THE WORKS OF LORD BYRON ; • / PRINTED BY JULES DTDOT, SENIOR, fll'E DU POXT-DE-T.ODI, N" 6. Jlgglgl INSTE AD ARUEY | |fe^^^^g^g| f MISS0LUNGH1 ^j^.-' JU. -■AvUS^ .^Aa ■ __ THE WORKS OF LORD BYRON We INCLUDING COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. PARIS PUBLISHED BY A. AND W. GALIGNANI, N° 18, RUE VIVIENNE. 1851. ?TH*so ,Eji p 17 H^ / ///A S"J NOTICE OF THE PUBLISHERS. The present is the most complete, we might even say the only complete Edition M Lord Byron's Works hitherto printed. It contains, besides all the mis- laneous poetry and fragments given by Mr Moore in his Life of the Noble I rd, the various poems alluded to in that work as forming an unpublished ume ; also suppressed stanzas of Ghilde Harold and Don Juan, and a number of fugitive pieces with which friends of Lord Bvron have favoured the publishers. I <&onUnt$. LIFE OF LORD BYRON HOURS OF IDLENESS. On leaving Newstead Abbey .... Epitaph on a Friend . . . A Fragment The Tear An Occasional Prologue On the Death of Mr Fox Stanzas to a Lady • • To M *" To Woman To M.S. G Song • To*** To Mary Damaetas To Marion Oscar of Alva To the Duke of D— Translations and Imitations. Adrian's Address to his Soul, -when dying Translation Translation from Catullus Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibullus Translation from Catullus Imitated from Catullus Translation from Anacreon — To his Lyre Ode III . . Fragment from the Prometheus Vinctus The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus Translation from the Medea of Euripides Fugitive Pieces. Thoughts suggested by a College Examina- tion To the Earl of *** Granta, a Medley Lachin y Gair To Romance Elegy on Newstead Abbey To E.N. L., Esq To Stanzas Lines written beneath an Elm in the Church- yard of Harrow on the Hill .... The death of Calmar and Orla .... Critique extracted from the Edinburgh Re- view, No. 22, for January 1808 . ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS . Postscript CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE . . . . Notes Appendix THE GIAOUR Notes THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS Notes Pus^ 13 16 17 18 ib. 19 20 21 ib. 22 ib. 24 26 37 38 85 96 132 143 146 1 56 Page THE CORSAIR i5c> Notes . .175 LARA 177 Note 188 THE CURSE OF MINERVA 189 Notes 191 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 192 Notes 201 PARISINA 202 Notes . 207 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON .... 208 Notes .211 BEPPO 2i3 Notes 220 MAZEPPA . ib MANFRED 228 Notes 241 MARINO FALIERO 242 Notes Appendix SARDANAPALUS ...... Notes THE TWO FOSCARI Appendix CAIN WERNER THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED HEAVEN AND EARTH ..... THE PROPHECY OF DANTE . . . Notes THE ISLAND Appendix THE AGE OF BRONZE .... THE VISION OF JUDGMENT ..... 487 MORGANTE MAGCIORE 495 Note 502 WALTZ ib. Notes 5o5 THE LAMENT OF TASSO 5o6 HEBREW MELODIES. She walks in beauty 5 8 The harp the monarch Minstrel swept . 509 If that high world ib. The wild gazelle ib. Oh ! weep for those ib. On Jordan's banks ib. Jephtha's daughter ib. Oh! snatch' d away in beauty's bloom . 5 10 My soul is dark ib. 1 saw thee weep ib. Thy days are done ib. Song of Saul before his last battle ib Saul ib. « All is vanity,« saith the preacher . . 5n 280 281 290 326 327 354 36i 384 427 445 457 463 464 476 480 II CONTENTS. Page When coldness wraps this suffering clay . 5n Vision of Belshazzar if,. Sun of the sleepless ib. Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be 5 1 2 Herod's lament for Mariamne .... U,. On the day of the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus ,7,, By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept ,7,. The destruction of Sennacherib . . . &,, From Job 5t3 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte . . . . 5i3 Monody on the death of the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan 5^ The Irish Avatar 5i5 The Dream 5 16 Ode (to Venice) SjS Lines written in an Album .... 5in Romance muy doloroso del sitio y toma de Alhama 520 A very mournful ballad on the siege and conquest of Alhama ib. Sonetto di Virtorelli, with translation . . 522 Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian Gulf • iT,. composed in a thunder-storm near mount Pindus ib. To*" 5 2 3 Lines written at Athens ib. written beneath a picture . . . ib. written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos 524 Zsivj /jlov, sis aya7rw — « Maid of Athens,» etc. ib. Translation of a Greek war song . . . ib. Translation of a Romaic song . . . 525 On parting . . . ib. To Thyrza ib. Stanzas 526 To Thyrza ib. Euthanasia ........ ib. Stanzas 527 ib. On a cornelian heart which was broken . 528 To a youthful friend ib. To ••♦.**•« 5 2Q From the Portuguese ib. Impromptu, in reply to a friend . . . ib. Address, spoken at the opening of Drury- lane Theatre ib. To Time 53o Translation of a Romaic Love Song . . ib. A Song 53i On being asked what a was the « origin of love » 16. Remember him, etc ib. Lines inscribed upon a cup formed from a skull ib. On the death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart. . 532 To a Lady weeping ib. From the Turkish ib. Sonnet to Genevra ib. ib. Page Inscription on the Monument of a New- foundland Dog 532 Farewell! if ever fondest prayer . . . 533 Bright be the place of thy soul . ib. When we two parted . . . ib. Stanzas for Music ib. 534 Fare thee Well ib. To*" ib. Ode (from the French) 535 From the French 536 On the Star of the Legion of Honour (from the French) ib. Napoleon's Farewell (from the French) . 537 Sonnet ib. Written on a blank leaf of « The Pleasures of Memory » ib. Stanzas to *** . ib. Darkness 538 Churchill's Grave ib. Prometheus 53o Ode (to France) ib. Windsor Poetics 540 A Sketch from Private Life .... ib. Carmina Byronis in C. Elgin . . .541 Lines to Mr Moore ....... ib. « On this Day I complete my Thirty-sixth Year» ib. LETTER TO **" c ON BOWLES'S STRIC- TURES ON POPE 542 A FRAGMENT 55 2 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES DON JUAN . . . . Notes . 553 56i 704 ADDENDA, or Appendix to the « MISCELLA- NEOUS POEMS. » Hints from Horace 711 The Blues, a Literary Eclogue . . . 720 Part of « Manfred," taken from the original copy of that Drama ..... 725 Francesca of Rimini 726 The Prayer of Nature 727 To my Son ib. From the Portuguese ib. To a Friend — L'Amitie est l'amour sans ailes 728 Fragment ib. Imitation of Tibullus ib. On revisiting Harrow 729 Fragment ib. To Mrs •*■ ib. A Love-Song ib- Stanzas to ****** ib' To the same 730 Song ib % Fragment ib. Epitaph on John Adams ib. Stanzas to ***, on leaving England . . .731 Lines to Mr Hodgson ib. Epistle to 732 Stanzas for Music ...... ib. The Devil's Drive 733 Translation from Horace 734 Address intended to be recited at the Cale- donian Meeting ib. CONTENTS. Page Lines intended for the opening of « The Siege of Corinth>» 734 Extract from an unpublished poem . . 735 To Augusta ib. Lines on the Picture of Sarah, Countess of Jersey 736 On the Bust of Helen by Canova . . . ib. Sonnet to George the Fourth .... 737 To Belshazzar ib. Stanzas written on the road from Florence to Pisa ib. To the Countess of Blessington . . . ib. Epitaph on himself . ib. Sportive Epistles to Mr J. Murray . . . 738 Bhyming Letter, supposed to be written by 3Ir Murray 739 Poetical Fragments, addressed to Mr Moore ib. On Lord Thurlow's Poems .... 740 To Lord Thurlow ib. On Moore's last operatic Farce . . . 741 Paraphrase from the opening lines of the Medea of Euripides ib. Fragment of a Poem on hearing that Lady Byron was ill ib. Song of the Luddites ib. On Napoleon's Escape from Elba . . . ib. Lord Byron's Idea of Politics .... ib. Stanzas, written when about to join the Ita- lian Carbonari ib. Lines on the Birth of John W. R. Hoppner . ib. To Jessy 742 Endorsement for the Deed of Separation from Lady Byron ib. To Mr Moore ib. To Penelope ib. The Charity Ball ib. John Keats ib. Epitaph for William Pitt ib. — '■ on Lord Castlereagh .... ib. On some brother Poets ib. Impromptu 743 Rhymes if,. Noble Authors ib. On Sir John Carr, the Traveller . . . ib. On an Old Lady ... . . . ib. Parody on Dr Busby's Monologue . . ib. Lines written in an Album at Athens . . ib. To my Dear Mary Anne ib. Verses— « Remember thee!» .... 744 Fame, Wisdom, Love, and Power . . . ib. Lines adapted to an Indian Air ... ib. Enigma on the letter H ib. on the letter I ib. Epigram from Martial 745 from the French of Rulhieres . . ib. on Egle the Poetess .... ib. to Mr Hobhouse ib. on Paine and Cobbett . . . ib. on the Brasiers' Address to Queen Caroline fo m on my Thirty-third Birth-day . . ib. Page To Memory 745 Lines found in the Traveller's book at Cha- mouni ib. Stanzas to her who can best understand them 74S Lines addressed to a beautiful Quakeress . ib. Hebrew Melodies 747 Adieu to Malta ib. Song— «DrNott» 748 Stanzas in Childe Harold ib. To Mr Hobhouse, on his Imprisonment in Newgate 749 On a distant View of Harrow ou the Hill . ib. ToD ib. Reply to some Verses of J.M. B. Pigot, Esq. . 750 To the sighing Strephon ib. To Miss ib. Lines written in « Letters of an Italian Nun,» etc 751 The Cornelian ib. On the death of a Young Lady, cousin to the Author ib. To Emma ib. To M.S. G 752 To Caroline ib. To Leshia ib. The First Kiss of Love ib. Lines addressed to a Young Lady . . . 754 To a Lady ib. Love's Last Adieu t55 On a change of Masters at a great public School ib. Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a Friend ib. Answer to a beautiful Poem, written by Montgomery 756 To the Rev. J. T. Becher ..... ' ib. To a young Friend, the son of one of his Tenants at Newstead ib. Childish Recollections 757 Additional Stanzas to the Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 761 ATTRIBUTED POEMS. To my Infant Daughter, on the morning of her Birth . . 762 To Lady Caroline Lamb . . ib. The Prince of Whales . . . . . . 763 To the Lilv of France . . ib. Madame Lavalette . ■ ■ 7H ib. Ode to St Helena . . ib. APPENDIX. Preface to the « Hours of Idleness » . . 767 Preface to the « Vision of Judgment » . . ib. Various Excerpts, etc. . . ... 767 Remarks of Lord Byron on several Passages of « English Bards and Scotch Reviewers » 768 BY J. W. LAKE. O'er the harp, from earliest years beloved, He threw his fingers hurriedly, and tones Of melancholy beauty died away Upon its strings of sweetness. Ir was reserved for the present age to produce one distinguished example of the Muse having descended upon a hard of a wounded spirit, and lent her lyre to tell afflictions of no ordinary de- scription — afflictions originating probahly in that singular combination of feeling with imagination which has been called the poetical temperament, and which has so often saddened the days of those onwhomithasbeen conferred. If ever a man was entitled to lay claim to that character in all its strength and all its weakness, with its unbounded range of enjoyment, and its exquisite sensibility of pleasure and of pain, that man was Lord Byron. Nor does it require much time or a deep acquaint- ance with human nature to discover why these extraordinary powers should in so many cases have contributed more to the wretchedness than to the happiness of their possessor. The "imagination all compact- which the greatest poet who ever lived has assigned as the distinguishing badge of his brethren, is in every case a dangerous gift. It exaggerates, indeed, our expectations, and can often bid its possessor hope, where hope is lost to reason ; but the delu- sive pleasure arising from these visions of ima- gination resembles that of a child whose gaze is attracted by a fragment of glass to which a sunbeam has given momentary splendour : he hastens to the spot with breathless impatience, and finds the object of his wonder and expec- tation equally vulgar and worthless. Such is the man of quick and exalted powers of imagi- nation : his fancy over-estimates the object of his wishes; and pleasure, fame, distinction, are alter- nately pursued, attained, and despised when in his power. Like the enchanted fruit in the palace of a sorcerer, the objects of his admiration lose their attraction and value as soon as they are grasped by the adventurers hand; and all that remains is regret for the time lost in the pursuit, and wonder at the hallucination under the influence of which it was undertaken. The dis- proportion between hope and possession which is felt by all men, is thus doubled to those whom nature has endowed with the power of gilding a distant prospect with the rays of imagination. We think that many points of resemblance may be traced between Byron and Rousseau. Both are distinguished by the most ardent and vivid delineation of intense conception, and by a deep sensibility of passion rather than of af- fection. Both, too, by this double power, have held a dominion over the sympathy of their readers, far beyond the range of those ordinary feelings which are excited by the mere efforts of genius. The impression of this interest still accompanies the perusal of their writings; but there is another interest, of more lasting and far stronger power, which each of them possessed, — the continual embodying of the individual cha- racter, it might almost be said of the very person, of the writer. When we speak or think of Rous- seau or Byron, we are not conscious of speaking or thinking of an author : we have a vague but impassioned remembrance of men of surpassing genius, eloquence, and power, — of prodigious capacity both of misery and happiness : we feel as if we had transiently met such beings in real life, or had known them in the obscure commu- nion of a dream. Each of their works presents, in succession, a fresh idea of themselves; and, while the productions of other great men stand out from them, like something they have created, theirs, on the contrary, are images, pictures, busts of their living selves, — clothed, no doubt, at dif- ferent times in different drapery, and prominent from a different back-ground, — but still impressed with the same form, and mien, and lineaments, and not to be mistaken for the representations of any other of the children of men. But this view of the subject, though universally felt to be a true one, requires perhaps a little ex- planation. The personal character to which we allude, is not altogether that on which the seal of life has been set, and to which, therefore, moral approval or condemnation is necessarily annexed, as to the language or conduct of actual existence : it is the character, so to speak, which is prior to conduct, and yet open to good and to ill — the con- stitution of the being in body and in soul. Each of these illustrious writers has, in this light, filled his works with expressions of his own character, VI LIFE OF LORD 15 Y HON. — lias unveiled to the world the secrets of his own being- They have gone down into those depths which every man may sound for himself, though not for another; and they have made disclosures to the world of what they beheld and knew there — disclosures that have excited a profound and universal sympathy, by proving that all mankind, the troubled and the untroubled, the lofty and the low, the strongest and the weakest, are linked together by the bonds of a common but inscrutable nature. Thus, each of these wayward and richly-gifted spirits made himself the object of profound in- terest to the world, and that too during periods of society when ample food was every where spread abroad for the meditation and passions of men. Although of widely dissimilar fortunes and birth, a close resemblance in their passions and their genius may be traced too between Byron and Robert Burns. Their careers were short and glorious, and they both perished in the « rich summer of their life and song,» and in all the splendour of a reputation more likely to increase than diminish. One was a peasant, and the other a peer; but nature is a great leveller, and makes amends for the injuries of fortune by the richness of her benefactions : the genius of Burns raised him to a level with the nobles of the land; by nature, if not by birth, he was the peer of Byron. They both distinguished themselves by the force of their genius, and fell by the strength of their passions; one wrote from a love, and the other from a scorn of mankind; and both sung of the emotions of their own hearts with a vehemence and an originality which few have equalled, and none have surpassed. The versatility of authors who have been able to draw and support characters as different from each other as from their own, has given to their productions the inexpressible charm of variety, and has often secured them from that neglect which in general attends what is technically called mannerism. But it was reserved for Lord Byron (previous to his Don Juan) to present the same character on the public stage again and again, varied only by the exertions of that powerful genius which, searching the springs of passion and of feeling in their innermost recesses, knew how to combine their operations, so that the interest was eternally varying, and never abated, although the most important person of the drama retained the same lineaments. It might, at first, seem that his undisguised revelation of feelings and passions, which the becoming pride of human nature, jealous of its own dignity, would in general desire to hold in uuviolated silence, could have produced in the public mind only pity, sorrow, or repugnance. But in the case of men of real genius, like Byron, it is otherwise: they are not felt, while we read, as declarations published to the world, but almost as secrets whispered to chosen ears. Who is there that feels for a moment, that the voice which reaches the inmost recesses of his heart is speaking to the careless multitudes around him? Or if we do so remember, the words seem to pass by others like air, and to find their way to the hearts for whom they were intended — kindred and sympathetic spirits, who discern and own that secret language, of which the privacy is not violated, though spoken in the hearing of the uninitiated, because it is not un- derstood. A great poet may address the whole world in the language of intensest passion, con- cerning objects of which, rather than speak face to face with any one human being, he would perish in his misery. For it is in solitude that he utters what is to be wafted by all the winds of heaven: there are present with him during his inspiration only the shadows of men. He is not daunted, or perplexed, or disturbed, or repelled by real, living, breathing features. He can draw just as much of the curtain as he chuses that hangs between his own solitude and the world of life. He there pours his soul out partly to himself alone, partly to the ideal abstractions and impersonated images that float around him at his own conjura- tion; and partly to human beings like himself, moving in the every-day world. He confesses himself, not before men, but before the spirit of humanity; and he thus fearlessly lays open his heart, assured that nature never prompted to genius what will not triumphantly force its way into the human heart. It is admitted that Byron has depicted much of himself in all his heroes ; but when we seem to see the poet shadowed out in all those states of disordered being which his Childe Harolds, Giaours, Conrads, Laras, and Alps exhibit, we merely conceive that his mind felt within itself the capacity of such disorders, not that it had endured them, and exhibits itself before us only in possibility. This is not common, it is rare in great poets : Homer, Shakspeare, and Milton never so exhibit themselves in the characters they portray : their poetical personages have no re- ference to themselves, but are distinct, indepen- dent creatures of their minds, produced in the full freedom of intellectual power. In Byron there does not seem this freedom of power — there is little appropriation of character to events. His poems, excepting Don Juan, are not full and complete narrations of any one definite story, containing within itself a picture of human life. They are merely bold and turbulent exemplifi- LIFE OF LORD BYRON. cations of certain sweeping energies and irre- sistible passions; they are fragments of a poet's dark dream of life. The very personages, vi- vidly as they are pictured, are yet felt to be fictitious, and derive their chief power over us from their supposed connexion with the poet himself, and, it may be, with each other. The law of his mind was to embody his peculiar feelings under the forms of other men. In all his heroes we recognise, though with infinite modifications, the same great characteristics : a lofty conception of the power of mind, — an intense sensibility of passion, — an almost bound- less capacity of tumultuous emotion, — a boast- ing admiration of the grandeur of disordered power, and, above all, a soul-felt delight in beauty. These reflections naturally precede a sketch of Lord Byron's literary and private life : they are in a manner forced upon us by his poetry, and by the sentiments of weariness of existence and en- mity with the world which it so frequently ex- presses. Lord Byron was descended from an illustrious line of ancestry. From the period of the Con- cpiest, his family were not more distinguished for their extensive manors in Lancashire and other parts of the kingdom, than for their prowess in arms. John de Byron attended Edward the first in several warlike expeditions. Two of the Byrons fell at the battle of Cressy. Another member of the family, Sir John de Byron, ren- dered good ser\ice in Bosworth field, to the Earl of Richmond, and contributed by his valour to transfer the crown from the head of Richard the third to that of Henry the seventh. Sir John was a man of honour, as well as a brave warrior. He was very intimate with his neighbour Sir Gervase Cliftou ; and, although Byron fought under Henry, and Clifton under Richard, it did not diminish their friendship, though it put it to a severe test. Previous to the battle, they had mutually promised that whichever shouldbevan- ([uished, the other should endeavour to prevent the forfeiture of his friend's estate. While Clifton was bravely fighting at the head of his troop, he was struck off his horse : Byron perceiving the acci- dent, quitted the ranks and ran to the relief of his friend, who died in his arms. Sir John de Byron kept his word; he interceded with the king ; and the estate, preserved to the Clifton family, is now iu the possession of a descendant of Sir Gervase. In the wars between Charles the first and the parliament, the Byrons adhered to the royal cause. Sir Nicholas Byron, the eldest brother and repre- sentative of the family, was an eminent loyalist, who, having distinguished himself in the wars of the Low Countries, was appointed governor of Chelsea, in 1642. He had two sons, who both died without issue ; and his younger brother, Sir John, became heir. This person was made a knight of the bath at the coronation of James the first. He had eleven sons, most of whom distinguished themselves by their loyalty and gallantry on the side of Charles the first. Seven of these brothers were engaged at the bade of Marston-moor, and four fell in defence of the royal cause. Sir John Byron, one of the survi- vors, was appointed to several important com- mands, and on the 26th of October, 1643, was created Lord Byron, with a collateral remainder to his brothers. On the decline of the king's affairs, he was appointed governor to the Duke of York, and, while holding this office, died without issue, in France, in \6Si ; upon which his bro- ther Richard, a celebrated cavalier, became the second Lord Byron. He was governor of Appleby Castle, and distinguished himself at Newark. He died in 1 697, aged seventy-four, and was succeeded by his eldest son William, who married Elizabeth, the daughter of John Viscount Chaworth, of the kingdom of Ireland, by whom he had five sons, all of whom died young except William, whose eldest son, William, was born in 1722, and came to the title iu 1736. William, Lord Byron, passed the early part of his life in the navy. Iu 1763 he was made mas- ter of the stag-hounds; and in 1765 was sent to the Tower, and tried before the House of Peers for killing his relation and neighbour, Mr Cha- worth, in a duel. — The following details of this fatal event are peculiarly interesting from subse- quent circumstances connected with the subject of our sketch. William Lord Byron belonged to a club of which Mr Chaworth was also a member. It met at the Star and Garter tavern, Pall Mall, and was called the Nottinghamshire Club. On the 29th January, 1765, they assembled, at four o'clock, to dinner as usual, and everything went on agreeably, until about seven o'clock, when an angry dispute arising betwixt Lord Byron and Mr Chaworth concerning the quantity of game on their estates, the latter gentleman paid his share of the bill, and retired. Lord Byron fol- lowed him out of the room, and, stopping him on the lauding of the stairs, called to the waiter to show them into an empty room. They were shown into one, and a single candle placed on the table : in a few minutes the bell was rung, and Mr Chaworth found mortally wounded. He said that Lord Byron and he entered the room together ; that his lordship, in walking forward, said something relative to the former