niches for the Christian altar, that Michael Angelo, ever studious of ancient beauty, introduced their design as a model in the Catholic Church." — Forsyth's Italy, p. 137, ^d edit. Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! CXLVII. Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads A holiness appealing to all hearts — To art a model; and to him who treads Rome for the sake of ages. Glory sheds Her light through thy sole aperture; to those Who worship, here are altars for their beads; And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honor'd forms, whose busts around them close.* cxLvni. There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear lightf What do I gaze on? Nothing: Lookagain! Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight- Two insulated phantoms of the brain: It is not so; I see them full and plain — An old man, and a female young and fair. Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar: — but what doth she there, [and bare? With her unmantled neck, and bosom white C.XLl.X. Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, ' [took Where 07i the heart and from the heart wc Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife. Blest into mother, in the innocent look. Or even the piping ciy of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — What may the fruit be yet? — I know not — Cain was Eve's. CL. But here youth offers to old age the food, The milk of his own gift: — it is her sire To whom she renders Ijack the debt of blood Born with her birth. No; he shall not expire While in those warm and lovely veins the fire Of health and holy feeling can provide * The Pantheon had been made a receptacle for the busts of modern great, or, at least, distinguished men. The flood of light which once fell through the large orb above on the whole circle of divinities, now shines on .t numerous assemblage of mortals, some one or two of whom have been almost deified by the veneration of their countrymen. t This and the three next stanzas allude to the story of the Roman daughter, which is recalled to the travel- ler by the site, or pretended site, of that adventure, UQ\v shown at the church of St. Nicholas in Career e. s- ^ 1818. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Than Egypt's river: — from that gentle side prink, drink and live, old man! Heaven's realm holds no such tide. CLI. The starry fable of the milky way Has not thy story's purity; it is A constellation t)f a sweeter ray, And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss "Where sparkle distant worlds: Oh, holiest nurse! [miss No drop of that clear stream its way shall To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. CLII. Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, [high,* Colossal copyist of deformity, Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils To build for giants, and for his vain earth, His shrunken ashes, raise this dome: How smiles The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth! CLIII. Butlo! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome,-]- To which Diana's marvel was a- cell — Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb! I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell The hyoena and the jackal in their shade; I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd [pray'd; Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem CLIV. But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. Since Zion's desolation, when that He Forsook His former city, what could be Of earthly structures, in His honor piled, * The Castle of St. Angelo. t This and the six nc.\t stanzas have .a reference to the church of St. Peter's. For a measurement of the com- parative length of this basilica and tire other great churches of Europe, sec tlic pavement of St. Peter's, and the " Cla;isical Tour through Italy,'" vol. ii. p. 125 et seq., chap. iv. Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, [aisled, Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. CLV. Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; And why? it is not lessen'd; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot. Has grown colossal, and can only find A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, See thy God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by His brow. CLVI. Thou movest — but increasing with the ad- vance, [doth rise. Like climbing some great Alp, which still Deceived by its gigantic elegance; [nize — Vastness which grows — but grows to harmo- All musical in its immensities; Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame [which vies The lamps of gold — and haughty dome In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame [must claim. Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds CLVII. Thou seest not all : but piecemeal thou must break, To separate contemplation, the great whole; And as the ocean many bays will make. That asks the eye — so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by Its eloquent proportions, and unroll [heart In mighty graduations, jjart by part, [dart. The glory which at once upon thee did not CLVIII. Not by its fault — but thine: Our outward Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is [sense That what we have of feeling most intense Outstrips our faint expression; even so this Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great Defies at first our Nature's littleness, • Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. Then pause and be enlighten'd ; there is more In such a survey than the sating gaze Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore The worship of the place, or the mere praise Of art and its great masters, who could raise ^ --^ s- ^ 232 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 1818. What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan; The fountain of sublimity displays [man Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of Its golden sands, and learn what great con- ceptions can. CLX. Or, turning to the Vatican, go see LaocoOn's torture dignifying pain — A father's love and mortal's agony [Vain With an immortal's patience blending: — The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, [chain The old man's clench; the long envenom'd Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. CLXI. Or view the Lord of the unerring bow. The God of life, and poesy, and light — The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight; The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye And nostril beautiful disdain, and might And majesty, flash their full lightnings by. Developing in that one glance tlie Deity. CLXII. But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast I-ong'd for a deathless lover from above. And madden'd in that vision — are exprest All that ideal beauty ever bless'd The mind with in its most imearthly mood, When each conception was a heavenly A ray of immortality — and stood, [guest — Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god! CI.XIII. And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given Which this poetic marble hath array'd With an eternal glory — which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought; And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought. CLXIV. But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song. The being who upheld it through the past? Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. He is no more — these breathings are his last; His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, And he himself as nothing: — if he was Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'rt With forms which live and suffer — let that pass — [mass. His shadow fades away into Destruction's ci.xv. Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and That we inherit in its mortal shroud, [all And spreads the dim and universal pall Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cioud Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd. Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays A melancholy halo scarce allow'd To hover on the verge of darkness: rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, CLXVI. And send us prying into the abyss," To gather what we shall be when the frame Shall be resolved to something less than this Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame, And wipe the dust from off the idle name We never more shall hear, — but never more, Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same: It is enough, in sooth, that once we bore These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat was gore. CLXVII. Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long low distant murmur of dread sound. Such as arises when a nation bleeds With some deep and immedicable wound; Through storm and darkness yawns 'he rending ground. The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief [crown'd, .Seems royal still, though with her head dis- And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief, CLXVIII. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head? In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled. The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy. Death hush'd that pang for ever; with thee fled 4> ^- ■^ CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 233 The present happiness and promised joy Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. CLXIX. Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, O thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, [hoard, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to Her many griefs for OxF. ; for she had pour'd Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord. And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! The husband of a year! the father of the dead ! CLXX. Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid. The love of millions! How we did entrust Futurity to her! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd Our children should obey her child, and bless'd [seem'd Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise Like star to shepherds' eyes; 'twas but a me- teor beam'd. CLXXI. Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: The tickle reek of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'er.strung Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate* [hath flung Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and Against their blind omnipotence a weight W'ithin tlie opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, — CLXXII. These might have been her destiny; but no. Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair. Good without effort, great without a foe; But now a bride and mother — and now there! How many ties did that stern moment tear! From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, W'hosc shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest [could love thee best. The land which loved thee so, that none * Mary died on the scaffold : Elizabeth of a broken heart ; Charles V. a hermit ; Louis XIV. a bankrupt in means and glory ; Cromwell of anxiety ; and Napoleon, *; the greatest is behind," lives a prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but superfluous list n-.i^ht be added of names equally i.lustrious and unhappy. CLXXIII. Lo, Nemi! navell'd in the woody hills* So far, that the uprooting wind which tears The oak from his foundation, and wiiicii spills The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares The oval mirror of thy glassy lake; And, calm as cherish'dhate, its surface wears A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. CLXXIV. And near Albano's scarce divided waves Shine from a sister valley; — and afar The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, "Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending star Rose o'er an empire ; — but beneath thy right Tidly reposed from Rome; — and where yon bar Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight. The Saijinc farm was till'd, the weary bard's delight. CLXXV. But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won. And he and I must part, — so let it be, — His'task and mine alike are nearly done; Yet once more let us look upon the sea : The midland ocean breaks on him and me. And from the Alban Mount we now behold Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when Beheld it last by Calpc's rock unf dd [we Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roU'd Cl.XXVI. Upon the blue Symplegadcs; long years — Long, though not very many — since have done [some tears Their work on both; some sulfcring and Have left us nearly where we had begun: Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, Wc have had our reward — and it is here; That wc can yet feel gladden'd by the sun. And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As if there were no man to trouble w hat is clear. CLXX VI I. Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling p'ace. With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her! * The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of Egeria, and from the shades which embosomed the tem- ple of Diana, h;is preserved to this day its distinctive ap- pellation of The Grove. Nemi i; but an evening's ride from the comfortable inn of Albano. ^ ^ ^ ^ 234 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. i8i3. Ye Elements!— in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted — can ye not Accord me such a being ? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. CLX.wm. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a raptm^e 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 feci \Yliat I can ne'er express, yctcannot all conceal. CI.XXIX. Roll on, thou deepand 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 'I'lie 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, lie sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, [known. ^^'.thout a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'dand un- CLXXX. Mis steps are not ujion thy paths — thy hclds 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. CLXXXI. The armameiits which thunderstrikc the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake. And monarchs trirmble in then- capitals. The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar [falgar. Alike the Armada's jDride, or spoils of I'ra- CLXXXII. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — • [they? Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are Thy waters wasted them while they were free. And many a tyrant since: their shores obey The stranger, slave or savage; their decay lias dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou. Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — [brow — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. CLXxxm. 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 — Tb3 image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone [less, alcne. Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathom- CI..\XXIV. 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 \Verc a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it W'ere a child of thee. And trusted to thy billows far and near, .•\nd laid my hand upon thy name — as I do here. CLX.XXV. My task is done — my song hath ceased — my lias died into an echo; it is fit [theme I'he spell should break of this protracted dream. The torch sliall be extinguish'd which hath lit My midnight lamp, and what is writ, is writ — Would it were wtjrthicr! but I am not nov.' That which I have been — and my visions fiit Less palpably before mc — and the glov/ Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. CLXXXVI. Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been — [well! A sound which makes us linger; — yet, farc- Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell; Farewell! with///w alone may rest the pain. If such there were — \i\\h.yoti the moral of his strain. --e a- ^ ^ TALES. THE GIAOUR:* A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 1813. ' One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws Its bl-ak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — To which Life nothing darker nor brirrhtcr can bring. For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no sting." — Moore. TO SAMUEL ROGERS, Esq., AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OK ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, RESPECT I'OR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED, BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, London, jMay, 18 13. BYRON. ADVERTISEMENT. TlIEl ; talc which these disjointed fragments present is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; cither because the ladiesare more circumspect than in the " olden time," or because the Chris- tims have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenred.by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian mvasion. Ihe des~rtion of the IMainotcs, on being refus-d the plunder of IMisitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the a-n- nals of the faithful. No breath of air to break the wave That rolls below the Athenian's grave. That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff, -j- First greets the homeward-veering skiff, High o'er the land he saved in vain — \Yhcn shall such hero live again? Fair clime! where every season smiles liL-nignant o'er those blessed isles, \Vliich, seen from far Colonna's height. Make glad the heart that hails the sight, An(i lend to loneliness delicht. * Giaour — an Infidel. The g is sounded scft, as before e in English. t A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by s6mc supposed the sepulchre of Themistoclos. There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek Reflects the tints of many a peak Caught by the laughing tides that lave These Edens of the Eastern wave; And if at times a transient breeze Break the blue crystal of the seas. Or sweep one blossom from the trees, How welcome is each gentle air That wakes and wafts the odors there? For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale, Sultana of the Nightingale,'-== The maid for whom his melody. His thousand songs are' heard on high. * The attachment of the ni'Thtingale tothe rose is a well-known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the " BuU bul of a thousand tales" is one of his appellations. ^ €7 236 THE GIAOUR. 1813. Blooms blushing to her lover's tale: His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, Far from the winters of the West, By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by nature given In softest incense back to heaven; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. And many a summer flower is there, And many a shade that love might share, And many a grotto meant for rest. That holds the pirate for a guest; Whose bark in sheltering cove below Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, ■ Till the gay mariner's guitar* Is heard, and seen the'evening star; Then stealing with the muffled oar. Far shaded by the rocky shore, Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, And turn to groans his roundelay. Strange — that where Nature loved to trace, As if for Gods, a dwelling-place. And every grace and charm hath mi.v'd Within the paradise she fix'd. There man, enamor'd of distress. Should mar it into wilderness, And trample, brute-like, o'er each (lower That tasks not one laborious hour; Nor claims the culture of his hand To bloom along the fairy land. But springs "as to preclude his care, And sweetly woos him — but to spare! Strange — that where all is peace beside, There passion riots in her pride. And lust and rapine wildly reign, To darken o'er the fair domain. It is as though the fiends prevail'd Against the seraphs they assail'd, And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell The freed inheritors of hell; So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, So curst the tyrants that destroy! He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled. The first dark day of nothingness. The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) And mark'd the mild angelic air — The rapture of repose that's there — The fix'd yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, * The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor by nir;ht: with a steady tair wind, and during a calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing. 