dispute, on which he proposed fastening the door ; that on \ 111 LIFE OF LOUD BYRON. turning himself round from this act, he perceived his lordship with his sword half drawn, or nearly so : on which, knowing his man, he instantly drew his own, and made a thrust at him, which he thought had wounded or killed him; that then, perceiving his lordshipshorten his sword to return the thrust, he thought to have parried it with his left hand ; that he felt the sword enter his body and go deep through his back; that he struggled, and being the stronger man, disarmed his lord- ship, and expressed some concern, as under the apprehension of having mortally wounded him; that Lord Byron replied by saying something to the like effect, adding at the same time, that he hoped «he would now allow him to be as brave a man as any in the kingdom." For this offence he was unanimously convicted of manslaughter, but, on being brought up for judgment, pleaded his privilege as a peer, and was, in consequence, discharged. After this affair he was abandoned by his relatious, and retired to Newstead Abbey; where, while he lived in a state of exile from persons of his own rank, his unhappy temper found abundant exercise in con- tinual war with his neighbours and tenants, and sufficient punishment in their hatred. One of his amusements was feeding crickets, which he rendered so tame as to crawl over him, and used to whip them with a wisp of straw when too familiar. In this forlorn condition he lin- gered out a long life, doing all in his power to ruin the paternal mansion for that other branch of the family to which he was aware it must pass at his death, all his own children having descended before him to the grave. John, the next brother to William, and born in the year after him, that is in 1723, was of a very different disposition, but his career in life was almost an unbroken series of misfortuues. The hardships he endured while accompanying Commodore Auson in his expedition to the South Seas are w r ell known, from his own highly popu- lar and affecting narrative. His only son, born in 1751, who received an excellent education, and held a commission in the guards, was so dissipated that he was known by the name of « mad Jack Byron. » He was one of the hand- somest men of his time ; but his character was so notorious that his father was obliged to desert him, and his company was shunned by the better part of society. In his twenty-seventh year he se- duced the Marchioness of Carmarthen, who had been but a few years married to a husband, with whom she lived in the greatest happiness until the commencement of this unfortunate connexion. Altera fruitless attempt atreclaiming his lady, the marquis obtained a divorce; and a marriage was brought about between her and her seducer, which, after the most brutal conduct on his part, and the greatest misery and keenest remorse on hers, was dissolved in two years by her sinking to the grave, the victim of a broken heart. About three years subsequently, Captain Byron sought to recruit his fortune by matrimony, and having made a conquest of Miss Catherine Gordon, an Aberdeenshire heiress (lineally descended from the Earl of Huntle\ and the Princess Jane, daugh- ter of James II of Scotland), he united himself to her, ran through her property in a few years, and, leaving her and her only child, the subject of this memoir, fled to France to avoid his cre- ditors, and died at Valenciennes, in 1791. In Captain Medwin's « Conversations of Lord Byron,» the following expressions are said to have fallen from his lordship on the subject of his unprincipled father: — « I lost my father when I was only six years of age. My mother, when she was in a rage with me (and I gave her cause enough), used to say, 'Ah! you little dog, you are a Byron all over; you are as bad as your father !' It was very different from Mrs Malaprop's saying, 'Ah ! good dear Mr Malaprop! I never loved him till he was dead.' But, iu fact, my father was, in his youth, any thing but a ' Caelebs in search of a wife.' He would have made a bad hero for Hannah More. He ran out three fortunes, and married or ran away with three women ; and once wanted a gui- nea, that he wrote for : I have the note. He seemed born for his own ruin, and that of the other sex. He began by seducing Lady Carmar- then, and spent for her four thousand pounds a- year; and, not content with one adventure of this kind, afterwards eloped with Miss Gordon. This marriage was not destined to be a very for- tunate one either, and I don't wonder at her differing from Sheridan's w 7 idow in the play; they certainly could not have claimed 'the flitch.'» George Byron Gordon (for so he was called on account of the neglect his father's family had shown to his mother ) was born at Dover, on the 2 2d of January, 1788. On the flight of his father, the entire care of his infaut years de- volved upon his mother, who retired to Aberdeen, where she lived iu almost perfect seclusion, on the remains of her fortune. Her undivided af- fection was naturally centred in her son : if he only went out for the purpose of walking she would entreat him, with the tear glistening in her eye, to take care of himself, as « she had nothing on earth but him to live for;» — a conduct no tat all pleasing to his ad venturous spirit, the more especially as such of his companions, as witnessed these affectionate scenes, were wont to laugh at and ridicule him about them. Her excessive maternal indulgence, and the absence of LIFE OF LORD BYRON. IX that sslatary discipline and control so necessary to childhood, doubtless contributed to the formation of the less pleasing features of Lord Byron's cha- racter. It must, however, be remembered in Mrs By- ron's extenuation , not only that the circumstances in which she had been left with her son were of a very peculiar nature, but also that a slight mal- formation of one of his feet, and great weakness of constitution, naturally obtained for him in the heart of a mother a more than ordinary portion of tenderness. For these latter reasons he was not sent very early to school, but was allowed to expand his lungs, and brace his limbs, upon the neighbouring mountains. This was evidently the most judicious method of imparting strength to his bodily frame ; and the sequel showed that it was not the worst for giving tone and vigour to his mind. The savage grandeur of nature around him ; the feeling that he was upon hills where Foreign tyrant never trod, But Freedom, with her faulehion bright, Swept the stranger from her sight; his intercourse with a people whose chief amuse- ment consisted in the recital of heroic tales of other times, feats of strength, and a display of independence, blended with the wild superna- tural fictions peculiar to remote and thinly-peo- pled districts, were admirably calculated to foster that poetical feeling innate in his character. When George was seven years of age, his mo- ther sent him to the grammar-school at Aber- deen, where he remained till his removal to Harrow, with the exception of some intervals of absence, which were deemed requisite for the preservation of his health. His progress beyond that of the general run of his class-fellows was never so remarkable as after those occasional in- tervals of recreation, when, in a few da>*s he would master exercises which, in the ordinary school routine, it had required weeks to accom- plish. But when he had overtaken the rest of the class, he always relaxed his exertions, and, contenting himself with being considered a to- lerable scholar, never made any extraordinary effort to place himself at the head of the highest form. It was only out of school that he aspired to be the leader of everything; in all boyish games and amusements he would be first if pos- sible. For this he was eminently calculated; quick, enterprising, and daring, the energy of his mind enabled him to overcome the impedi- ments which nature had thrown in his way. Even at that early period ( from eight to ten years of age), all his sports were of a manly character; fishing, shooting, swimming, managing a horse, or steering and trimming the sails of a boat, con- stituted his chief delight, and, to the superficial observer, seemed his sole occupation. He was exceedingly brave, and in the juvenile wars of the school, he generally gained the vic- tory. Upon one occasion, a boy pursued by an- other took refuge in Mrs Byron's house : the latter youth, who had been much abused by the former, proceeded to take vengeance on him on the landing-place of the drawing-room stairs, when George interposed in his defence, declaring that nobody should be ill-used while under his roof and protection. Upon this the aggressor dared him to fight, and, although the former was by much the stronger of the two, the spirit of young Byron was so determined, that after the combat had lasted nearly two hours, it was suspended only in consequence of their com- plete exhaustion. A school-fellow of Byron's had a very small Shetland pony, which his father had bought for him: they went one day to the banks of the Don to bathe, but, having only the pony, they were obliged to follow the good old practice called in Scotland « ride and tie.» When they came to the bridge over thatdark romantic stream, Byron bethought him of the prophecy which he has quoted in Don Juan : Brig of Balgounie, black's your wa' ; Wi' a wife's ae son and a mear's ae foal, Doun ye shall fa. He immediately stopped his companion, who was riding, and asked him if he remembered the prophecy, saying, that as they were both only sons, and as the pony might be « a mare's ae foal,» he would ride over first, because he had only a mother to lament him, should the prophecy be fulfilled by the falling of the bridge; wheras the other had both a father and a mother. It is the custom of the grammar-school at Aber- deen , that the boys of all the five classes of which it is composed should be assembled for prayers in the public school at eight o'clock in the morning; after prayers, a censor calls over the names, and those who are absent are pun- ished. The first time that Lord Byron had come to school after his accession to his title, the rector had caused his name to be inserted in the censor's book, Georgius Dominus de Byron, instead of Georgius Byron Gordon as formerly. The boys, unaccustomed to this aristocratic sound, set up a loud and involuntary shout, which had such an effect on his sensiti e mind that he burst into tears, and would have fled from the school had he not been restrained by the master. The answer which Lord Byron made to a fellow scholar, who questioned him as to the cause of the honorary addition of « Dominus de Byron » \ LIFE OF LOUD JJYllON. to his name, served at that time, when he was only ten years of aye, to point out that he would be a man who would speak and act for himself — who, whatever might he his vices or his virtues, would not condescend to receive them at second- hand. It took place the very day after he had heen menaced with a flogging round the school for a fault which he had not committed. When the question was put to him, he replied, « It is not my doing ; Fortune was to whip me yesterday for what another did, and she has this day made me a lord for what another has ceased to do. 1 need not thank her in either case, for I have asked nothing at her hands." On the 17th of May, 1798, William, the fifth Ford Byron, departed this life at Newstead. The son of this eccentric nohleman died when George was five years old, and as the descent hoth of the titles and estates was to heirs-male, the latter, of course, succeeded his great-uncle. Upon this change of fortune Lord Byron, now ten years of age, was removed from the imme- diate care of his mother, and placed as a ward under the guardianship of the Earl of Carlisle, whose father had married Isabella, the sister of the preceding Lord Byron. In one or two points of character this great-aunt resembled the bard: she also wrote beautiful poetry, and after adorn- ing the gay and fashionable world for many- years, she left it without any apparent cause and with perfect indifference, and in a great measure secluded herself from society. The young nobleman's guardian decided that he should receive the usual education given to England's titled sons, and that he should in the first instance be sent to the public school at Harrow. He was accordingly placed there under the tuition of the Be v. Dr Drury, to whom he has testified his gratitude in a note to the fourth canto of Childe Harold, in a manner which does I equal honour to the tutor and the pupil. A j change of scene and circumstances so rapid, { would have been hazardous to any boy, but j it was doubly so to one of Byron's ardent mind J and previous habits. Taken at once from the j society of boys in ordinary life, and placed j among youths of his own newly-acquired rank, j with means of gratification which to him must ! have appeared considerable, it is by no means surprising that he should have been betrayed into every sort of extravagance : none of them appear, however, to have been of a very culpable nature. « Though he was lame,» says one of his school- fellows, « he was a great lover of sports, and preferred hockey to Horace, relinquished even Helicon for 'duck-puddle,' and gave up the best poet that ever wrote hard Latin for a game of cricket on the common. He was not remarkable (nor was he ever) for his learning, but he was always a clever, plain-spoken, and undaunted hoy. I have seen him fight by the hour like a Trojan, and stand up against the disadvantage of his lameness with all the spirit of an ancient combatant. ' Don't you remember your battle with Pitt?' (a brewer's son), said I to him in a letter (for I had witnessed it), but it seems that he had forgotten it. 'You are mistaken, 1 think,' said he in reply ; ' it must have been with Bice- Pudding Morgan, or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the Douglasses, or George Raynsford, or Pryce (with whom I had two conflicts), or with Moses Moore (the clod), or with somebody else, and not with Pitt; for with all the above-named and other worthies of the fist had I an interchange of black eyes and bloody noses, at various and sundry periods ; however it may have happened for all that.'.. The annexed anecdotes are characteristic. The boys at Harrow had mutinied, and in their wisdom resolved to set fire to the scene of all their ills and troubles — the school-room. Byron, however, was against the motiou, and by pointing out to the young rebels the names of their fathers on the walls, he prevented the in- tended conflagration. His lordship piqued himself not a little upon this early specimen of his power over the passions of his school- fellows. Byron long retained a friendship for several of his Harrow school-comrades. Lord Clare was one of his constant correspondents; and Scroope Davies was also one of his chief companions be- fore his lordship went to the continent. The latter gentleman and Byron once lost all their money at « chicken hazard,., in one of the hells of St. James's, and the next morning Davies sent for Byrou's pistols to shoot himself with. Byron sent a note refusing to give them, on the ground that they would be forfeited as a deodaud, and this comic excuse had the desired effect. Byron, whilst living at Newstead during the Harrow vacation, saw and became enamoured of Miss Chaworth, the Mary of his poetry, and the maiden of his beautiful « Dream. » Miss Cha- worth was older than his lordship by a few years, was light and volatile, and though, no doubt, highly flattered by his attachment, treated our poet less as an ardent lover than as a younger brother. She was punctual to their assignations, which took place at a gate dividing the grounds of the Byrons from the Chaworths, and received all his letters; but her answers, it is said, were written with more of the caution of coquetry than the romance of « love's young dream. » She, however, gave him her picture, but her hand was reserved for another. LIFE OF LORD BYRON. It was somewhat remarkable that Lord Byron and Miss Chaworth should both have been under the guardianship of Mr White. This gentleman particularly wished that his wards should be united in marriage ; but Miss C, as young ladies generally do in such circumstances, differed from him, and was resolved to please herself in the choice of a husband. The celebrated Mr M., com- monly known by the name of Jack M., was at this time quite the rage, and Miss C. was not subtle enough to conceal the penchant she had for him : it was in vain that Mr W. took her from one watering-place to another; still the lover, like an evil spirit, followed; and at last, being somehow more persuasive than the « child of song,» he carried off the lady, to the great grief of Lord Byron. The marriage, however, was not a happy one, the parties soon separated; and Mrs M. afterwards proposed an interview with her former lover, which, by the advice of his sister, he declined. From Harrow Lord Byron was removed to Trinity College, Cambridge : there, however, he did not mend his manners, nor hold the sages of antiquity in higher esteem than when under the command of his reverend tutor at Harrow. He was above studying the poets, and held the rules of the Stagyrite in as little esteem as in after life he did the « invariable principles » of the Bev. Mr Bowles. Beading after the fashion of the stu- dious men of Cam was to him a bore, and he held a senior wrangler in the greatest contempt. Persons of real genius are seldom candidates for college prizes, and Byron left them to those plod- ding characters who, perhaps, deserve them, as the guerdon of the unceasing labour necessary to overcome the all but invincible dulness of their intellects. Instead of reading what tutors pleased, Byron read what pleased himself, and wrote what could not fail to displease those connected with the university. He did not admire their system of education, and they, as is the case with most scholars, could admire no other. He took to quizzing them, and, as no one likes to be laughed at, doctors frowned, fellows fumed, and Byron at the age of nineteen left college without a de- gree. Among other means which he adopted to show his contempt for academical honours, he kept a young bear in his room for some time, which he told all his friends was in training for a fellow- ship ! Wheu Lord Byron bade adieu to the university, he took up his residence at Newstead Abbey, where his pursuits were principally those of amusement. Among others he was extremely fond of the water. In his aquatic exercises he had seldom any other companion than a large New- foundland dog, to try whose sagacity and fidelity he used to let himself fall out of the boat, as if by accidenf, when the dog would seize him, and drag him ashore. On losing this dog, in the autumn of 1808, he caused a monument to be erected, with an inscription commemorative of its attachment. (See page 532.) The following descriptions of Newstead will be found interesting: « This abbey was founded in the year 1 170, by Henry II, as a priory of Black Canons, and dedi- cated to the Virgin Mary. It continued in the family of the Byrons until the time of our poet, who sold it first to Mr Claughton for the sum of i4o,oool., and on that gentleman's not being able to fulfil the agreement, and paying 2o,oool. of a forfeit, it was afterwards sold to another person, and most of the money vested in trustees for the jointure of the Hon. Mrs Byron. The greater part of the edifice still remains. The present possessor, Major Wildman, is, with ge- nuine taste, repairing this beautiful specimen of Gothic architecture. The late Lord Byron repair- ed a considerable part of it; but, forgetting the roof, he turned his attention to the inside, and the consequence was that, in a few years, the rain penetrating to the apartments, soon destroy- ed all those elegant devices which his lordship contrived. Lord Byron's own study was a neat little apartment, decorated with some good classic busts, a select collection of books, an antique cross, a sword in a gilt case, and, at the end of the room, two finely polished skulls on a pair of light fancy stands. In the garden, likewise, there was a great number of these skulls, taken from the burial-ground of the abbey, and piled up together; but they were afterwards recom- mitted to the earth. A writer, who visited it soon after Lord Byron had sold it, says: « In one corner of the servant's hall lay a stone coffin, in which were fencing-gloves and foils, and on the walls of the ample but cheerless kitchen was painted in large letters, < Waste not— want not., During the minority of Lord Byron, the abbey was in the possession of Lord G , his hounds, and divers colonies of jackdaws, swallows, and starlings. The internal traces of this Goth were swept away; but without, all appeared as rude and unreclaimed as he could have left it. W T ith the exception of the dog's tomb, a conspicuous and elegant object, I do not recollect the slight- est trace of culture or improvement. The late lord, astern and desperate character, who is never mentioned by the neighbouring peasants without a significant shake of the head, might have re- turned and recognized every thing about him, except, perhaps, an additional crop of weeds. There still slept that old pond, into which he is XI 1 LIFE OF LOK1) BYRON. said to have hurled his lady in one of his fits of fury, whence she was rescued hy the gardener, a courageous blade, who was his lords master, and chastised him for his barbarity. There still, at the end of the garden, in a grove of oak, two towering satyrs, he with his goat and cluh, and Mrs Satyr with her chuhhy cloven-footed brat, placed on pedestals at the intersections of the narrow and gloomy pathways, struck for a mo- ment with their grim visages, and silent shaggy forms, the fear into your bosom which is felt by the neighbouring peasantry at ' th'oud laird's devils.' I have frequently asked the country people near Newstead, what sort of a man his lordship (our Lord Byron) was. The impression of his eccentric but energetic character was evi- dent in the reply, ' He's the devil of a fellow for comical fancies. He flogs th'oud laird to no- thing; but he' s a hearty good fellow for all that.'.. Walpole, who had visited Newstead, gives, in his usual bitter, sarcastic manner, the following account of it : « As I returned I saw Newstead and Althorp; I like both. The former is the vi abbe The great east window of the church remains, and connects with the house; the hall entire, the refectory entire, the cloister untouched, with the ancient cistern of the convent, and their arms on it: it has a private chapel quite perfect. The park, which is still charming, has not been so much unprofaned. The present lord has lost large sums, and paid part in old oaks, five thou- sand pounds worth of which have been cut near the house. En revanche, he has built two baby forts, to pay his country in castles for damage done to the navy, and planted a handful of Scotch firs, that look like ploughboys dressed in old fa- mily liveries for a public day. In the hall is a very good collection of pictures, all animals. The refectory, now the great drawing-room, is full of Byrons : the vaulted roof remaining, but the win- dows have new dresses making for them by a Ve- netian tailor... The following detailed description of Byron's paternal abode is extracted from « A Visit to Newstead Abbey, in 1828," in the London Lite- rary Gazette : — « It was on the noon of a cold, bleak day in February, that I set out to visit the memorable Abbey of Newstead, once the property and abode of the immortal Byron. The gloomy state of the weather, and the dreary aspect of the surround- ing country, produced impressions more appro- priate to the view of such a spot than the cheerful season and scenery of summer. The estate lies on the left hand side of the high north road, eight miles beyond Nottingham; but, as I approached the place, I looked in vain for some indication of the Abbey. Nothing is seen but a thick plantation of young larch and firs, bordering the road, until you arrive at the Hut, a small public- house by the way-side. Nearly opposite to this is a plain white gate, without lodges, opening into the park ; before stands a fine, spreading oak, one of the few remaining trees of Sherwood fo- j rest, the famous haunt of Robin Hood and hi.; associates, which once covered all this part of the county, and whose centre was about the do- main of Newstead. To this oak, the only one of any size on the estate, Byron was very partial. It is pretty well known that his great-uncle (to whom he succeeded) cut down almost all the valuable timber, so that when Cyron came into possession of the estate, and indeed the whole time he had it, it presented a very bare and desolate appear- ance, 'idie soil is very poor, and fit only for the growth of larch and firs; and of these up- wards of 700 acres have been planted. Byron could not afford the first outlay which was ne- cessary in order ultimately to increase its worth, so that, as long as he held it, the rental did not exceed i,3ool. a-year. From the gate to the Ab- bey is a mile. The carriage-road runs straight for about 3oo yards through the plantations, when it takes a sudden turn to the right ; and on re- turning to the left, a beautiful and extensive view over the valley and distant hills is opened, with the turrets of the Abbey rising among the dark trees beneath. To the right of the Abbey is perceived a tower on a hill, in the midst of a grove of firs. From this part the road winds gently to the left, till it reaches the Abbey, which is approached on the north side : it lies in a val- ley, very low, sheltered to the north and west by rising ground, and to the south enjoying a fine prospect over an undulating vale. A more secluded spot could hardly have been chosen for the pious purposes to which it was devoted. To the north and east is a garden walled in : and to the west the upper lake. On the west side the mansion is without any enclosure or garden-drive, and can therefore be approached by any person passing through the park. In this open space is the ancient fountain or cistern of the convent, covered with grotesque carvings, and having wa- ter still running into a basin. The old church window, which, in an architectural point of view, is most deserving of observation, is nearly entire, and adjoins the north-west corner of the Abbey. Through the iron gate which opens into the gar- den under the arch, is seen the dog's tomb : it is j on the north side, upon a raised ground, and sur- rounded by steps. The verses inscribed on one side of the pedestal are well known ; but the lines preceding them are not so — they run thus : — LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xiu Ne;ir this spot Are deposited the remains of one Who possessed beauty without vanity, Strength without insolence, Courage without ferocity, And all the virtues of man without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery If inscribed over human ashes, Is but a just tribute to the memory of Boatswain, a dog, Who was born at Newfoundland, May, i8o3, And died at Newstead, November 18th, iSoS. The whole edifice is a quadrangle, enclosing a court, with a reservoir and jeld'eau in the middle, and the cloister, still entire, running round the four sides. The south, now the principal front, looks over a pleasure garden to a small lake, which has been opened from the upper one since Byron's time. The entrance door is on the west, in a small vestibule, and has nothing remarkable in it. On entering, 1 came into a large stone hall, and turning to the left, went through it to a smaller, ! beyond which is the staircase. The whole of ! this part has been almost entirely rebuilt by Co- i lonel Wildman : indeed, during Byron's occupa- ■ tion, the only habitable rooms were some small | ones in the south-east angle. Over the cloister, on the four sides of the building, runs the gallery, from which doors open into various apartments, now fitted up with taste and elegance for the ac- commodation of a family, but then empty, and fast going to decay. In one of the galleries hang- two oil paintings of dogs, as large as life : one a red woh-dog, and the other a black Newfound- land with white legs— the celebrated Boatswain. They both died at Newstead. Of the latter By- ron felt the loss as of a dear friend. These are almost the only paintings of Byron's that re- main at the Abbey.— From the gallery I entered the refectory, now the grand drawing-room— an apartment of great dimensions, facing south, with a fine vaulted roof and polished oak floor, and splendidly furnished in the modern style. The walls are covered with full-length portraits, of the old school. As this room has been made fit for use entirely since the days of Byron, there are not those associations connected with it which are to be found in many of the others, though of inferior appearance. Two ob- jects there are, however, which demand obser- vation. The first that caught my attention was the portrait of Byron, by Phillips, over the fire- place, upon which I gazed with strong feelings : it is certainly the handsomest and most pleasing likeness of him I have seen. The other is a thing about which every body has heard, and of which few have any just idea. In a cabinet at the end of the room, carefully preserved and concealed in a sliding-case, is kept the celebrated skull cup, upon which are inscribed those splendid verses : — Start not, — nor deem my spirit fled, etc. People often suppose, from the name, that the cup retains all the terrific appearances of a death's head, and imagine that they could Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of wisdom and of wit : not at all — there is nothing whatever startling in it. It is well polished ; its edge is bound by a broad rim of silver; and it is set in a neat stand of the same metal, which serves as a handle, and upon the four sides of which, and not upon the skull itself, the verses are engraved. It is in short, in appearance, a very handsome utensil, and one from which the most fastidious person might (in my opinion) drink without scruple. It was always produced after dinner when Byron had company at the Abbey, and a bottle of claret poured into it. An elegant round library table is the only article of furniture in this room that belonged to Byron, and this he constantly used. Beyond the refectory, on the same floor, is By- ron's study, now used as a temporary dining-room, the entire furniture of which is the same that was used by him : it is all very plain — indeed, ordinary. A good painting of a battle, over the sideboard, was also his. This apartment, per- haps beyond all others, deserves the attention of the pilgrim to Newstead, as more intimately connected with the poetical existence of Byron. It was here that he prepared for the press those first effusions of his genius, which were published at Newark under the title of « Hours of Idleness." It was here that he meditated, planned, and for the most part wrote, that splendid retort to the severe critique they had called down, which stamped him as the keenest satirist of the day. And it was here that his tender and beautiful verses to Mary, and many of those sweet pieces found among his miscellaneous poems, were com- posed. His bed-room is small, and still remains in the same state as when he occupied it. It con- tains Jittle worthy of notice besides the bed, which is of common size, with gilt posts, surmoun- ted by coronets. Over the fire-place is a picture of Murray the old family ser\ ant, who accompanied Byron to Gibraltar when he first went abroad. A picture of Henry VIII, and another portrait in this room, complete the enumeration of all the furniture or paintings of Byron's remaining at the Abbey- In some of the rooms are very cu- riously carved mantel-pieces with grotesque fi- gures, evidently of old date. In a corner of one of the galleries there still remained the fencing- foils, gloves, masks, and single-sticks, he used in his youth; and in a corner of the cloister lies a stone coffin taken from the burial-ground of the b XIV LIFE OF LORD IIYIION. Abbey. The ground floor contains some spacious lialls, and divers apartments lor domestic offices; and there is a neat little private chapel in the cloister, where service is performed on Sundays. Byron's sole recreation here was his hoat and dogs, and boxing and fencing for exercise, and to prevent a tendency to obesity— which he dreaded. — His constant employment was writing, for which he used to sit up as late as two or three o'clock in the morning. His life here was an en- tire seclusion, devoted to poetry." Lord Byron showed, even in his earliest years, that nature had added to the advantages of high i descent tbe richest gifts of genius and of fancy. ' His own tale is partly told in two lines of Lara : Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, Lord of himself, that heritage of woe. ' His first literary adventure and its fate are we'd ' remembered. The poems which he published in j his minority had, i ndeed, those faults of conception ; and diction which are inseparable from juvenile J attempts, and may rather he considered as imi- ] tative of what had caught the ear and fancy of j the youthful author, than as exhibiting origina- | lity of conception and expression. Yet though I there were many, and thosa not the worst ! judges, who discerned in his "Hours of Idleness" ! some depth of thought and felicity of expression, ; the work did not escape the critical lash of the J « Scotch Reviewers, » who could not resist the | opportunity of pouncing upon a titled poet, and of seeking to entertain their readers with a flip- pant article, without much respect to the feel- ings of the author, or even to the indications of merit which the work displayed. The review was read, and excited mirth ; the poems were neglected, the author was irritated, and took his revenge in keen iambics, which at once proved the injustice of the critic and the ripening ta- leuts of the bard. Having thus vented his indig- nation against the reviewers and their readers, and drawn all the laughers to his side, Lord By- ron went abroad, and the controversy was for some years forgotten. It was at Newstead, just before his coming of ^ge, that he planned his future travels; and his original intention included a much larger portion of the world than that which he afterwards vi- sited. He first thought of Persia, to which idea indeed he for a long time adhered. He after- wards meant to sail for India ; and had so far contemplated this project as to write for infor- mation to the Arabic professor at Cambridge, and to ask his mother to inquire of a friend who had lived in India, what things would be neces- sary for his voyage. He formed his plan of tra- velling upon very different grounds from those which he afterwards advanced. All men should travel atone time or another, he thought, and he had then no connexions to prevent him; when he returned he might enter into political life, for which travelling would not incapacitate him, and he wished to judge of men by experience. At length, in July, 1809, in company with John Cam Hobhouse, Esq. (with whom his acquaint- ance commenced at Cambridge), Lord Byron embarked at Falmouth for Lisbon, and thence proceeded, by the southern provinces of Spain, to the Mediterranean. The ohjects that he met with as far as Gibraltar seem to have occupied his mind, to the temporary exclusion of his gloomy and misanthropic thoughts; for a letter which he wrote to his mother from thence con- tains much playful description of the scenes through which he had passed. At Seville, Lord Byron lodged in the house of two ladies, one of whom was about to be married, and who, though he remained there only three days, paid him the most particular attention. At parting, she em- braced him with great tenderness, cutting off a lock of his hair, and presenting him with one of her own. With this specimen of Spanish female manners, he proceeded to Cadiz, where various incidents occurred to confirm the opinion he had formed at Seville of the Andalusian belles, and which made him leave it with regret, but with a determination to return to it. He wrote to his mother from Malta, announcing his safety, and again from Previsa, in November. Upon ar- riving at Yanina,he found that Ali Pacha was with his troops in Illyriura, besieging Ibrahim Pacha in Berat; but the vizier, having heard that an English nobleman was in his country, had given orders at Yanina to supply him with every kind of accommodation free of expense. From Yanina Lord Byron went to Tepaleen. Here he was lodged in the palace, and the next day intro- duced to Ali Pacha, who declared that he knew him to be a man of rank from the smallness of his ears, his curling hair, and his white hands. In going in a Turkish ship of war, provided by Ali Pacha, from Previsa, intending to sail lor Patras, Lord Byron was very nearly lost in a mo- derate gale of wind, from the ignorance of the Turkish officers and sailors, and was driven on the coast ofSuli, where an instance of disinter- ested hospitality in the chief of a Suliote village occurred. The honest Albanian, after assisting him in his distress, supplying his wants, and lodging him and his suite, refused to receive any remuneration. When Lord Byron pressed him to accept some money, he said, « I wish you to love me, not to pay me! » — At Yanina, on his return, he was introduced to Hussein Bey and Mahmout Pacha , two young children of Ali Pa- LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xv cha. He afterwards visited Smyrna, whence [12 went in the Salsette frigate to Constantinople. On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette was lying at anchor in the Dardanelles, Lord Byron, accompanied by Lieutenant Ekenhead, swam across the Hellespont from the European shore to the Asiatic — about two miles wide. The tide of the Dardanelles runs so strong, that it is im- possible either to swim or to sail to any given point. Lord Byron went from the castle to Aby- dos, landing full three miles below his meditated place of approach. He had a boat in attendance all the way ; so that no danger could be appre- hended, even if his strength had failed. His lord- ship records, in one of his minor poems, that he got the ague by the voyage; but it was well known , that after landing , he was so much exhausted, that he gladly accepted the offer of a Turkish fisherman, and reposed in his hut for se- veral hours. He was then \ery ill, and as Lieute- nant Ekenhead was compelled to go on board his frigate, he was left alone. The Turk had no idea of the rank or consequence of bis inmate, but paid him most marked attention. His wife was his nurse, and, at the end of five days, he left this asylum, completely recovered. When about to embark, the Turk gave him a large loaf, a cheese, a skin filled with wine, and a few paras (about a penny each), prayed Allah to bless him, and wished him safe home. When his lordship arrived at Abydos, he sent over his man Stefano to the Turk, with an assortment of fishing-nets, a fowling-piece, a brace of pistols, and twelve yards of silk to make gowns for his wife. The poorTurk wasastonished. « What a noble return,- said he, « for an act of humanity !» He then formed the resolution of crossing the Hellespont, in order to thank his lordship in person. His wife ap- proved of the plan; and he had sailed about half way across, when a sudden squall upset his boat, and the poor Turkish fisherman found a watery grave. Lord Byron was much distressed on hear- ing of the catastrophe, and, with all that kind- ness of heart which was natural to him, he sent the widow fifty dollars, and told her he would ever be her friend. This anecdote , so highly ho- nourable (o his lordship's memory, is very little known. Lieutenant Hare, who was on the spot at the time, furnished the particulars ; and added that, in the year 1817, Lord Byron, then pro- ceeding to Constantinople, landed at the same spot, and made a handsome present to the widow and her son. When residing at Mityfene he portioned eight young girls very liberally, and even danced with them at the marriage feast; he gave a cow to one man, horses to another, and cotton and silk to several girls who lived by weaving these materials : he also bought a new boat for a fisherman who had lost his own in a gale, and he often gave Greek testaments to the poor children. It was not until after Lord Byron arrived at Constantinople that he decided on not going to Persia, but to pass the following summer in the Morea. At Constantinople, Mr Hobhouse left him to return to England. On losing his com- panion, Lord Byron went alone, to many of the places which he had already visited, and studied scenery and manners, especially those of Greece, with the searching eye of a poet. His mind ap- peared occasionally to have some tendency to- wards a recovery from the morbid state of apathy which it had previously evinced; and the grati- fication he manifested on observing the superi- ority of England over other countries, proved that patriotism was far from being extinct in his bo- som. The embarrassed state of his affairs at length induced him to return home; and he ar- rived in the Volage frigate on the 2d of July,. 18 1 1 , having been absent two years. His health had not suffered by his travels, although it had been interrupted by two sharp fevers, in conse- quence of which he put himself on a vegetable diet, and drank no wine. Soon after his arrival, the serious illness of his mother summoned him to Newstead; buton reach- ing the Abbey, he found that she had breathed her last. He suffered much from this loss, and from the disappointment of not seeing her before her death; and while his feelings on the subject were still acute, he received the intelli- gence that a friend, whom he highly esteemed, had been drowned in the Cam. Not long before he had heard of the death, at Coimbra, of a school-fellow, to whom he was much attached. These three melancholy events, occurring within the space of a month, had a powerful effect on Lord Byron's feeiings. Towards the termination of his « English Bai'ds and Scotch Reviewers," the noble author had de- clared, that it was his intention to break off, from that period, his newly-formed connexion with the Muses, and that, should he return in safety from the « minarets » of Constantinople, the « maidens » of Georgia, and the « sublime snows » of Mount Caucasus, nothing on earth should tempt him to resume the pen. Such resolutions are seldom maintained. In February, 1812, the first two cantos of « Childe Harold's Pilgrimage » (with the manuscript of which he had presented Mr Dallas) made their appearance, and produced an effect on the public equal to that of any work which has been published within this or the last century. The indications of a powerful and original mind which glance through every line of Childe XVI LIFE OF LOUD 15 Y RON. Harold electrified the mass of readers, and placed at once upon Lord Byron's head ihe garland for which other men of genius have toiled long and ohtained late. He hecame pre-eminent among the literary men of his country by general accla- mation. Those who had somercilesslycensincd his juvenile essays were the first to pay homage to his more matured efforts ; while others, who saw in the sentiments ofChilde Harold much to regret and censure, did not withhold their tribute of applause to the depth of thought and force of expression which animated the « Pilgrimage. » Thus, as all admired the poem, all were prepared to greet the author with that fame which is the poet's best reward. It was amidst such feelings of admiration that Lord Byron fully entered on that public stage where, to the close of his life, he made so distinguished a figure. Every thing in his manner, person, and con- versation tended to maintain the charm which his genius had flung around him ; and those ad- mitted to his conversation, far from finding that the inspired poet sunk into ordinary mortality, felt themselves attached to him by many noble qua- lities, and by the interest of a mysterious and almost painful curiosity. It is well known how wide the doors of society are opened in London to literary merit very in- ferior to Lord Byron's, and that it is only neces- sary to be honourably distinguished by the public voice to move as a denizen in the first circles. This passport was not necessary to Lord Byron, who possessed the hereditary claims of birth and rank. But the interest which his genius attached to his presence and conversation, was of a nature far beyond what these hereditary claims could of themselves have conferred, and his reception was enthusiastic beyond any thing imaginable. Lord | Byron was not one of those literary men of whom it may be said, minuit prcesentia famam. A counte- nance, exquisitely modeled for the expression of feeling and passion, and exhibiting the remark- able contrast of very dark hair and eye-brows, with light eyes, presented to the physiognomist an interesting subject for the exercise of his art. The predominating expression was that of deep and habitual thought, which, when engaged in interesting discussion, gave way to so rapid a play of features, that a brother poet compared | them to the sculpture of a beautiful alabaster vase, seen only to perfection when lighted up from within. The flashes of mirth, gaiety, indig- nation, or satirical dislike which frequently ani- mated his countenance, might, during an even- ing's conversation, be mistaken by a stranger for its habitual expression, so happily was it formed for them all; but those who had an opportunity of studying his features for a length of time, and on various occasions of rest and emotion, knew that their proper language was that of melan- choly, which sometimes interrupted even his gayest and most happy moments. The following verses are said to have dropped from his pen, to excuse a transient expression of melancholy which overclouded the general gaiety: When from the heart where Sorrow sits, Her dusky shadow mounts too high, And o'er the changing aspect flits, And clouds the brow, or fills the eve — Heed not the {doom thai soon shall sink, Wv thoughts their dungeoa know too well; Buck to my breast the captives shrink, And bleed within their silent cell. It was impossible to notice a dejection belong- ing neither to the rank, the age, nor the success of this young nobleman, without feeling an inde- finable curiosity to ascertain whether it had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional tempera- ment. But, howsoever derived, this appearance of melancholy, added to his minglingin amusements and sports as if he contemned them, while he felt that his sphere was far above the fashionable and frivolous crowd that surrounded him, gave a strong effect of colouring to a character whose tints were otherwise decidedly romantic. Xoble and far descended, the pilgrim of distant and savage countries, eminent as a poet, and having cast around him a mysterious charm by the sombre tone of his poetry and the occasional melancholy of his deportment, Lord Byron occupied the eyes and interested the feelings of all. The enthu- siastic looked on him to admire, the serious with a wish to admonish, and the gentle with a desire to console. Even literary envy, a base sensation,, from which perhaps this age is more free than any other, forgave the man whose splendour dimmed the fame of his competitors. The gene- rosity of Lord Byron's disposition, his readiness to assist merit in distress, and to bring it forward where unknown, deserved and obtained general regard ; while his poetical effusions, poured forth with equal force and fertility, showed at once a daring confidence in his own powers, and a determination to maintain, by continued effort, the high place he had attained in British litera- ture. At one of the fashionable parties to which the noble bard was invited, His Majesty, then Prince Regent, happened to be present. Lord Byron was at some distance when he entered the room, but, on learning who he was, His Royal Highness sent a gentleman to desire that he would be present- ed. Of course the presentation took place ; the Regent expressed his admiration of «Childe Ha- rold's Pilgiimage," and entered into a cou versa- .' -. : : | tion which so fascinated the poet, that had it not heen for an accidentwhich deferred a levee intend- ed to have heen held the next day, he would have gone to court. Soon after, however, an unfor- tunate influence counteracted the effect of royal praise, and Byron permitted himself to write and speak disrespectfully of the prince. The whole of Byron's political career may he summed up in the following anecdotes : The Earl of Carlisle having declined to intro- duce him to the House of Peers, he resolved to introduce himself, and accordingly went there a little hefore the usual hour, when he knew few of the lords would be present. On entering he appeared rather abashed and looked very pale, but, passing the woolsack, where the Chancellor (Lord Eldon) was engaged in some of the ordi- nary routine of the house, he went directly to the table, where the oaths were administered to him. The Lord Chancellor then approached, and of- fered his hand in the most open friendly manner, congratulating him on his taking possession of his seat. Lord Byron only placed the tips of his fingers in the Chancellor's hand : the latter re- turned to his seat, and Byron, after lounging a few minutes on one of the opposition benches, retired. To Mr Dallas, who followed him out, he gave as a reason for not entering into the spirit of the Chancellor, « that it might have been sup- posed he would join the court party, whereas he intended to have nothing at all to do with po- litics. » He only addressed the house three times : the first of his speeches was on the Frame-work Bill ; the secoud in favour of the Catholic claims, which gave good hopes of his becoming an ora- tor; and the other related to a petition from Major Cartwright. Byron himself says, the Lords told him « his manner was not dignified enough for them, and would better suit the lower house ;» others say, they gathered round him while speaking, listening with the greatest attention — a sign at any rate that he was interesting. He always voted with the opposition, but evinced no likelihood of becoming the blindpartisan of either side. The enmity that Byron entertained towards the Earl of Carlisle was owing to two