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!f Such is the aspect of this shore; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death. That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay. The farewell beam of Feeling pass'd away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth — [ish'd earth! Which gleams, but warms no more its cher- Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was Freedom'shome, or Glory's grave! Shrine of the mighty! can it be That this is all remains of thee? Approach, thou craven crouching slave: Say, is not this ThermopylK? These waters blue that round you lave, O servile offspring of the free — Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? The gulf, the rock of Salaniis! These scenes, their story not unknown. Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear. That Tyranny shall quake to hear. * Ay, but to die, to go we know not where. To lie in cold obstruction. Measure/or Measure, Act iii. Sc. 1. t I trust that few of my readers have ever had an op- portunity of vfitncssing what is here attempted in de- scription: but those who have will probably retain a painful remembrance of that singular beauty whicli per- vades, wilh few exceptions, the features of the dead, a few hours, and but a few hours, after " the spirit is not there." It is to be remarked in cases of violent death by gunshot wounds, the expression is always that of languor, •.vhatever the natural energy of the sufferer's character; but in death from a stab, the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias, to the last. '^ ■e ^ ■^ 1813. T//£ GIAOUR. 237 And leave his sons a hope, a fame, They too will rather die than shame: For Freedom's battle once begun, Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, thy living page! Attest it many a deathless age! While kings, in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes, though tlie general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command. The mountains of their native land! Til ere points thy Muse to stranger's eye The graves of those that cannot die! 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, Each step from splendor to disgrace; Enough — no foreign foe could quell Thy soul, till from itself it fell; Yes! Self-abasement paved the way To villain-bonds and despot sway. What can he tell who treads thy shore ? No legend of thine olden time. No theme on which the muse might soar, High as thine own in days of yore, When man was worthy of thy clime. The hearts within thy valleys bred, The fiery souls that might have led Thy sons to deeds sublime, Now crawl from cradle to the grave, Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave,* And callous, save to crime; Stain'd with each evil that pollutes Mankind, where least above the brutes; Without even savage virtue blest, Without one free or valiant breast. Still to the neighboring ports they waft Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft; In this the subtle Greek is found. For this, and this alone, renown'd. In vain might Liberty invoke The spirit to its bondage broke, Or raise the neck that courts the yoke: No more her sorrows I bewail. Yet this will be a mournful tale. Ami they who listen may believe, Who heard it first had cause to grieve. Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, The shadows of the rocks advancing. Start on the fisher's eye like boat » Athens is the property of the KLslar Aga (the slave of the seraglio and guardian of the women) who appoints the Waywode. A pander and eunuch — these arc not polite, yet true appellations — now governs the ^oz'crnor of Athens. Of island-pirate or Mainote; And fearful for his light caique, He shuns the near but doubtful creek: Though worn and weary with his toil. And cumber'd with his scaly spoil. Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar. Till Porte Leone's safer shore Receives him by the lovely light That best becomes an Eastern night. Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? Beneath the clattering iron's sound The cavern'd echoes wake around In lash for lash and bound for bound; The foam that streaks the courser's side. Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide: Though weary waves are sunk to rest. There's none within his rider's breast; And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! I know thee not, I loathe thy race. But in thy lineaments I trace What time shall strengthen, not efface; Though young and pale, that sallow front Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; Though bent on earth thine evil eye. As meteor-like thou glidest by, Right well I view and deem tljee one Whom Olhman's sons should slay or shun. On — on he hasten'd, and he drew My gaze of wonder as he fljw: Though like a demon (jf the night lie pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight; His aspect and his air impress'il A troubled memory on my breast. And long upon my startled ear. Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. He spurs his steed; he nears the steep. That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep; He winds around; he hurries by; The rock relieves him from mine eye; For well I ween unwelcome he Whose glance is fix'd on those that (lee; And not a star but shines too bright On him who takes such timeless iiight. He wound along; but ere he pass'd One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, A moment check'd his wheeling steed, A moment breathed him from his speed, A moment on his stirrup stood — Why looks he o'er the olive wood ? The crescent glimmers on the hill. The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still; Though too remote for sound to wake ^ ^