causes : the earl had spoken rather irreverently of the «. Hours of idleness,'- and had also refused to introduce his kinsman to the House of Lords, even, it is said, doubting his right to a seat in that honourable house. The Earl was a great admirer of the classic drama, and once published a pamphlet, in which he strenuously argued in behalf of the propriety and necessity of small theatres : the same day that this weighty publication appeared, he subscribed a thousaud pounds for some public LIFE OF LORD BYRON. purpose. On this occasion Byron composed the following epigram : Carlisle subscribes a thousand pound Out of his rich domains ; And for a sixpence circles round The produce of his brains : 'T is thus the difference you may hit Between his fortune and his wit. Byron retained to the last his antipathy to this relative. On reading some lines addressed to Lady Holland by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napo- leon, beginning Lady, reject the gift, ein. He immediately wrote the following parody : Lady, accept the gift a hero wore, In spite of all this elegiac stuff: Let not seven stanzas written by a bore Prevent your ladyship from taking snuff. On Byron's return from his first tour, Mr Dallas called upon him, and, after the usual salutations inquired if he was prepared with any other work to support the fame which he had already ac- quired. Byron in reply delivered to him a poem, entitled « Hints from Horace," being a paraphrase of the Art of Poetry. Mr Dallas promised to su- perintend its publication as he had done that of the satire; and, accordingly, it was carried to Caw- thorn the bookseller, and matters arranged; but Mr D. not thinking the poem likely to increase his lordship's reputation, allowed it to linger in the press. It began thus : Who would not laugh if Lawrence, hired to grace His costly canvas with each flatter'd face, Abused his art, till Nature with a blush Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his hrush ? Or should some limner join, for show or sale, A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ; Or low D*** (as once the world has seen) Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen — Not all that forced politeness which defends Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. Mr Dallas ha\ing expressed his sorrow that his lordship had written nothing else, Byron told him that he had occasionally composed some verses intheSpenserean measure, relative to the countries he had visited. « They are not worth troubling you with,» said his lordship, « but you shall have them all with you." He then handed him « Childe Harold's Pilgrimage." When Mr Dallas had read the poem, he was in raptures with it, and resolved to do his utmost to suppress the « Hints^ from Horace, » and bring out Childe Harold. He urged XVI 11 LIFE OF LORD UYRON. Byron to publish this last poem; but he was unwilling. He would not be convinced of the great merit of the « Chiltle,» and as some person bad seen it before Mr Dallas, and expressed dis- approbation, Byron was by no means sure of its kind reception by the world. In a short time afterwards, however, he agreed to its publication, and requested Mr Dallas not to deal with Caw- tborn, but to offer it to Miller of Albemarle Street : he wished a fashionable publisher. Miller declined it, chiefly on account of the strictures it contained on Lord Elgin, whose publisher he was. Longman had refused to publish the « Satire," and Byron would not suffer any of his works to come from that house. The work was therefore carried to Mr Murray j who had expressed a desire to publish for Lord Byron, and regretted that Mr Dallas had not taken the « English Bards and Scotch Be- viewers» to him; but this was after its success. Byron became accpiainted with Mr Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, at the Lakes. Hogg was stand- ing at the inn door of Ambleside, when a strapping young man came out of the house, and taking off his hat, held out his hand to him. The Shepherd did not know him, and appearing at a loss, the other relieved him by saying, « Mr Hogg, I hope you will excuse me; my name is Byron, and 1 cannot help thinking that we ought to hold our- I selves acquainted." The poets accordingly shook hands, and, while they continued at the Lakes, were on the most intimate terms, drinking deeply together, and laughing at their brother bards. On Byron's leaving the Lakes, he sent Hogg a letter quizzing the Lakists, which the Shepherd was so mischievous as to show to them. On the 2d of January, 181 5, Lord Byron mar- ried, at Seaham, in the county of Durham, Anne Isabella, only daughter of Sir Balph Millbank (since Noel), Bart. To this lady he had made a proposal twelve months before, but was rejected : well would it have been for their mutual hap- piness had that rejection been repeated. After their marriage, Lord and Lady Byron took a house in London, gave splendid dinner-parties, and launched into every sort of fashionable ex- travagance. This could not last long; the portion which his lordship received with Miss Millbank (ten thousand pounds) soon melted away; and, at length, an execution was actually levied on the furniture of his residence. It was then agreed that Lady Byron, who, on the 10th of December, i8i5, had presented her lord with a daughter, should pay a visit to her father till the storm was blown over, and some arrangements had been made with their creditors. From that visit she never returned, andaseparation ensued, for which j various reasons have been assigned; the real cause or causes, however, are upto this moment involved in mystery, though, as might be expected, a won- derful sensation was excited at the time, and every description of contradictory rumour was in active circulation. Byron was first introduced to Miss Millbank at Lady 's. In going up stairs he stumbled, and remarked to Moore, who accompanied him, that it was a bad omen. On entering the room, he perceived a lady more simply dressed than the rest sitting on a sofa. He asked Moore if she was a humble companion to any of the ladies. The latter replied, « She is a great heiress ; you'd better marry her, and repair the old place at Newstead.n The following anecdotes on the subject of his marriage are given from Lord Byron's Conversa- tions, in his own words: « There was something piquant, and what we term pretty, in Miss Millbank; her features were small and feminine, though not regular; she had the fairest skin imaginable; her figure Avas per- fect for her height, and there was a simplicity, a retired modesty about her, which was very cha- racteristic, and formed a happy contrast to the cold artificial formality and studied stiffness which is called fashion : she interested me ex- ceedingly. It is unnecessary to detail the pro- gress of our acquaintance : I became daily more attached to her, and it ended in my making her a proposal that was rejected; her refusal was couched in terms that could not offend me. I was besides persuaded that in declining my offer she was governed by the influence of her mother; and was the more confirmed in this opinion by her reviving our correspondence herself twelve months after. The tenor of her letter was, that although she could not love me, she desired njy friendship. Friendship is a dangerous w r ord for young ladies; it is love full-fledged, and waiting for a fine day to fly. « I was not so young when my father died, but that I perfectly remember him, and had very early a horror of matrimony, from the sight of domestic broils : this feeling came over me very strongly at my wedding. Something whispered me that I was sealing my own death-warrant. I am a great believer in presentiments: Socrates' demon was not a fiction ; Monk Lewis had his monitor; and Napoleon many warnings. At the last moment I would have retreated if I could have done so; I called to mind a friend of mine, who li3d married a young, beautiful, and rich girl, and yet was miserable; he had strongly urged me against putting my neck in the same yoke : and, to show you how firmly I was re- solved to attend to his advice, I betted Hay fifty LIFE OF LORD RYRON. xix guineas to one that I should always remain single. Six years afterwards, I sent him the money. The clay hefore I proposed to Lady Byron, I had no idea of doing so. « It had been predicted by Mrs Williams, that twenty-seven was to be a dangerous age for me; the fortune-telling witch was right; it was des- tined to prove so. I shall never forget the 2d of January ! Lady Byron (Byrn, he pronounced it) was the only unconcerned person present; Lady Noel, her mother, cried; I trembled like a leaf, made the wrong responses, and, after the ceremony, called her Miss Millbank. « There is a singular history attached to the ring; the very day the match was concluded, a ring of my mother's that had been lost was dug up by the gardener at Newstead. I thought it was sent on purpose for the wedding; but my mother's marriage had not been a fortunate one, and this ring was doomed to be the seal of an unhappier union still. « After the ordeal was over, we set off for a country-seat of Sir Ralph's, and I was surprised at the arrangements for the journey, and some- what out of humour to find a lady's maid stuck between me and my bride. It was rather too early to assume the husband, so I was forced to submit, but it was not with a very good grace. « I have been accused of saying, on getting into the carriage, that I had married Lady Byron out of spite, and because she had refused me twice. Though I was for a moment vexed at her prudery, or whatever it may be called, if I had made so uncavalier, not to say brutal, a speech, I am convinced Lady Byron would instantly have left the carriage to me and the maid (1 mean the lady's); she had spirit enough to have done so, and would properly have resented the affront. « Our honey-moon was not all sunshine, it had its clouds; and Hobhouse has some letters which would serve to explain the rise and fall in the barometer; but it was never down at zero. A curious thing happened to. me shortly after the h< onev-moon, w hich was very awkward at the time, but has since amused me much. It so happened that three married women were on a wedding visit to my wife (and in the same room at the same time), whom I had known to be all birds of the same nest. Fancy the scene of con- fusion that ensued ! « The world says I married Miss Millbank for her fortune, because she was a great heiress. All I have ever received, or am likely to receive (and that has been twice paid back too), was 10,000/. My own income at this period was small and somewhat bespoke. Newstead was a very unprofitable estate, and brought me in a bare i5oo/. a year; the Lancashire property was hampered with a law-suit, which has cost me i4,ooo/., and is not yet finished. « I heard afterwards that Mrs Charlraent had been the means of poisoning Lady Noel's mind against me; that she had employed herself and J others in watching me in London, and had re- \ ported having traced me into a house in Port- land-Place. There was one act unworthy of 'anyone but such a confidante; I allude to the , breaking open my writing-desk : a book was \ found in it that did not do much credit to my • taste in literature, and some letters from a mar- j ried woman with whom I had been intimate before my marriage. The use that was made of the latter was most unjustifiable, whatever may be thought of the breach of confidence that led to their discovery. Lady Byron sent them to the 1 husband of the lady, who had the good sense to ! take no notice of their contents. The gravest j accusation that has been made against ine is that of having intrigued with Mrs Mardyn in my own house, introduced her to my own table, etc.; there never was a more unfounded calumny. Being on the Committee of Drury-Lane Theatre, I have no doubt that several actresses called on me; but as to Mrs Mardyn, who was a beautiful woman, and might have been a dangerous visi- tress, I was scarcely acquainted (to speak) with her. I might even make a more serious charge against than employing spies to watch sus- pected amours. I had been shut up in a dark street in London writing ' The Siege of Corinth,' and had refused myself to every one till it was finished. I was surprised one day by a doctor and a lawyer almost forcing themselves at the same time into my room; I did not know till afterwards the real object of their visit. I thought their questions singular, frivolous, and somewhat importunate, if not impertinent; but what should I have thought if I had known that they were sent to provide proofs of my insanity? I have no doubt that my answers to these emis- saries' interrogations were not very rational or consistent, for my imagination was heated by other things; but Dv Baillie could not conscien- tiously make me out a certificate for Bedlam, and perhaps the lawyer gave a more favourable report to his employers. The doctor said after- wards he had been told that I always, looked down when Lady Byrcn bent her eyes on me, and exhibited other symptoms equally infallible, particularly those that marked the late king's case so strongly. I do not, however, tax Lady Byron with this transaction : probably she was not privy to it; she was the tool of others. Her mother always detested me : she had not even the decency to conceal it in her own house. Dining one day at Sir Ralph's (who was a good ._ XX LIFI<; OF LORD HYKON. sort of man, and of whom you may form some idea, when 1 tell yon that a leg of mutton was always served at his tahle, that he might cut the same joke upon it), I hroke a tooth, and was in great pain, which I could not avoid showing. ' It will do you good,' said Lady Noel; ' I am glad of it !' I gave her a look ! « Lady Byron had good ideas, hut could never express them ; wrote poetry too, hut it was only good hy accident; her letters were always enig- matical, often unintelligible. She was easily made the dupe of the designing, for she thought her knowledge of mankind infallible. She had got some foolish idea of Madame de Stael's into her head, that a person may he better known in the first hour than in ten years. She had the habit of drawing people's characters after she had seen them once or twice. She wrote pajyes on pages about my character, but it was as unlike as possible. She was governed by what she called fixed rules and principles, squared mathe- matically. She would have made an excellent wrangler at Cambridge. It must be confessed, however, that she gave no proof of her boasted consistency; first she refused me, then she ac- cepted me, then she separated herself from me— so much for consistency. 1 need not tell you of the obloquy and opprobrium that were cast upon my name when our separation was made public . I once made a list from the journals of the day of the different worthies, ancient and modern, to whom I was compared : I remember a few,— Nero, Apicius, Epicurus, Caligula, Heliogabalus, Henry the Eighth, and lastly, the .All my former friends, even my cousin George Byron, who had been brought up with me, and whom 1 loved as a brother, took my wife's part: he fol- lowed the stream when it was strongest against me, and can never expect any thing from me ; he shall never touch a sixpence of mine. I was looked upon as the worst of husbands, the most abandoned and wicked of men ; and my wife as a suffering angel, an incarnation of all the vir- tues and perfections of the sex. I was abused in the public prints, made the common talk of pri- vate companies, hissed as I went to the House of Lords, insulted in the streets, afraid to go to the theatre, whence the unfortunate Mrs Mardyn had been driven with insult. The Examiner was the only paper that dared say a word in my defence, and Lady Jersey the only person in the fashionable world that did not look upon me as a monster. » k In addition to all these mortifications, my affairs were irretrievably involved, and almost so as to make me what they wished. 1 was com- pelled to part with Newstead, which I never could have ventured to sell in my mother's life- time. As it is, I shall never forgive myself for having done so, though I am told that the estate would not now bring half as much as I got for it: this does not at all reconcile me to having parted with the old Abbey. I did not make up my mind lo this step but from the last necessity; I had my wife's portion to repay, and was deter- mined to add 10,000/. more of my own to it, which I did : I always hated being in debt, and do not owe a guinea. The moment I had put my affairs in train, and in little more than eighteen months after my marriage, I left Eng- land, an involuntary exile, intending it should be for ever.» We shall here avail ourselves of some obser- vations by a powerful and elegant critic,' whose, opinions on the personal character of Lord Byron, as well as on the merits of his poems, are, from their originality, candour, and discrimination, of considerable weight. « The charge against Lord Byron, » says this writer , « is , not that he fell a victim to ex- cessive temptations, and a combination of cir- cumstances, which it required a rare and extra- ordinary degree of virtue, wisdom, prudence, and steadiness to surmount; but that he aban- doned a situation of uncommon advantages , and fell weakly, pusillanimously, and selfishly, when victory would have been easy, and when defeat do ignor In reply to this chai not deny that Lord Byron inherited some very desirable, and even enviable privileges, in the lot of life which fell to his share. I should falsify my own sentiments if I treated lightly the gift of an ancient English peerage, and a name of honour and venerable antiquity ; but without a fortune competent to that rank, it is not a bed of roses, nay, it is attended with many and ex- treme difficulties, and the difficulties are exactly- such as a genius and temper like Lord Byron's were least calculated to meet — at any rate, least calculated to meet under the peculiar collateral circumstances in which he was placed. His in- come was very narrow ; his Newstead property left him a very small disposable surplus ; his Lancashire property was , in its condition , etc. unproductive. A profession, such as the army, might have lessened, or almost annihilated the difficulties of his peculiar position; but probably his lameness rendered this impossible. He seems to have had a love of independence , which was noble, and probably even an intractability; but this temper added to his indisposition to bend and adapt himself to his lot. A dull, or supple, or intriguing man , without a single good quality of head or heart, might have managed it much 1 Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart. LIFE OF LORD BYRON. better; he might have made himself subservient to government, and wormed himself into some lucrative place; or he might have lived meanly, conformed himself stupidlv or cringingly to all humours, and heen borne onward on the wings of societv with little personal expense. «Lord Bvron was of another quality and tem- perament. If the world would not conform to ; him, still less would be conform to the world. He I had all the manly, baronial pride of his ances- tors, though he had not all their wealth, and their means of generosity, hospitality, and pa- tronage. He had the will, alas ! without the power. ■ With this temper, these feelings, this genius, exposed to a combination of such untoward and trving circumstances, it would indeed have been inimitably praiseworthy if Lord Bvron could have been alwavs wise, prudent, calm, correct, pure, virtuous, and unassailable : — if he could | have shown all the force and splendour of his mighty poetical energies, without any mixture ; of their clouds, their baneful lightnings, or their storms : — if he could have preserved all his sensi- bility to every kind and noble passiou, vet have remained placid, and unaffected by the attack of any blameable emotion; — that is, it would have been admirable if he had been an angel, and not a man! ■ Unhappily, the outrages he received, the gross calumnies which were heaped upon him, even in the time of his highest favour with the public, turned the delights of his very davs of triumph to poison, and gave him a sort of moodv, fierce, and violent despair, which led to humours, acts, and words, that mutually aggravated the ill will and the offences between him and his assail- ants. There was a daring spirit in his temper and his talents, which was alwavs inflamed rather than corrected by opposition. ■ In this most unpropitious state of things, every thing that went wrong was attributed to Lord Byron, and, when once attributed, was as- sumed and argued upon as an undeniable fact. Yet, to my mind, it is quite clear, —quite unat- tended by a particle of doubt,— that in many things in which he has been the most blamed, he was the absolute victim of misfortune; that un- propitious trains of events (for I do not wish to shift the blame on others) led to explosions and consequent derangements, which no cold, prudent pretender to extreme propriety and correctness could have averted or met in a manner less blameable than that in which Lord Bvron met it. « It is not easy to conceive a character less fitted to conciliate general society by his manners and habits than that of Lord Bvron. It is pro- bable that he could make his address and con- versation pleasing to ladies when he chose to please; but, to the voung dandies of fashion, noble and ignoble, he must have been very repulsive : as long as he continued to be the ton,— the lion, — they may have endured him without opening their mouths, because he had a frown and a lash which they were not willing to encounter; but when his back was turned, and they thought it safe, I do not doubt that they burst out into full cry I I have heard complaints of his vanity, his peevishness, his desire to monopolize distinction, his dislike of all hobbies but his own. It is not improbable that there may have been some foun- dation for these complaints : I am sorry for it if there was ; I regret such littlenesses. -And then another part of the story is probably left untold : we hear nothing of the provocations given him ; — sly hints, curve of the lip, side looks, treache- rous smiles, flings at poetry, shrugs at noble au- thors, slang jokes, idiotic bets, enigmatical ap- pointments, and boasts of being senseless brutes! We do not hear repeated the jest of the glory of the Jew, that buys the ruined peer's falling castle; the d — d good fellow, that keeps the finest stud and the best hounds in the countrv out of the snippings and odds and ends of his contract; and the famous good match that the duke's daughter is going to make with Dick Wiglv, the son of the rich slave-merchant at Liverpool ! We do not hear the clever dry jests whispered round the table by Mr — — , eldest son of the new and rich Lord , by young Mr , only son of Lord — , the ex-lords A., B., and C, sons of the three Irish Union earls, great borough-holders, and the very grave and sarcastic Lord . who believes that he has the monopoly of all the talents and all the political and legislative knowledge of the king- dom, and that a poet and a bellman are onlv fit to be yoked together. « Thus, then, was this illustrious and mighty poet driven into exile ! Yes, driven ! Who would live in a country in which he had been so used, even though it was the land of his nativity, the land of a thousand noble ancestors, the land of freedom, the land where his head had been crowned with laurels, — but where his heart had been tortured ; where all his most generous and most noble thoughts had been distorted and ren- dered ugly, and where his slightest errors and indiscretions had been magnified into hideous crimes?" Lord Byron's own opinions on the connubial state are thus related by Captain Parrv : — ■ There are, » said his lordship, « so many un- definable, and nameless, and not-to-be named causes of dislike, aversion, and disgust, in the ma- trimonial state, that it is always impossible for the public, or the best friends of the parties, to XXII LIFE OF LORD BYRON. judge between man and wife. Theirs is a relation about which nobody but themselves can form a correct idee, or have any right to speak. As long as neither party commits gross injustice towards the other; as long as neither the woman nor the man is guilty of any offence which is injurious to the community ; as long as the husband provides for his offspring, and secures the public against the dangers arising from their neglected educa- tion, or from the charge of supporting them; by what right does it censure him for ceasing to dwell under the same roof with a woman, who is to him, because he knows her, while others do not, an object of loathing? Can any thing be more monstrous than for the public voice to com- pel individuals who dislike each other to con- tinue their cohabitation? This is at least the effect of its interfering with a relationship, of which it has no possible means of judging. It does not indeed drag a man to a woman's bed by physical force, but it does exert a moral force continually and effectively to accomplish the same purpose. Nobody can escape this force but those who are too high, or those who are too low, for public opinion to reach ; or those hypocrites who are, before others, the loudest in their ap- probation of the empty and unmeaning forms of society, that they may securely indulge all their propensities in secret. 1 have suffered amazingly from this interference ; for though I set it at de- fiance, I was neither too high nor too low to be reached by it, and I was not hypocrite enough to guard myself from its consequences. « What do they say of my family affairs in England, Parry ? My story, I suppose, like other minor events, interested the people for a day, and was then forgotten?" I replied, no; I thought, owing to the very great interest the pub- lic took in him, it was still remembered and talked about. I mentioned that it was generally supposed a difference of religious sentiments be- tween him and Lady Byron had caused the pub- lic breach. « No, Parry, » was the reply; « Lady Byron has a liberal mind, particularly as to religious opinions; and I wish, when I married her, that I had possessed the same command over myself that 1 now do. Had I possessed a little more wisdom, and more forbearance, we might have been happy. I wished, when 1 was first married, to have remained in the country, particularly till my pecuniary embarrassments were over. I knew the society of London ; I knew the characters of many of those who are called ladies, with whom Lady Byron would necessarily have to associate, and I dreaded her contact with them. But I have too much of my mother about me to be dictated to : I like freedom from constraint ; I hate arti- ficial regulations : my conduct has always been dictated by my own feelings, and Lady Byron was quite the creature of rules. She was not permitted either to ride, or run, or walk, but as the physician prescribed. She was not suffered to go out when I wished to go : and then the old house was a mere ghost-house ; I dreamed of ghosts, and thought of them waking. It was an existence I could not support." Here Lord Byron broke off abruptly, saying, « I hate to speak of my family affairs; though 1 have been compelled to talk nonsense concerning them to some of my butterfly visitors, glad on any terms to get rid of their importunities. I long to be again on the mountains. I am fond of solitude, and should never talk nonsense if I always found plain men to talk to. » In the spring of 1816, Lord Byron quitted England, to return to it no more. He crossed over to France, through which he passed rapidly to Brussels, taking in his way a survey of the field of Waterloo. He then proceeded to Coblentz, and up the Rhine to Basle. He passed the summer on the banks of the lake of Geneva. With what enthusiasm he enjoyed its scenery, his own poetry soon exhibited to the world. The third canto of Childe Harold, Manfred, and the Pri- soner of Chillon were composed at the Campayno Diodati, at Coligny, a mile from Geneva. The anecdotes that follow are given as his lordship related them to Captain Medwin : « Switzerland is a country I have been satisfied with seeing once; Turkey I could live in for ever. I never forget my predilections. I was in a wretched state of health, and worse spirits, when I was at Geneva; but quiet and the lake, physi- cians better than Polidori, soon set me up. I never led so moral a life as during my residence in that country; but I gained no credit by it. Where there is a mortification, there ought to be reward. On the contrary, there is no story so absurd that they did not invent at my cost. I was watched by glasses on the opposite side of the lake, and by glasses too that must have had very distorted optics. I was waylaid in my even- ing drives — I was accused of corrupting all the grisetles in the rue Basse. I believe that they looked upon me as a man-monster worse than the piqueur.a « I knew very few of the Genevese. Hentsh was very civil to me ; and I have a great respect for Sismondi. I was forced to return the civili- ties of one of their professors by asking him, and an old gentleman, a friend of Gray's, to dine with me. I had gone out to sail early in the morning, and the wind prevented me from re- turning in time for dinner. I understand that I offended them mortally. Polidori did the ho- nours. LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xxm « Among our countrymen I made no new ac- quaintances ; Shelley, Monk Lewis, and Hob- house were almost the only English people I saw. >o wonder; I showed a distaste for society at that time, and went little among the Genevese ; be- sides, I could not speak French. What is become of my boatman and boat? I suppose she is rot- ten ; she was never worth much. When I went the tour of the lake in her with Shelley and Hob- house, she was nearly wrecked near the very spot where Saint-Prenx and Julia were in danger of being drowned. It would have been classical to have been lost there, but not so agreeable. Shel- lev was on the lake much ofteuer than I, at all hoars of the night and dav : he almost lived on it ; his great rage is a boat. We are both build- ing now at Genoa, I a yacht, and he an open boat." « Somebody possessed Madame de Stael with an opinion of my immorality. I used occasion- ally to visit her at Coppet ; and once she invited me to a familv-dinner. and I found the room full of strangers, who had come to stare at me as at some outlandish beast in a raree-show. One of the ladies fainted, and the rest looked as if his satanic majesty had been among them. Madame de Stael took the liberty to read me a lecture be- fore this crowd, to which I only made her a low bow.» ■ His lordship's travelling equipage was rather a singular one, and afforded a strange catalogue for the Dogana : seven servants, five carriages, nine horses, a monkey, a bull-dog and mastiff, two cats, three pea-fowls and some hens (I do not know whether I have classed them in order of rank), formed part of his Jive stock ; these, and all his books, consisting of a very large library of modern works (for he bought all the best that came out), together with a vast quantity of furni- ture, might well be termed, with Caesar, ' impe- diments.'" From the commencement of the year 1817 to that of 1820, Lord Byron's principal residence was Venicewhere he continued to employ himself in poetical composition with an energy still in- creasing. He wrote there the Lament of Tasso, the fourth canto of Childe Harold, the dramas of Marino Faliero, and the Lwo Foscari ; Beppo, Mazeppa, and the earlier cantos of Don Juan. Considering these only with regard to intel- lectual activity and force, there can be no diffe- rence of opinion ; though there may be as to their degree of poetical excellence, the class in the scale of literary merit to which they belong, and their moral, religious, and political tendencies. Lhe Lament of Tasso, which abounds in the most perfect poetry, is liable to no countervailing ob- jection on the part of the moralist. I Manfred was the first of Lord Byron's dramatic poems, and, is perhaps the finest. The melan- choly is more heartfelt, and the stern haughtiness i of the principal character is altogether of an in- tellectual cast : the conception of this character is Miitonic. The poet has made him worthy to abide amongst those « palaces of nature," those 1 ■ icy ha!!s.=> « where forms and falls the ava- lanche." Manfred stands up against the stupen- ' dous scenery of the poem, and is as lofty, tower- ing, and grand as the mountains : when we picture him in imagination he assumes a shape of height and independent dignity, shining in its own splendour amongst the snowy summits which he was accustomed to climb. The passion, in this composition, is fervid and impetuous, deep and full throughout, while the music of the language j is solemn and touching. The first idea of the ' descriptive passages of this beautiful poem will ' be easily recognised in the following extract from Lord Bvron's travelling memorandum-book. « Sept. 22, 1816. Left Thun in a boat, which carried us the length of this lake in three hours. The lake small, but the banks fiue— rocks down to the water's edge — landed at^ewhouse. Passed Interlachen — entered upon a range of scenes beyond all description or previous conception. Passed a rock bearing an inscription — two bro- thers — one murdered the other— just the place for it. After a variety of windings came to an enormous rock — arrived at the foot of the moun- tain (the Jnngfraw] — glaciers — torrents — one of these 900 feet visible descent — lodge at the cu- rate's — set out to see the valley— heard an ava- lanche fall, like thunder! — glaciers enormous — storm comes on — thunder and lightning, and hail! all in perfection and beautiful. The tor- rent is in share, curving over the rock, like the tail of the white horse streaming in the wind — just as might be conceived would be that of the ' Pale Horse,' on which Death is mounted in the Apocalypse. It is neither mist nor water, but a something between both; its immense height gives it a wave, a curve, a spreading here, a con- dension there — wonderful — indescribable. ■ Sept 23. Ascent of the Wingreu, the Dent dargent shining like truth on one side, on the other the clouds rose from the opposite valley, curling up perpendicular precipices, like the foam of the ocean of hell dating a spring tide ! It was white and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in appearance. The side we ascended was of course not of so precipitous a nature, but on arriving at the summit we looked down on the other side upon a boiling sea of cloud, dashing against the crag on which we stood. Arrived at the Green- derwold ; mounted and rede to the higher gla- cier — twilight, but distinct — verv fine — glacier XXIV LIFE OF LORD BYRON. like a frozen hurricane— starlight beautiful — the whole of the day was fine, and, in point of wea- ther, as the day in which Paradise was made. Passed whole woods of withered pines — all wi- thered—trunks stripped and lifeless— done hy a single winter.» Of lord Byron's tragedies we shall merely re- mark, with reference to the particular nature of their tragic character, that their effect is rather grand, terrible, and terrific, than mollifying, sub- duing, or pathetic. As dramatic poems they possess much beauty and originality. The style and nature of the poem of Don Juan forms a singularly felicitous mixture of burlesque and pathos, of humorous observation and the higher elements of poetical composition. Never was the English language festooned into more luxurious stanzas than in Don Juan : the noble author shows an absolute control over his means, and at every cadence, rhyme, or construction, however whimsical, delights us with novel and magical associations. We heartily wish, that the fine poetry so richly scattered through the sixteen cantos of this most original and astonish- ing production, had not been mixed up with much that is equally frivolous as foolish ; and sincerely do we regret, that the alloying dross of sensuality should run so freely through the other- wise rich vein of the author's verse. Whilst at Venice, Byron displayed a noble in- stance of generosity. The house of a shoemaker, near his lordship's residence in St Samuel, was burnt to the ground, with every article it con- tained, and the proprietor reduced with a large family to the greatest indigence. When his lord- ship ascertained the afflicting circumstances of that calamity, he not only ordered a new and superior habitation to be immediately built for the sufferer, the whole expense of which was borne by him, but also presented the unfortunate trades- man with a sum equal in value to the whole of his lost stock in trade and furniture. Lord Byron avoided as much as possible any intercourse with his countrymen at Venice; and this seems to have been in a great measure neces- sary in order to prevent the intrusion of imperti- nent curiosity. In the appendix to one of his poems, written with reference to a book of travels, the author of which disclaimed any wish to be introduced to the noble lord, he loftily and sar- castically chastises the incivility of such a gra- tuitous declaration, expresses his « utter abhor- rence of any contact with the travelling English;" and thus concludes : « Except Lords Lansdowne, Jersey, and Lauderdale, Messrs. Scott, Hammond, Sir Humphrey Davy, the late Mr Lewis, W. Bankes, M. Hoppner, Thomas Moore, Lord Kin- naird, his brother, Mr Joy, and Mr Hobhouse, I do not recollect to have exchanged a word with another Englishman since I left their country, and almost all these I had known before. The others, and God knows there were some hundreds, who bored me with letters or visits, I refused to have any communication with ; and shall be proud and happy when that wish becomes mutual." After a residence of three years at Venice, Lord Byron removed to Bavenna, towards the close of the year 1819. Here he wrote the Pro- phecy of Dante, which exhibited a new specimen of the astonishing variety of strength and ex- pansion of faculties he possessed and exercised. About the same time he wrote Sardanapalus, a tragedy; Cain, a mystery; and Heaven and Earth, a mystery. Though there are some obvious rea- sons which render Sardanapalus unfit for the English stage, it is, on the whole, the most splendid specimen which our language affords of that species of tragedy which was the exclusive object of Lord Byron's admiration. Cain is one of the productions which has subjected its noble author to the severest denunciations, on account of the crime of impiety alleged against it; as it seems to have a tendency to call in question the benevolence of Providence. In answer to the loud and general outcry which this production occasioned, Lord Byron observed, in a letter to his publisher, « If 'Cain' be blasphemous, 'Pa- radise Lost' is blasphemous, and the words of the Oxford gentleman, 'Evil, be thou my good,' are from that very poem from the mouth of Satan ; and is there any thing more in that of Lucifer in the mystery? 'Cain' is nothing more than a drama, not a piece of argument : if Lu- cifer and Caiu speak as the first rebel and first murderer may be supposed to speak, nearly all the rest of the personages talk also according to their characters; and the stronger passions have ever been permitted to the drama. I have avoided introducing the Deity as in scripture, though Milton does, and not very wisely either : but have adopted his angel as sent to Cain in- stead, on purpose to avoid shocking any feelings on the subject, by falling short of what all un- inspired men must fall short in, viz. giving an adequate notion of the effect of the presence of Jehovah. The old mysteries introJuced him libe- rally enough, and all this I avoided in the new one. » An event occurred at Bavenna during his lordship's stay there, which made a deep impres- sion on him, and to which he alludes in the fifth canto of Don Juan. The military commandant of the place, suspected of being secretly a Carbo- naro, but too powerful a man to be arrested, was assassinated opposite Lord Byron's palace. His lordship had his foot in the stirrup at the usual hour of exercise, when his horse started at the LIFE OF LORD BYRON. XXV report of a gun : on looking up, Lord Byron per- ceived a man throw down a carbine and run away at full speed, and another man stretched upon the pavement a few yards distant ; it was the unhappy commandant. A crowd was soon collected, but no one ventured to offer the least assistance. Lord Byron directed his servant to lift up the bleeding body, and carry it into his pa- lace ; though it was represented to him that by doing so he would confirm the suspicion, which was already entertained, of his belonging to the same party. Such an apprehension could have had no effect on Byron's mind when an act of humanity was to be performed : he assisted in bearing the victim of assassination into the house, and putting him on a bed; but he was already dead from several wounds. « He appeared to have breathed his last without a struggle," said his lordship, when afterwards recounting the affair. « T never saw a countenance so calm. His adjutant followed the corpse into the house; I remember his lamentation over him : — 'Povero diavolo ! non aveva fatto male, anche ad an cane.'» The fol- lowing were the noble writer's poetical reflections (in Don Juan) on viewing the dead body : -I gozed (as oft I gazed the same) To try if I could wrench aught out of death, Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; But it was all a mystery : — here we are, And there \ve go : — but where 1 Five bits of lead, Or three, or two, or one, send very far. And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed? Can every element our elements mar? And air, earth, water, fire, — live, and we ilead ? We whose minds comprehend all things! — No more : But let us to the story as before. That a being of such capabilities should ab- stractedly, and without an attempt to throw the responsibility on a fictitious personage, have avowed such startling doubts, was a daring which, whatever might have been his private opinion, he ought not to have hazarded. « It is difficult," observes Captain Medwin, « to judge, from the contradictory nature of his writ- ings, what the religious opinions of Lord Byron really were. From the conversations I held with him, on the whole, I am inclined to think that, if he were occasionally sceptical, and thought it, as he says in Don Juan, A pleasant voyage, perhaps, to float Like Pyrrho, in a sea of speculation, yet his wavering never amounted to a disbelief in the divine Founder of Christianity. « Calling on him one day,» continues the Cap- tain, « we found him, as was sometimes the case, silent, dull, and sombre. At length he said : 'Here is a little book somebody has sent me about Christianity, that has made me very un- comfortable; the reasoning seems to me very strong, the proofs are very staggering. I don't think you can answer it, Shelley, at least I am sure I can't, and what is more, I don't wish it.' « Speaking of Gibbon, Lord Byron said: 'L — B thought the question set at rest in the History of the Decline and Fall, but I am not so easily convinced. It is not a matter of volition to unbelieve. Who likes to own that he has been a fool all his life, — to unlearn all that he has been taught in his youth, or can think that some of the best men that ever lived have been fools? I don't know why I am considered an unbeliever. I disowned the other day that I was of Shelley's school in metaphysics, though I admired his poetry ; not but what he has changed his mode of thinking very much since he wrote the notes to « Queen Mab, » which I Avas accused of having a hand in. I know, how- ever, that I am considered an infidel. My wife and sister, when they joined parties, sent me prayer-books. There Avas a Mr Mulock, who went about the continent preaching orthodoxy in politics and religion, a writer of bad sonnets, and a lecturer in worse prose, — he tried to con- vert me to some new sect of Christianity. He was a great anti-materialist, and abused Locke.' «On another occasion he said : 'I have just received a letter from a Mr Sheppard, inclosing a prayer made for my welfare by his wife a few days before her death. The letter states that he has had the misfortune to lose this amiable wo- man, Avho had seen me at Ramsgate, many years ago, rambling among the cliffs ; that she had been impressed Avith a sense of my irreligion from the tenor of my works, and had often prayed fervently for my conversion, particularly in her last moments. The prayer is beautifully Avritten. I like devotion in Avomen. She must have been a divine creature. I pity the man Avho has lost her ! I shall Avrite to him by re- turn of the courier, to condole with him, and tell him that Mrs S. need not have entertained any concern for my spiritual affairs, for that no man is more of a christian than I am, whatever my Avritings may have led her and others to suspect.'" In the autumn of 182 1, the noble bard re- moved to Pisa, in Tuscany. He took up his resi- dence in the Lanfranchi Palace, and engaged in an intrigue Avith the beautiful Guiccioli, wife of the count of that name, which connexion, Avith more than his usual constancy, he maintained for nearly three years ; during which period the countess Avas separated from her husband, on an application from the latter to the Pope. The folloAving is a sketch of this « fair en- chantress, » as taken at the time the liaison Avas \\\ 1 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. formed between her ami Byron. « The coun- tess is twenty-three years of age, though she ap- pears no more than seventeen or eighteen. Unlike most of the Italian women, her complexion is delicately fair. Her eyes, large, dark, and lan- guishing, are shaded by the longest eye-lashes in the world; and her hair, which is ungathered on her head, plays over her falling shoulders in a profusion of natural ringlets of the darkest auburn. Her figure is, perhaps, too much em- bonpoint for her height; but her bust is perfect. Her features want little of possessing a Grecian regularity of outline; and she has the most beau- tiful mouth and teeth imaginable. It is impos- sible to see without admiring — to hear the Guic- cioli speak without being fascinated. Her amia- bility and gentleness show themselves in every intonation of her voice, which, and the music of her perfect Italian, give a peculiar charm to every thing she utters. Grace and elegance seem component parts of her nature. Notwithstanding that she adores Lord Byron, it is evident that the exile and poverty of her aged father some- times affect her spirits, and throw a shade of melancholy on her countenance, which adds to the deep interest this lovely woman creates. Her ! conversation is lively, without being learned; she I has read all the best authors of her own and the j French language. She often conceals what she j knows, from the fear of being thought to know too much, possibly from being aware that Lord Byron was not fond of blues. He is certainly very much attached to her, without being ac- tually in love. His description of the Georgioni in the Manfrini Palace at Venice is meant for the countess. The beautiful sonnet perfixed to the 'Prophecy of Dante' was addressed to her. » The annexed lines, written by Byron when he was about to quit Venice to join the countess at Bavenna, will show the state of his feelings at that time : River » that rollest by the ancient -walls Where dwells the lady of my love, when she Walks by the brink, and there perchance recals A faint and fleeting memory of me : What if thy deep and ample stream should be A mirror of my heart, where she may read The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ? What do I sav — a mirror of my heart ? Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong ? Such as mv feelings were and are, thou art ; And such as thou art, were my passions long. Time may have somewhat tamed them; not for ever Thou overflow'st thy banks ; and not for aye Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away — ' The Po. Eut left long wrecks behind them, and again Borne on our old unchanged career, we move ; ThoD teodest wildly onward 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 ; Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. She will look on thee ; I have look'd on thee Full of that thought, and from that moment ne'er Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, Without the inseparable sigh for her. Her bright eyes Mill 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 : Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep I Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore j I near thy source, she bj the dark blue deep. But that which keepeth u-; apart is not Distance, nor depth of wave nor space of earth. But the distraction of a various lot, As various as the climates of our birth. A stranger loves a lady of the land, Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. My blood is all meridian ; were it not, I had not left mv clime : — I shall not be, In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, A slave again of love, at least of thee. 'T is vain to struggle — let me perish young — Live as 1 lived, and love as I have loved : To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, And then at least my heart can ne'er be moved. It is impossible to conceive a more unvaried •ife than Lord Byron led at this period in the society of a few select friends. Billiards, conver- sation, or reading, fdled up the intervals till it was time to take the evening-drive, ride, and pistol -practice. He dined at half an hour after sun-set, then drove to Count Gamba's, the Coun- tess Guiccioli's father, passed several hours in her society, returned to his palace, and either read or wrote till two or three in the morning; occasionally drinking spirits diluted with water as a medicine, from a dread of a nephritic com- plaint, to which he was, or fancied himself, subject. While Lord Byron resided at Pisa, a serious affray occurred, in which he was personally con- cerned. Taking his usual ride, with some friends, one of them was violently jostled by a serjeant- major of hussars, who dashed, at full speed, | through the midst of the party. They pursued I and overtook him near the Piaggia gate ; but LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xxvii their remonstrances were answered only by abuse and menace, and an attempt on the part of the guard at the gate to arrest them. This occasioned a severe scuffle, in which several of Lord Byron's party were wounded, as was also the hussar. The consequence was, that all Lord Byron's servants (who were warmly attached to him, and had shown great ardour in his defence) were banished from Pisa; and with them the Counts Gamba, father and son. Lord Byron was himself advised to leave it ; and as the countess accompanied her father, he soon after joined them at Leghorn, and passed six weeks at Monte Nero. His return to Pisa was occasioned by a new persecution of the Counts Gamba. An order was issued for them to leave the Tuscan states in four days ; and after their embarkation for Genoa, the countess and Lord Byron openly lived together at the Lanfranchi Palace. It was at Pisa that Byron wrote .< Werner, » a tragedy ; the « Deformed Transformed," and con- tinued his « Don Juan» to the end of the sixteenth canto. Lord Byron's acquaintance with Leigh Hunt, the late editor of the Examiner, originated in his grateful feeling for the manner in which Mr Hunt stood forward in his justification, at a time when the current of public opinion ran strongly against him. This feeling induced him to invite Mr Hunt to the Lanfranchi Palace, where a suite of apart- ments were fitted up for him. On his arrival in the spring of 1822, a periodical publication was projected, under the title of « The Liberal," of which Hunt was to be the editor, and to which Lord Byron and Percy Shelley (who was on terms of great intimacy with his lordship) were to con- tribute. Three numbers of the « Liberal- were published in London, when, in consequence of the unhappy fate of Mr Shelley (who perished in the Mediterranean by the upsetting of a boat), and of other discouraging circumstances, it was discontinued. Byron attended the funeral of his poet-friend, the following description of which, by a person who was present, is not without interest : — « 1 8th August, 1822. — On the occasion of Shelley's melancholy fate, I revisited Pisa, and on the day of my arrival learnt that Lord Bvron was gone to the sea-shore, to assist in performing the last offices to his friend. We came to a spot marked by an old and withered trunk of a fir- tree, and near it, on the beach, stood a solitary hut covered with reeds. The situation was well calculated for a poet's grave. A few weeks before I had ridden with him and Lord Byron to this very spot, which I afterwards visited more than once. In front was a maguificent extent of the blue and windless Mediterranean, with the isles of Elba and Guyana, — Lord Byron's yacht at anchor in the offing : on the other side an almost bound- less extent of saudy wilderness, uncultivated and uninhabited, here and there interspersed in tufts with underwood, curved by the sea-breeze and stunted by the barren and dry nature of the soil in which it grew. At equal distances along the coast stood high square towers, for the double purpose of guarding the coast from smuggling, and enforcing the quarantine laws. This view was bounded by an immense extent of the Italian Alps, which are here particularly picturesque from their volcanic and manifold appearances, and which, being composed of white marble, give their summits the appearance of snow. As a foreground to this picture appeared as extraor- dinary a group : Lord Byron and Trelawney were seen standing over the burning pile, with some of the soldiers of the guard; and Leigh Hunt, whose feelings and nerves could not carry him through the scene of horror, lying back in the carriage, — the four post-horses ready to drop with the intensity of the noon-day sun. The stillness of all around was yet more felt by the shrill scream of a solitary curlew, which, per- haps attracted by the body, wheeled in such nar- row circles round the pile, that it might have been struck with the hand, and was so fearless that it could not be driven away. Looking at the corpse, Lord Byron said: — 'Why, that old black silk handkerchief retains its form better than that human body!' Scarcely was the ce- remony concluded, when Lord Byron, agitated by the spectacle he had witnessed, tried to dis- sipate in some degree the impression of it by his favourite recreation. He took off his clothes, therefore, and swam to the yacht, which was riding a few miles distant. The heat of the sun and checked perspiration threw him into a fever, which he felt coming on before he left the water, and which became more violent before he reached Pisa. On his return he immediately took a warm bath, and the next morning was perfectly reco- vered." The enmity between Byron and Southey, the poet-laureate, is as well known as that between Pope and Colley Cibber. Their politics were diametrically opposite, and the noble bard re- garded the bard of royalty as a renegado from his early principles. It was not, however, so much on account of political principles that the enmity between Byron and Southey was kept up. The peer, in his satire, had handled the epics of the laureate « too roughly," and this the latter deeply resented. Whilst travelling on the con- tinent, Southey observed Shelley's name in the Album, at Mont Anvert,with « Adsos» written after it, and an indignant comment in the same Ian- XXV in LIFE OF LORD BYRON. guage written under it; also the names of some of Byron's other friends. The laureate, it is said, copied the names and the comment, and, on his return to England, reported the whole circum- stances, and hesitated not to conclude that Byron was of the same principles as his friends. In a poem he subsequently wrote, called the "Vision of Judgment," he stigmatized Lord Byron as the father of the "Satanic School of Poetry. » His lordship, in a note appended to the « Two Fos- cari,» retorted in a severe manner, and even permitted himself to ridicule Southey's wife, the sister of Mrs Coleridge, they having been at one time « milliners of Bath.» The laureate wrote an answer to this note in the Courier newspaper, which, when Byron saw it, enraged him so much that he consulted with his friends whether or not he ought to go to England to answer it personally. In cooler moments, however, he resolved to write the "Vision of Judgment, v a parody on Southey's, and it appeared in one of the numbers of the « Li- beral," on account of which Hunt, the publisher, was prosecuted by the « Constitutional Associa- tion," and found guilty. As our readers may be curious to know the rate at which Lord Byron was paid for his pro- ductions, we annex the following statement, by Mr Murray, the bookseller, of the sums given by him for the copy-rights of most of his lordship's works : Childe Harold, I. II 6ool. . HI i,5 7 5 . IV 2,100 Giaour 525 Bride of Abydos 525 Corsair 525 Lara 700 Siege of Corinth 525 Parisina 525 Lament of Tasso 3i5 Manfred 3i5 Beppo 525 Don Juan, I. II i,525 III. IV. V i,5 2 5 Doge of Venice i,o5o Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari 1 , 1 00 Mazeppa 525 Prisoner of Chillon 525 Sundries 4^o Total .... 1 5,45 51. Several years ago. Lord Byron presented his friend, Mr Thomas Moore, with his « Memoirs," written by himself, with an understanding that they were not to be published until after his death. Mr Moore, with the consent and at the desire of Lord Byron, sold the manuscript to Mr Murray, the bookseller, for the sum of two thousand guineas. The following statement by Mr Moore, will however show its fate. « Without entering into the respective claims of Mr Murray and myself to the property in these memoirs (a question which now that they are destroyed can be but of little moment to any one), it is sufficient to say that, believing the manuscript still to be mine, I placed it at the disposal of Lord Byron's sister, Mrs Leigh, with the sole reservation of a protest against its total destruction ; at least, without pre\ious perusal and consultation among the parties. The majority of the persons present disagreed with this opinion, and it was the only point upon which there did exist any difference between us. The manuscript was accordingly torn and burnt before our eyes, and I immediately paid to Mr Murray, in the presence of the gentle- men assembled, two thousand guineas, with in- terest, etc., being the amount of what I owed him upon the security of my bond, and for which I now stand indebted to my publishers, Messrs Longman and Co. Since then, the family of Lord Byron have, in a manner highly honourable to themselves, proposed an arrangement, by which the sum thus paid to Mr Murray might be reimbursed me ; but from feelings and considera- tions, which it is unnecessary here to explain, I have respectfully, but peremptorily, declined their offer." As is the case with many men in affluent cir- cumstances, Byron w T as at times more than ge- nerous; and at other times, what might be call- ed mean. He once borrowed 5oo/. in order to give it to the widow of one who had been his friend; he frequently dined on five pauls, and once gave his bills to a lady to be examined, because he thought he w r as cheated. He paid 1000/. for a yacht, which he sold again for 3oo/., and refused to give the sailors their jackets. It ought, how r ever, to be observed, that generosity was natural to him, and that his avarice, if it can be so termed, was a mere whim or caprice of the moment — a character he could not Jong sustain. He once borrowed 100/. to give to Coleridge, the poet, the brother-in-law of Southey, when in distress. In his quarrel with the laureate he was provoked to allude to this circumstance, which certainly he ought not to have done. The following is a pleasing instance of delicacy and benevolence. A young lady of considerable talents, but who had never been able to succeed in turning them to any profitable account, was reduced to great hardships through the misfortunes of her family. The only persons from whom she could have hoped for relief were abroad, and urged on, more by the sufferings of those she held dear than by LIFE OF LORD 15YRON. xxix her own, she summoned up resolution to wait on Lord Byron at his apartments in the Albany, and solicit his subscription to a volume of poems : she had no previous knowledge of him except from his works, but from the boldness and feeling expressed in them, she concluded that he must be a man of kind heart and amiable disposition. She entered the apartment with faltering steps and a palpitating heart, but soon found courage to state her request, which she did in a simple and delicate manner : he heard it with marked attention and sympathy; and when she had done speaking, he, as if to divert her thoughts from a subject which could not but be painful to her, began to converse in words so fascinating and tones so gentle, that she hardly perceived he had been writing, until he put a slip of paper into her hand, saying it was his subscription, and that he most heartily wished her success. « But,» added he, « we are both young, and the world is very censorious, and so if I were to take any active part in procuring subscribers to your poems, I fear it would do you harm rather than good.» The young lady, overpowered by the prudence and delicacy of his conduct, took her leave ; and upon opening the paper in the street, which in her agitation she had not previously looked at, she found it was a draft upon his banker for fifty pounds ! Byron was a great admirer of the Waver ley novels, and never travelled without them. «They are,» said he to Captain Medwin one day, « a library in themselves, — a perfect literary trea- sure. 1 could read them once a year with new pleasure." During that morning he had been reading one of Sir Walter's novels, and delivered, according to Medwin, the following criticism. « How difficult it is to say any thing new ! Who was that voluptuary of antiquity, who offered a reward for a new pleasure? Perhaps all nature i and art could not supply a new idea.» The anxious and paternal tenderness Lord By- I ron felt for his daughter, is expressed with uu- \ equalled beauty and pathos in the first stanza of ! the third canto of Childe Harold. « What do you think of Ada?» said he to Medwin, looking earnestly at his daughter's miniature, that hung by the side of his writing-table. « They tell me she is like me — but she has her mother's eyes. It is very odd that my mother was an only child; — I am an only child; my wife is an only child; and Ada is an only child. It is a singular coinci- dence ; that is the least that can be said of it. I can't help thinking it was destined to be so; and perhaps it is best. I was once anxious for a son; but, after our separation, was glad to have had a daughter; for it would have distressed me too much to have taken him away from Lady Byron, and I could not have trusted her with a son's education. I have no idea of boys being brought up by mothers. I suffered too much from that myself: and then, wandering about the world as I do, I could not take proper care of a child; otherwise I should not have left Allegra, poor little thing! at Bavenna. She has been a great resource to me, though 1 am not so fond of her as of Ada : and yet I mean to make their fortunes equal— there will be enough for them both. I have desired in my will that Allegra shall not marry an Englishman. The Irish and Scotch make better husbands than we do. You will think it was an odd fancy; but I was not in the best of humours with my countrymen at that moment — you know the reason. I am told that Ada is a little termagant; I hope not. I shall write to my sister to know if this is the case : per- haps I am wrong in letting Lady Byron have en- tirely her own way in her education. I hear that my name is not mentioned in her presence ; that a green curtain is always kept over my portrait, as over something forbidden; and that she is not to know that she has a father till she comes of age. Of course she will be taught to hate me; she will be brought up to it. Lady Byron is conscious of all this, and is afraid that I shall some day carry off her daughter by stealth or force. I might claim her of the Chancellor, without having recourse to either one or the other; but 1 had rather be unhappy myself than make her mother so; probably I shall never see her again." Here he opened his writing-desk and showed me some hair, which he told me was his child's. In the autumn of 1822, Lord Byron quitted Pisa, and went to Genoa, where he remained throughout the winter. A letter written by his lordship, while at Genoa, is singularly honour- able to him, and is the more entitled to notice, as it tends to diminish the credibility of an asser- tion made since his death, that he could bear no rival in fame, and that he was animated with a bitter jealousy and hatred of any person who withdrew the public attention from himself. If there be a living being towards whom, according to that statement, Lord Byron could have enter- tained such a sentiment, it must have been the author of « Waverley. » And yet, in a letter to Monsieur Beyle, dated May 29, 1823, the follow- ing are the just and liberal expressions used by Lord Byron. « There is one part of your observations in the pamphlet which I shall venture to remark upon : — it regards Walter Scott. You say that ' his character is little worthy of enthusiasm,' at the same time that you mention his productions in the manner they deserve. 1 have known Walter Scott long and well, and in occasional situations d \\\ LIFE OF LOUD 15 V HON. which call Forth the real character, and 1 can assure von that his character is worthy of admi- ration; — that, of all men, he is the most open, the most honourahle, the most amiable. With Ins politics I have nothing to do: they differ from mine, which renders it difficult for me to speak of them, l'ml he is perfectly sincere in them, and sincerity may he humhle, hut she cannot he servile. I pray you, therefore, to correct or soften that passage. You may, perhaps, attri- bute this officiousness of mine to a false affecta- tion of candour, as I happen to he a writer also. Attribute it to what motive you please, hut be- lieve the truth. 1 say that Walter Scott is as nearly a thorough good man as man can he, be- cause 1 know it by experience to be the case.» The motives which ultimately induced Lord Byron to leave Italy, and join the Greeks, strug- gling for emancipation, are sufficiently obvious. It was in Greece that his high poetical faculties had been first fully developed. It was necessa- rily the chosen and favourite spot of a man of powerful and original intellect, of quick and sensible feelings, of varied information, and who, above all, was satiated with common enjoyments, and disgusted with what appeared to him to be the formality and sameness of daily life. Dwelling upon that country, as it is clear from all Lord Byron's writings he did, with the fondest solicitude, and being an ardent, though, perhaps, not a very systematic lover of freedom, he could be no unconcerned spectator of its revo- lution : as soon as it seemed to him that his presence might be useful, he prepared to visit once more the shores of Greece. Lord Byron embarked at Leghorn, and ar- rived in Cephalonia in the early part of August, 1823, attended by a suite of six or seven friends, in an English vessel (the Hercules, Captain Scott), which he had chartered for the express purpose of taking him to Greece. His lordship had never seen any of the volcanic mountains, and for this purpose the vessel deviated from its regular course, in order to pass the island of Stromboli, and lay off that place a whole night, in the hopes of witnessing the usual phenomena, but, for the first time within the memory of man, the volcano emitted no fire. The disappointed poet was obliged to proceed, in no good humour with the fabled forge of Vulcan. Greece, though with a fair prospect of ultimate triumph, was at that time in an unsettled state. The third campaign had commenced, with several I instances of distinguished success — her arms were every where victorious, but her councils were distracted. Western Greece was in a critical situation, and although the heroic Marco Eotzaris had not fallen in vain, yet the glorious enterprise in which he perished only checked, but did not prevent the advance of the Turks towards Ana- tolica and Missolonghi. This gallant chief, worthy of the best days of Greece, hailed with transport ford Uyron's arrival in that country ; and his last act, before proceeding to the attack in which he fell, was to write a warm invitation to his lordship to come to Missolonghi. In his letter, which he addressed to a friend at Mis- solonghi, Botzaris alludes to almost the first pro- ceeding of Lord Byron in Greece, which was the arming and provisioning of forty Suliotes, whom he sent to join in the defence of Missolonghi. After the battle Lord Byron transmitted bandages and medicines, of which he had brought a large store from Italy, and pecuniary succour to those who had been wounded. He had already made a generous offer to the government. He says, in a letter, « I offered to advance a thousand dollars a month, for the succour of Missolonghi, and the Suliotes under Botzaris (since killed); but the government have answered me through of this island, that they wish to confer with me previously, which is, in fact, saying they wish me to spend my money in some other direction. I will take care that it is for the public cause, otherwise I will not advance a para. The opposition say they want to cajole me, and the party in power say the others wish to seduce me; so between the two, I have a difficult part to play : however, I will have nothing to do with the fic- tions, unless to reconcile them, if possible." Lord Byron established himself for some time at the small village of Metaxata, in Cephalonia, and dispatched two friends, Mr Trelawney and Mr Hamilton Browue, with a letter to the Greek government, in order to collect intelligence as to the real state of things. His lordship's gene- rosity was almost daily exercised in his new neighbourhood. He provided for many Italian families in distress, and even indulged the people of the country in paying for the religious ceremo- nies which they deemed essential to their success. While at Metaxata, an embankment, near which several persons had been engaged digging, fell in, and buried some of them alive : he was at dinner when he heard of the accident; starting up from table, he ran to the spot, accompanied by his physician. The labourers employed in extricating their companions, soon became alarm- ed for themselves, and refused to go on, saying, they believed they had dug out all the bodies which had been covered by the rubbish. Byron endeavoured to force them to continue their exertions, but finding menaces in vain, he seized a spade and began to dig most zealously; when the peasantry joined him, and they succeeded in saving two more persons from certain death. LIFE OF LORD BYRON. XXXI hi the mean while, Lord Byron's friends pro- ceeded to Tripolitza, and found Colocotroni (the enemy of Mavrocordato, who had been com- pelled to flee from the presidency) in great power; his palace was filled with armed men, like the castle of some ancient feudal chief, and a good idea of his character may be formed from the language he held. He declared that he had told Mavrocordato that, unless he de- sisted from his intrigues, he would put him on an ass and whip him out of the Morea ; and that he had only been withheld from doing so by the representation of his friends, who had said that it would injure the cause. They next proceeded to Salamis, where the congress was sitting, and Mr Trelawney agreed to accompany Odysseus, a brave mountain chief, into Negropont. At this time the Greeks were preparing for many active enterprises. Marco Botzaris' brother, with his Suliotes, and Mavro- cordato, were to take charge of Missolonghi, which, at that time (October, 1828), was in a very critical state, being blockaded both by land and sea. «There have been, » says Mr Trelawney, « thirty battles fought and won by the late Marco Botzaris, and his gallant tribe of Suliotes, who are shut up in Missolonghi. If it fall, Athens will be in danger, and thousands of throats cut. A few thousand dollars would provide ships to relieve it ; a portion of this sum is raised — and I would coin my heart to save this key of Greece!" A report like this Was sufficient to show the point where succour was most needed, and Lord Byron's determination to relieve Missolonghi was still more decidedly confirmed by a letter which he received from Mavrocordato. Mavrocordato was at this time endeavouring to collect a fleet for the relief of Missolonghi, and Lord Byron generously offered to advance four hundred thousand piastres (about 12,000/.) to pay for fitting it out. In a letter in which he announced this noble intention, he alluded to the dissensions in Greece, and stated, that if these continued, all hope of a loan in England, or of assistance from abroad, would be at an end. «I must frankly confess," he says in his letter, « that unless union and order are confirmed, all hopes of a loan will be in vain, and all the as- sistance which the Greeks could expect from abroad, an assistance which might be neither trifling nor worthless, will be suspended or de- stroyed ; and, what is worse, the great powers of Europe, of whom no one was an enemy to Greece, but seemed inclined to favour her in consenting to the establishment of an independent power, will be persuaded that the Greeks are un- able to govern themselves, and will, perhaps, themselves undertake to arrange your disorders in such a way as to blast the brightest hopes you indulge, and that are indulged by your friends. And allow me to.add once for all, I desire the well-being of Greece, and nothing else; I will do all I can to secure it; but I cannot consent — I never will consent, to the English public or English individuals being deceived as to the real state of Greek affairs. The rest, gentlemen, de- pends on you; you have fought gloriously : act honourably towards your fellow-citizens and to- wards the world, and then it will no more be said, as has been repeated for two thousand years with the Roman historian, that Philopcemen was the last of the Grecians. Let not calumny itself (and it is difficult to guard against it in so dif- ficult a struggle) compare the Turkish Pacha with the patriot Greek in peace, after you have exter- minated him in war. » The dissensions among the Greek chiefs evi- dently gave great pain to Lord Byron, whose sensibility was keenly affected by the slightest circumstance which he considered likely to retard the deliverance of Greece. « For my part, » he observes in another of his letters, « I will stick by the cause while a plank remains which can be honourably clung to; if I quit it, it will be by the Greeks' conduct, and not the Holy Allies, or the holier Mussulmans." fn a letter to his banker at Cephalonia he says : « I hope things here will go well, some time or other; I will stick by the cause as long as a cause exists." His playful humour sometimes broke out amidst the d( ?p anxiety he felt for the success of the Greeks. He ridiculed with great pleasantry some of the supplies which had been sent out from England bv the Greek committee. In one of his letters, after alluding to his having advanced 4,ooo/., and expecting to be called on for 4,000/. more, he says : « How can I refuse, if they (the Greeks) will fight, and especially if I should hap- pen to be in their company? I therefore request and require that you should apprise my trusty and trust-worthy trustee and banker, and crown and sheet-anchor, Douglas Kimiaird the honour- able, that he prepare all monies of mine, includ- ing the purchase-money of Rochdale manor, and mine income for the year A. D. 1824, to an- swer and anticipate any orders or drafts of mine, for the good cause, in good and lawful money of Great Britain, etc. etc. etc. May you live a thousand years! which is nine hundred and ninety-nine longer than the Spanish Cortes con- stitution." When every thing was arranged two Ionian vessels were ordered, and, embarking his horses and effects, Lord Byron sailed from Argostoli on the 29th of December. At Zante, his lordship took a considerable quantity of specie on board , XXXII LIFE OF LORD BYRON. and proceeded towards Missolonghi. Two acci- dents occurred in this short passage. Count Gam ha, who accompanied his lordship from Leghorn, had heen charged with the vessel in which the horses and part of the money were embarked. When off Chiarenza, a point which lies between '/ante and the place of their desti- nation, they were surprised at daylight on finding themselves under the hows of a Turkish frigate. Owing, however, to the activity displayed on board Lord Byron's vessel, and her superior sailing, she escaped, while the other was fired at, brought to, and carried into Patras. Count Gamha and his companions being taken before Yusuff Pacha, fully expected to share the fate of some unfortunate men whom that sanguinary chief had sacrificed the preceding year at Pre- visa ; and their fears would most probably have been realized, had it not been for the presence of mind displayed hy the count, who, assuming an air of hauteur and indifference, accused the captain of the frigate of a scandalous breach of neutrality, in firing at and detaining a vessel under English colours; and concluded by inform- ing Yusuff, that he mjght expect the vengeance of the British government in thus interrupting a nobleman who was merely on his travels, and bound to Calamos. The Turkish chief, on recognising in the master of the vessel a person who had saved his life in the Black Sea fifteen years before, not only consented to the vessel's release, but treated the whole of the passengers with the utmost attention, and even urged them to take a day's shooting in the neighbourhood. Owing to contrary winds, Lord Byron's vessel was obliged to take shelter at the Scropes, a clus- ter of rocks within a few miles of Missolonghi, and while detained here, he was in considerable danger of being captured by the Turks. lord Byron was received at Missolonghi with enthusiastic demonstrations of joy. No mark of honour or welcome which the Greeks could devise was omitted. The ships anchored off the fortress fired a salute as he passed. Prince Mavrocordato, and all the authorities, with the troops and the population, met him on his landing, and accom- panied him to the house which had been prepared for him, amidst the shouts of the multitude and the discharge of cannon. One of the first objects to which he turned his attention was to mitigate the ferocity with which the war had been carried on. The very day of his lordship's arrival was signalised by his re- scuing a Turk, who had fallen into the hands of some Greek sailors. The individual thus saved, having been clothed by his orders, was kept in the house until an opportunity occurred of send- ing him to Patras. Nor had his lordship been long at Missolonghi, before an opportunity pre- sented itself for showing his sense of Yusuff Pacha's moderation in releasing Count Gamba. Hearing that there were four Turkish prisoners in the town, he requested that they might be placed in his hands. This being immediately granted, he sent them to Patras, with a letter addressed to the Turkish chief, expressing his hope that the pri- soners thenceforward taken on both sides would be treated with humanity. This act was follow- ed by another equally praiseworthy, which proved how anxious Lord Byron felt to give a new turn to the system of warfare hitherto pursued. A Greek cruiser having captured a Turkish boat, in which there was a number of passengers, chiefly women and children, they were also placed in the hands of Lord Byron, at his particular re- quest; upon which a vessel was immediately hired, and the whole of them, to the number of twenty-four, were sent to Previsa, provided with every requisite for their comfort during the pas- sage. The Turkish governor of Previsa thanked his lordship, and assured him, that he would take care equal attention should be in future shown to the Greeks who might become pri- soners. Another grand object with Lord Byron, and one which he never ceased to forward with the most anxious solicitude, was to reconcile the quarrels of the native chiefs, to make them friendly and confiding towards one another, and submissive to the orders of the government. He had neither time nor opportunity to carry this point to any great extent : some good was, how- ever, done. Lord Byron landed at Missolonghi animated with military ardour. After paying the fleet, which, indeed, had only come out under the ex- pectation of receiving its arrears from the loan which he promised to make to the provisional government, he set about forming a brigade of Suliotes. Five hundred of these, the bravest and most resolute of the soldiers of Greece, were taken into his pay on the ist of January, 1824. An expedition against Lepanto was proposed, of which the command was given to Lord Byron. This ex- pedition, however, had to experience delay and disappointment. The Suliotes, conceiving that they had found a patron whose wealth was inex- haustible, and whose generosity was boundless, determined to make the most of the occasion, and proceeded to the most extravagant demands on their leader for arrears, and under other pre- tences. These mountainers, untameable in the field, and unmanageable in a town, were, at this moment, peculiarly disposed to be obstinate, riotous, and mercenary. They had been chiefly instrumental in preserving Missolonghi when be- LIFE OF LORD BYRON. XXXUi sieged the previous autumn by the Turks; had been driven from their abodes; and the whole of their families were, at this time, in the town, des- titute of either home or sufficient supplies. Of turbulent and reckless character, they kept the place in awe ; and Mavrocordato having, Unlike the other captains, no soldiers of his own, was glad to find a body of valiant mercenaries, espe- cially if paid for out of the funds of another, and, consequently, was not disposed to treat them with harshness. Within a fortnight after Lord Byron's arrival, a burgher refusing to quarter some Suliotes, who rudely demanded entrance into his house,.' was killed, and a riot ensued, in which some lives were lost. Lord Byron's impatient spirit could ill brook the delay of a favourite scheme, but he saw, with the utmost chagrin, that the state of his troops was such as to render any attempt to lead them out at that time impracticable. The project of proceeding against Lepaiito be- ing thus suspended, at a moment when Lord By- ron's enthusiasm was at its height", and when he had fully calculated on striking a blow which could not fail to be of the utmost service to the Greek cause, the unlooked-for disappointment preyed on his spirits, and produced a degree of irritability which, if it was not the sole cause, contributed greatly to a severe fit of epilepsy, with which he was attacked on the i5th of Fe- bruary. His lordship was sitting in the apart- ment of Colonel Stanhope, talking in a jocular manner with Mr Parry, the engineer, when it was observed, from occasional and rapid changes in his countenance, that he was suffering under some strong emotion. On a suddenhe complained of a weakness in one of his legs, and rose, but finding himself unable to walk, he cried out for assistance. He then fell into a state of nervous and convulsive agitation, and was placed on a bed. For some minutes his countenance was much distorted. He however quickly recovered his senses, his speech returned, and he soon ap- peared perfectly well, although enfeebled and exhausted by the violence of the struggle. During the fit, he behaved with his usual extraordinary firmness, and his efforts in contending with, and attempting to master, the disease, are described as gigantic. In the course of the month, the attack was repeated four times; the violence of the disorder, at length, yielded to the remedies which his physicians advised, such as bleeding, cold bathing, perfect relaxation of mind, etc., and he gradually recovered. An accident, however, hap- pened a few days after his first illness, which was ill calculated to aid the efforts of his medical ad- visers. A Suliote, accompanied by another man. aad the late Marco Botzaris' little boy, walked into the Seraglio, a place which, before Lord Byron's arrival, had been used as a sort of for- tress and barrack for the Suliotes, and out of which they were ejected with great difficulty for the reception of the committee-stores, and for the occupation of the engineers, who required it for a laboratory. The sentinel on guard ordered the Suliote to retire, which being a species of mo- tion to which Suliotes are not accustomed, the man carelessly advanced ; upon which the Serjeant of the guard (a German) demanded his business, and receiving no satisfactory answer, pushed him back. These wild warriors, who will dream for years of a blow if revenge is out of their power, are not slow to resent even a push. The Suliote struck again, the serjeant and he closed and struggled, when the Suliote drew a pistol from his belt; the serjeant wrenched it out of his hand, and blew the powder out of the pan. At this moment Captain Sass, a Swede, seeing the fray, came up, and ordered the man to be taken to the guard-room. The Suliote was then dis- posed to depart, and would have done so if the serjeant would have permitted him. Unfortu- nately, Captain Sass did not confine himself to merely giving the order for his arrest ; for when the Suliote struggled to get away, Captain Sass drew his sword and struck him with the flat part of it; whereupon the enraged Greek flew upon him, with a pistol in one hand and the sabre in the other, and at the same moment nearly cut off the Captain's right arm, and shot him through the head. Captain Sass, who was remarkable for his mild and courageous character, expired in a few minutes. The Suliote also was a man of dis- tinguished bravery. This was a serious affair, and great apprehensions were entertained that it would not end here. The. Suliotes refused to sur- render the man to justice, alleging that he had been struck, which, in Suliote law, justifies all the consequences which may follow. In a letter written a few days after Lord By- ron's first attack, to a friend in Zante, he speaks of himself as rapidly recovering. « I am a good deal better," he observes, "though of course weakly. The leeches took too much blood from my tem- ples the day after, and there was some difficulty in stopping it; but I have been up daily, and not in boats or on horseback. To-day I have taken a warm bath, and live as temperately as well can be, without any liquid but water, and without any animal food.» After adverting to some other subjects, the letter thus concludes : "Matters are here a little embroiled with the Suliotes, foreign- ers, etc. ; but I still hope better things, and will stand by the cause as long as my health and cir- cumstances will permit me to be supposed useful. » Notwithstanding Lord Byron's improvement in LIFE QF LORD BYRON. health, his friends felt, from the first, thai he oaght to try a change of air. RIksolonghi is a flat, marshy, and pestilential place, and, except for purposes of utility, never would have been selected for his residence. A gentleman of /ante wrote to him early in .March, to induce him to return to that island for a time. To his letter the following answer was received : — « I am extremely obliged by your offer of your country-house, as for all other kindness, in case my health should require my removal; hut I cannot quit Greece while there is a chance of my being of (even supposed) utility, There is a stake worth millions such as I am, and while I can stand at all, I must stand by the cause. While I say this, I am aware of the difficulties, and dis- | sensions, and defects of the Greeks themselves : hut allowance must he made for them hy all rea- sonahle people." It may he well imagined, after so severe a fit ! of illness, and that in a great measure brought on by the conduct of the troops he had taken into his pay, and treated with the utmost generosity, that Lord Byron was in no humour to pursue his scheme against Lepanto, even supposing that his state of health had been such as to hear the fa- tigue of a campaign in Greece. The Suliotes, however, showed some signs of repentance, and offered to place themselves at his lordship's dis- posal. But still they had an objection to the na- tare of the service : « they would not fight against stone walls!.- It is not surprising that the ex- ; pedition to Lepanto was no longer thought of. The following anecdotes, are taken from Capt. , ; Parry's « Last Days of Lord Byron; » a work which seems from its plain and unvarnished style to bear the impress of truth. In speaking of the Greek Committee one day, his lordship said— «I conceive that I have been' already grossly ill-treated by the committee. In Italy, Mr Blaquiere, their agent, informed me j that every requisite supply would be forwarded with all -dispatch. I was disposed to come to Greece, but I hastened my departure in conse- ; quence of earnest solicitations. No time was to , be lost, I was told, and Mr Blaquiere, instead of waiting on me at his return from Greece, left a : paltry note, which gave me no information what- , ever. If I ever meet with him, I shall not fail Jto mention my surprise at his conduct; but it has been all of a piece. I wish the acting committee had had some of the trouble which has fallen on me since my arrival here ; they would have been more prompt in their proceedings, and would have known better what the country stood in need of. They would not have delayed the sup- plies a day, nor have sent out German officers, I j poor fellows, to starve at Missolonghi, but for j i I my assistance. I am a plain man, and cannot com- prehend the use of printing-presses to a people who do not read. Here the committee have sent supplies of maps, 1 suppose, that I may teach the young mountaineers geography. Here are bugle- horns, without bugle-men, and it is a chance if we can find any body in Greece to blow them. Books are sent to a people who want guns: they ' ask for a sword, and the committee give them j the lever of a printing-press. Heavens! one j would think the committee meant to inculcate patience and submission, and to condemn resist- , ance. Some materials for constructing fortifica- : tions they have sent, but they have chosen their people so ill, that the work is deserted, and not one para have they sent to procure other la- bourers. Their secretary, Mr Bowling, was dis- posed, I believe, to claim the privilege of an ac- quaintance with me. He wrote me a long letter about the classic land of freedom, the birth-place of the arts, the cradle of genius, the habitation of the gods, the heaven of poets, and a great many such fine things. I was obliged to answer him, and I scrawled some nonsense in reply to his nonsense; but I fancy I shall get no more such epistles. When I came to the conclusion of the poetry part of my letter, I wrote, ' so much for blarney, now for business.' I have notsince heard in the same strain from Mr Bowring.» n My future intentions, » continued he, « as to Greece, may be explained in a few words : I will remain here till she is secure against the Turks, or till she has fallen under their power. All my income shall be spent in her service; but, unless driven by some great necessity, I will not touch a farthing of the sum intended for my sister's children. Whatever I can accomplish with my income, and my personal exertions, shall be cheerfully done. When Greece is secure against external enemies, I will leave the Greeks to settle their government as they like. One service more, and an eminent service it will be, I think I may perform for them. You, Parry, shall have a schooner built for me, or I will buy a vessel; the Greeks shall invest me with the character of their ambassador or agent; I will go to the United States , and procure that free and enlight- ened government to set the example of recognis- ing the federation of Greece as an independent state. This done, England must follow the ex- ample, and then the fate of Greece will be per- manently fixed, and she will enter into all her rights, as a member of the great commonwealth of Christian Europe." «This,» observes Captain Parry, in his plain and manly manner, « was Lord Byron's hope, and this was to be his last project in favour of Greece. Into it no motive of personal ambition LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xxxv entered, more than that just and proper one, the basis of all virtue, and the distinguished charac- teristic of an honourable mind— the hope of gain- ing the approbation of good men. As an author, he had already attained the pinnacle of popula- rity and of fame; but this did not satisfy his no- ble ambition. He hastened to Greece, with a de- votion to liberty, and a zeal in favour of the oppressed, as pure as ever shone in the bosom of a knight in the purest days of chivalry, to gain the reputation of an unsullied warrior, and of a disinterested statesman. He was her unpaid, but the blessings of all Greece, and the high honours his own countrymen bestow on his memory, bearing him in their hearts, prove that he was not her unrewarded champion. •> Lord Byron's address was affable and courteous ; his manners, when in good humour, and desir- ous of being well with his guest, were fascinating in the extreme. He was open to a fault— a cha- racteristic probably the result of his fearlessness and independence of the world ; but his friends were obliged to be upon their guard with him. He was the worst person in the world to confide a secret to ; and if a charge against any one was mentioned to him, it was probably the first com- munication he made to the person in question. He hated scandal and tittle-tattle, and loved the manly straight-forward course : he would har- bour no doubts, and never live with another with suspicions in his bosom. He detested a lie — nothing enraged him so much. He had consider- able tact in detecting untruth; he avoided the timid driveller, and generally chose his com- panions among the lovers of sincerity and cam- dour. People sometimes conceal the truth from a dread of giving otfence ; — Lord Byron was above all fear of this sort: he flinched from telling no one what he thought to his face ; falsehood is not the vice of the powerful : the Greek slave lies, the Turkish tyrant is remarkable for his ad- herence to truth. The anecdote that follows, told by Parry, is highly characteristic : — « When the Turkish fleet was lying off Cape Papa, blockading Missolonghi, I was one day or- dered by Lord Byron to accompany him to the mouth of the harbour to inspect the fortifica- tions, in order to make a report on the state they were in. He and I were in his own punt, a little boat which he had, rowed by a boy ; and in a large boat, accompanying us, were Prince Mavrocordato and his attendants. As I was viewing, on one hand, the Turkish fleet atten- tively, and reflecting on its powers, and our means of defence ; and looking, on the other, at Prince Mavrocordato and his attendants, perfect- ly unconcerned, smoking their pipes and gossip- ing, as if Greece were liberated and at peace and Missolonghi in a state of complete security, I could not help giving vent to a feeling of con- tempt and indignation. ' What is the matter,' said his lordship, appearing to be very serious, 'what makes you so angry, Parry ?' 'I am not angry,' I replied, 'my lord, but somewhat indignant. The Turks, if they were not the most stupid wretches breathing, might take the fort of Vasa- ladi, by means of two pinnaces, any night they pleased : they have only to approach it with muf- fled oars ; they will not be heard , I will answer for their not being seen ; and they may storm it in a few minutes. With eight gun-boats, pro- perly armed with 24-pounders, they might batter both Missolonghi and Anatolica to the ground. And there sits the old gentlewoman, Prince Mavrocordato and his troop , to whom I applied an epithet I will not here repeat, as if they were all perfectly safe. They know their powers of de- fence are inadequate, and they have no means of improving them. If I were in their place, I should be in a fever at the thought of my own incapacity and ignorance, and I should burn with impatience to attempt the destruction of those stupid Turkish rascals. The Greeks and Turks are opponents worthy, by their imbecility, of each other.' I had scarcely explained myself fully, when his lordship ordered our boat to be placed alongside the other, and actually related our whole conversation to the prince. In doing it, however, he took on himself the task of pacify- ing both the prince and me, and though I was at first very angry, and the prince, I believe, very much annoyed, he succeeded. Mavrocor- dato afterwards showed no dissatisfaction with me, and I prized Lord Byron's regard too much, to remain long displeased with a proceeding which was only an unpleasant manner of reprov- ing us both.» « On one occasion (which we before slightly al- luded to) he had saved twenty-four Turkish wo- men and children from slavery and all its ac- companying horrors. I was summoned to attend him and receive his orders, that every thing should be done which might contribute to their comfort. He was seated on a cushion at the up- per end of the room, the women and children were standing before him, with their eyes fixed steadily on him; and on his right hand was his interpreter, who was extracting from the women a narrative of their sufferings. One of them, ap- parently about thirty years of age, possessing great vivacity, and whose manners and dress, though she was then dirty and disfigured, indi- cated that she was superior in rank and condition to her companions, was spokeswoman for the whole. I admired the good order the others pre- served, never interfering with the explanation or XXXVI LIFE OF LORD BYRON. interrupting the single speaker. 1 also admired the rapid manner in which the interpreter ex- plained every thing they said, so as to make it almost appear that there was but one speaker. — After a short time, it was evident that what Lord Byron was hearing affected his feelings — his countenance changed, his colour went and came, and I thought he was ready to weep. But he had on all occasions a ready and peculiar knack in turning conversation from any disagreeable or unpleasant subject; and he had recourse to this expedient. He rose up suddenly, and turning round on his heel, as was his wont, he said some- thing quickly to his interpreter, who immediate- ly repeated it to the women. All eyes were in- stantly fixed on me, and one of the party, a young and beautiful woman, spoke very warmly. Lord Byron seemed satisfied , and said they might retire. The women all slipped off their shoes in an instant, and going up to his lordship, each in succession, accompanied by their children, kissed his hand fervently, invoked, in the Turkish man- ner, a blessing both on his head and heart, and then quitted the room. This was too much for Lord Byron, and he turned his face away to con- ceal his emotion." « One of Lord Byron's household had several times involved himself and his master in per- plexity and trouble, by his unrestrained attach- ment to women. In Greece this had been very annoying, and induced Lord. Byron to think of a means of curing it. A young Suliote of the guard was accordingly dressed up like a woman, and instructed to place himself in the way of the amorous swain. The bait took, and after some communication, but rather by signs than by words, for the pair did not understand each other's language, the sham lady was carefully conducted by the gallant to one of Lord Byron's apartments. Here the couple were surprised by an enraged Suliote, a husband provided for the occasion, accompanied by half a dozen of his eomrades, whose presence and threats terrified the poor lacquey almost out of his senses. The noise of course brought Lord Byron to the spot, to laugh at the tricked serving-man, and rescue him from the effects of his terror." « A few days after the earthquake, which took place on the 21st of February, as we were all sit- ting at table in the evening, we were suddenly alarmed by a noise and a shaking of the house, somewhat similar to that which we had experi- enced when the earthquake occurred. Of course all started from their places, and there was the same kind of confusion as on the former evening, at which Byron, who was present, laughed im- moderately ; we were re-assured by this, and soon learnt that the whole was a method he had adopted to sport with our fears. » « The regiment, or rather the brigade, we formed, can be described only as Byron himself descrihes it. There was a Greek tailor, who had been in the British service in the Ionian Islands, where he had married an Italian woman. This lady, knowing something of the military service, petitioned Lord Byron to appoint her husband master-tailor of the hrigade. The suggestion was useful, and this part of her petition was imme- diately granted. At the same time, however, she solicited that she might be permitted to raise a corps of women, to be placed under her orders, to accompany the regiment. She stipulated for free quarters and rations for them, but rejected all claim for pay. They were to be free of all incumbrances, and were to wash, sew, cook, and otherwise provide for the men. The proposition pleased Lord Byron, and, stating the matter tome, he said he hoped I should have no objection. I had been accustomed to see women accompany the English army, andlknew that, though some- times an incumbrance, they were on the whole more beneficial than otherwise. In Greece there were many circumstances which would make their services extremely valuable, and I gave my consent to the measure. The tailor's wife did accordingly recruit a considerable number of unincumbered women, of almost all nations, but principally Greeks, Italians, Maltese, and Ne- gresses. ' I was afraid,' said Lord Byron, • when I mentioned this matter to you, you would be crusty, and oppose it, — it is the very thing. Let me see, my corps outdoes Falstaff's : there are English, Germans, French, Maltese, Bagusians, Italians, Neapolitans, Transylvanians, Bussians, Suliotes, Moreotes, and Western Greeks in front, and, to bring up the rear, the tailor's wife and her troop. Glorious Apollo ! no general had ever before such an army.'» « Lord Byron had a black groom with him in Greece, an American by birth, to whom he was very partial. He always insisted on this man's calling him Massa, whenever he spoke to him. On one occasion, the groom met with two women of his own complexion, who had been slaves to the Turks and liberated, but had been left al- most to starve when the Greeks had risen on their tyrants. Being of the same colour was a bond of sympathy between them and the groom, and he applied to me to give both these women quarters in the Seraglio. I granted the appli- cation, and mentioned it to Lord Byron, who laughed at the gallantry of his groom, and or- dered that he should be brought before him at ten o'clock the next day, to answer for his pre- LIFE OF LORD BYRON. xxxvii sumption in making such an application. At ten o'clock, accordingly, he attended his master with great trembling and fear, but stuttered so when he attempted to speak, that he could not make himself understood; Lord Byron endeavouring, almost in vain, to preserve his gravity, reproved him severely for his presumption. Blacky stut- tered a thousand excuses, and was ready to do any thing to appease his massa's anger. His great yellow eyes wide open, he trembling from head to foot, his wandering and stuttering excuses, his visible dread — all tended to provoke laughter; and Lord Byron, fearing his own dignity would be hove overboard, told him to hold his tongue, and listen to his sentence. I was commanded to enter it in his memorandum-book, and then he pronounced in a solemn tone of voice, while Elacky stood aghast, expecting some severe pu- nishment, the following doom : ' My determina- tion is, that the children born of these black women, of which you may be the father, shall be my property, and I will maintain them. What say you?' 'Go— Go— God bless you, massa, may you live great while,' stuttered out the groom, and sallied forth to tell the good news to the two distressed women. » The luxury of Lord Byron's living at this time may be seen from the following order, which he gave his superintendant of the household, for the daily expenses of^his own table. It amounts to no more than one piastre. Paras. Bread, a pound and a half . . . i5 Wine 7 Fish 1 5 Olives ......... 3 4o This was his dinner; his breakfast consisted of a I single dish of tea, without milk or sugar. The circumstances that attended the death of this illustrious and noble-minded man, are de- scribed in the following plain and simple state- ment by his faithful valet and constant follower , Mr Fletcher: — « My masteiy> says Mr Fletcher, « continued his usual custom of riding daily when the wea- ther would permit, until the 9th of April. But on that ill-fated day he got very wet, and on his return home his lordship changed the whole of his dress; but he had been too long in his wet clothes, and the cold, of which he had complain- ed more or less ever since we left Cephalonia, made this attack be more severely felt. Though rather feverish during the night, his lordship slept pretty well, but complained in the morning of a pain in his bones, and a head-ache : this did not, however, prevent him from taking a ride in the afternoon, which, I grieve to say, was his last. On his return, my master said that the saddle was not perfectly dry, from being so wet the day before, and observed that he thought it had made him worse. His lordship was again visited by the same slow fever, and I was sorry to perceive, ou the next morning, that his illness appeared to be increasing. He was very low, and complained of not having had any sleep dur- ing the night. His lordship's appetite- was also quite gone. I prepared a little arrow-root, of which he took three or four spoonfuls, saying it was very good, but he could take no more. It was not till the third day, the 12th, that 1 began to be alarmed for ray master. In all his former colds he always slept well, andwas never affected by this slow fever. I therefore went to Dr Bruno and Mr Millingen, the two medical attendants, and inquired minutely into every circumstance connected with my master's present illness : both replied that there was no danger, and I might make myself perfectly easy on the subject, for all would be well in a few days. This was on the 1 3th. On the following day, I found my master in such a state, that I could not feel happy without supplicating that he would send to Zante for Dr Thomas. After expressing my fears lest his lordship should get worse, he de- sired me to consult the doctors, which I did, and was told there was no occasion for calling in any person, as they hoped all would be well in a few days. Here I should remark, that his lordship repeatedly said, in the course of the day, he was sure the doctors did not understand his disease; to which I answered, 'Then, my lord, have other advice by all means.' 'They tell me,' said his lordship, 'that it is only a common cold, which, you know, I have had a thousand times.' 'I am sure, my lord,' said I, ' that you never had one of so serious a nature.' ' I think I never had,' was his lordship's answer. I repeated my suppli- cations that Dr Thomas should be sent for, on the 1 5th, and was again assured that my master would be better in two or three days. After these confident assurances, I did not renew my entreaties until it was too late. With respect to the medicines that were given to my master, I could not persuade myself that those of a strong purgative nature were the best adapted for his complaint, concluding that, as he had nothing ou his stomach, the only effect would be to create pain; indeed, this must have been the case with a person in perfect health. The whole nourish- ment taken by my master, for the last eight days, consisted of a small quantity of broth, at two or three different times, and two spoonfuls of arrow- root on the 1 8th, the day before his death. The e XXX VI 11 LIFE OF LORD BY HON. first time I heard of there being any intention of bleediug his lordship was on the 1 5th, when it was proposed bv Dr Bruno, but objected to at first by my master, who asked Mr Millin;;eii if there was any great reason for taking blood? The latter replied that it might be of service, but added it might be deferred till the next day; and accordingly, my master was bled in the right arm on the evening of the 16th, and a pound of blood was taken. I observed, at the time, that it had a most inflamed appearance. Dr Bruno now began to say, that he had frequently ur(;ed my master to be bled, but that he always refused. A long dispute now arose about the time that had been lost, and the necessity of sending for medical aid to Zante; upon which I was in- formed, for the first time, that it would be of no use, as my master would be better or no more before the arrival of Dr Thomas. His lordship continued to get worse, but Dr Bruno said, he thought letting blood again would save his life ; and I lost no time in telling my master how ne- cessary it was to comply with the doctor's wishes. To this be replied by saying, he feared they knew nothing about his disorder; and then, stretching out his arm, said, ' Here, take my arm and do whatever you like.' His lordship con- tinued to get weaker, and on the 17 th he was bled twice in the morning, and at two o'clock in the afternoon ; the bleeding at both times was followed by fainting fits, and he would have fallen down more than once had I not caught him in my arms. In order to prevent such an accident, I took care not to permit his lordship to stir without supporting him. On this day my master said to me twice, ' I cannot sleep, and you well know I have not been able to sleep for more than a week; I know,' added his lordship, ' that a man can only be a certain time without sleep, and then he must go mad without any one being able to save him; and I would teu times sooner shoot myself than be mad, for I am not afraid of dying— I am more fit to die than people think!' « I do not, however, believe that his lordship had any apprehension of his fate till the day after the. 1 8th, when he said, 'I fear you and Tita will be ill by sitting continually night and day.' I answered, « We shall never leave your lordship till you are better.' As my master had a slight fit of delirium on the 16th, I took care to remove the pistol and stiletto, which had hi- therto been kept at his bedside in the night. On the 1 8th his lordship addressed me fre- quently, and seemed to be very much dissatisfied with his medical treatment. I then said, < Do allow me to send for Dr Thomas?' to which he answered, 'Do so, but be quick; I am sorry I did not let you do so before, as I am sure they have mistaken my disease. Write yourself, for I know they would not like to see other doctors here.' I did not lose a moment in obeying my masters orders; and on informing Dr Bruno and Mr Millingen of it, they said it was very right, as they now began to be afraid themselves. On returning to my master's room, his first words were 'have you sent?'— 'I have, my lord,' was my answer; upon which he said, ' you have done right, for I should like to know what is the matter with me.' Although his lordship did not appear to think his dissolution was so near, I could perceive he was getting weaker every hour, and he even began to have occasional fits of delirium. He afterwards said, ' I now begin to think I am seriously ill, and in case I should be taken off suddenly, I wish to give you several directions, which I hope you will be par- ticular in seeing executed.' I answered I would in case such an event came to pass, but expressed a hope that he would live many years to execute them much better himself than I could. To thi3 my master replied, ' No, it is now nearly over :' and then added, ' I must tell you all without losing a moment!' I then said, ' Shall I go, my lord, and fetch pen, ink and paper?' — 'Oh, my God! no; you will lose too much time, and I have it not to spare, for my time is now short,' said his lordship, and immediately after, 'Now pay attention!' His lordship com- menced by saying, 'You will be provided for.' I begged him, however, to proceed with things of more consequence. He then continued, ' oh, my poor dear child ! my dear Ada ! my God ! could I but have seen her! Give her my bless- ing—and my dear sister Augusta and her chil- dren ; and you will go to Lady Byron, and say — tell her every thing,— you are friends with her.' His lordship seemed to be greatly affected at this moment. Here my master's voice failed him, so that I could only catch a word at in- tervals ; but he kept muttering something very seriously for some time, and would often raise his voice, and said, ' Fletcher, now if you do not execute every order which I have given you, I will torment you hereafter if possible.' Here I told his lordship in a state of the greatest perplexity, that I had not understood a word of what he said ; to which he replied, ' Oh, my God ! then all is lost, for it is now too late ! Can it be possible you have not understood me?' — 'No, my lord,' said I, 'but I pray you to try and inform me once more.' ' How can I?' re- joined my master, ' it is now too late, and all is over!' I said, 'Not our will, but God's be done?' — and he answered, 'Yes, not mine be done!— but I will try.' His lordship did indeed LIFE OF LOKD BYRON. XXX IX make several efforts to speak, but could only speak two or three words at a time, — such as, ' My wife ! my child ! my sister !— you know all— you must say all — you know my wishes — the rest was quite unintelligible. A consultation was now held (about noon), when it was deter- mined to administer some Peruvian bark and wine. My master had now been nine days without any sustenance whatever, except what I have already mentioned. With the exception of a few words, which can only interest those to whom they were addressed, and which if re- quired I shall communicate to themselves, it was impossible to understand any thing his lordship said after taking the bark. He expressed a wish to sleep. I at one time asked whether I should call Mr Parry, to which he replied, ' Yes, you may call him.' Mr Parry desired him to com- pose himself. He shed tears, and apparently sunk into a slumber. Mr Parry went away ex- pecting to find him refreshed on his return, — but it was the commencement of the lethargy preceding his death. The last words I heard my master utter were at six o'clock on the evening of the 1 8th, when he said, ' I must sleep now ;' upon which he laid down never to rise again! — for he did not move hand or foot during the following twenty-four hours. His lordship ap- peared, however, to be in a state of suffocation at intervals, and had a frequent rattling in the throat; on these occasions I called Tita to assist me in raising his head, and I thought he seemed to get quite stiff. The rattling and choking in the throat took place every half-hour, and we continued to raise his head whenever the fit came on, till six o'clock in the evening of the 19th, when I saw my master open his eyes and then shut them, but without showing any symp- tom of pain, or moving hand or foot. ' Oh ! my God!' I exclaimed, 'I fear his lordship is gone!' the doctors then felt his pulse, and said, 'You are right — he is gone!'» On the day of this melancholy event, Prince Mavrocordato issued a proclamation expressive of the deep and unfeigned grief felt by all classes, and ordering every public demonstration of re- spect and sorrow to be paid to the memory of the illustrious deceased, by firing minute-guns, clos- ing all the public-offices and shops, suspending the usual Easter festivities, and by a general mourning and funeral prayersin all the churches. It was resolved that the body should be em- balmed, and after the suitable funeral honours had been performed, should be embarked for Zante,— thence to be conveyed to England. Ac- cordingly the medical men opened the body and embalmed it, and having enclosed the heart, and separate vessels, they braiu, aud intestines placed it in a chest lined with tin, as there were no means of procuring a leaden coffin capable of holding the spirits necessary for its preservation on the voyage. Dr Bruno drew up an account of the examination of the body, by which it ap- peared his lordship's death had been caused by an inflammatory fever. Dr Meyer, a Swiss phy- sician, who was present, and had accidentally- seen Madame de Stael after her death, stated:that the formation of the brain in both these illus- trious persons was extremely similar, but that Lord Byron had a much greater quantity. On the 2 2d of April, 1824, in the midst of his own brigade, the troops of the government, and the whole population, the most precious portion of his honoured remains was carried to the church, where lie the bodies of Marco Botzaris and of General Xormann. The coffin was a rude, ill-constructed chest of wood; a black mantle served for a pall, and over it were placed a helmet, a sword, and a crown of laurel. But no funeral pomp could have left the impression, nor spoken the feelings, of this simple ceremony. The wretchedness and desolation of the place itself, the wild and half-civilized warriors present, their deep-felt, unaffected grief, the fond recol- lections, the disappointed hopes, the anxieties and sad presentiments which might be read on every countenance — all contributed to form a scene more truly affecting than perhaps was ever before witnessed round the grave of a great man. When the funeral service was over, the bier was left in the middle of the church, where it remained until the evening of the next day, guarded by a detachment of his own brigade, when it waspri- vately carried back by his officers to his own house. The coffin was not closed till the 29th of the month. On the 2d of May the remains of Lord Byron were embarked, under a salute from the guns of the fortress. « How different," exclaims Count Gamba, « from that which had welcomed the arri- val of Byron only four months ago! > After a pas- sage of three days, the vessel reached Zante, and the precious deposit was placed in the quarantine house. Here some additional precautions were taken to ensure its safe arrival in England, by providing another case for the body. On the 10th May, Colonel Stanhope arrived at Zante, from the Morea, and, as he was on his way back to England, he took charge of Lord Byron's re- mains, and embarked with them on board the Florida. On the 2 5th of May she sailed from Zante, on the 29th of June entered the Downs, and from thence proceeded to Stangate Creek, to perform quarantine, where she arrived on Thurs- day, July 1. John Cam Hobhouse, Esq. and John Hanson, xl LIFE OF LOUD PYRON. I sq.. Lord Bvrou's executors, after baring proved his will, claimed the body From the Florida, and under their directions it was removed to the b.009e of Sir Edward knatchbull, Westminster, where it lay in state several days. A lew select friends and admirers of the noble hard followed his remains to the grave. As the funeral procession passed through the streets of London, a line-looking honest tar was observed to walk near the hearse unco\ered, and on being asked Avhether he formed part of the cortege, he replied he came there to pay his respects to the deceased, with whom lie had served in the Levant, when he made the tour of the Grecian islands. The poor fellow was offered a place by some of the servants; but he said he was strong, and had rather walk near the hearse. The interment took place on Friday, July 16th. Lord Byron Avas buried in the family vault, at the village of Hucknell, eight miles beyond Not- tingham, and within two miles of the venerable Abbey of Newstead. He was accompanied to the grave by crowds of persons eager to show this last testimony of respect to his memory. As in one of his earlier poems he had expressed a wish that his dust might mingle with his mother's, his coffin was placed in the vault next to hers. It bore the following inscription : « George Gordon Noel Byron, Lord Byron, of Rochdale, Born in London, ' Jan. 22, 1788, died at Missolonghi, in Western Greece, April 19th, 1824. » * ?»flr Dallas says Dover. An urn accompanied the cofhn, and on it was inserihed : Within this urn are deposited the heart, brain, etc. of the deceased Lord Byron. An elegant Grecian tablet of white marble, has been placed in the chancel of Hucknell church, with the following inscription in Ro- inan capitals : I.N THE VAULT BENEATH, WHERE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER ARE BURIED, LIE THE REMAINS OF GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, LORD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE, IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER; THE AUTHOR OF « CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. >» HE WAS BORN IN LONDON, ON THE 22D OF JANUARY, 1788. HE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, ON THE I9TH OF APRIL, 1824, ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO RESTORE THAT COUNTRY TO HEP. ANCIENT FREEDOM AND RENOWN. HIS SISTER, THE HONOURABLE AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH, PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMORY. THE COMPLETE WORKS KWfcD H1,%1 % fbouva of jjprlotaew. A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. Yirginibus puerisque Canto. Horace, lib. 3. Ode i M?;-' v.p fit >j-xX uhzs , firfce zi vstxsu Homer. Iliad. 10. He -whistled as he went for want of thought. Dbtdeh . TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC. CJjese liorms arc Unscrrbrti, BY HIS OBLIGED WARD, AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, THE AUTHOR. ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. Why dost thou build the hall ? Son of the winged days '. Thou lookest from thy tower to-day ; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes ; it howls in thy empty court. SSI AN. Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle ; Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way. Of the mail-cover'd barons, who proudly, to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, Raise a flame in the breast, for the war-laurel'd wreath ; Near Askalon's Towers John of Horistan ■ slumbers, Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of Cressy; For the safety of Edward and England they fell; My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; Hew you fought ! how you died ! still her annals can tell. 1 Horistan Castle, family. an ancient seat of the Byron On Alarston, J with Rupert 2 'gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; For the rights of a monarch, their country defending, Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing From the seat of his ancestors bids you adieu ! Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, — The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish, He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown; Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own. i8o3. EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. kcr-np Tzpiv fiev e/a//.Trs? sv« Cwowtv swoc. Laertius. Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier! What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, While thou wast struggling in the pangs of death ! 1 The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated. 2 Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. ne after- wards commanded the fieet, in the reiffn of Charles II. BYRON'S WORKS. Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; Thou still hadst lived, to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight. If, yet, thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep ; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament his failing line, A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, Yet, other offspring soothe his anguish here : Cut who with me shall hold thy former place? Thine image, what new friendship can efface? Ah, none! a father's tears will cease to flow, Time will assuage an infant brother's woe; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary Friendship sighs alone. tSo3. A FRAGMENT. When, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; Oh ! may my shade behold no sculptured urns, To mark the spot where earth to earth returns : No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber" d stone; My epitaph shall be my name alone : If that with honour fail to crown my clay, Oh ! may no other fame my deeds repay; That, only that, shall single out the spot, By that remember'd, or with that forgot. i8o3. THE TEAR. O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducentium ortus ex animo : quater Felix ! in imo qui scatentem Pectore te. pia Nympha, sensit. When Friendship or Love Our sympathies move; When Truth in a glance should appear; The lips may beguile, With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection 's a Tear. Too oft is a smile But the hypocrites wile, To mask detestation or fear; Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soul- telling eye Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear. Mild Charity's glow, To us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear; Compassion will melt, Where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a Tear. The man doom'd to sail, With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer; As he bends o'er the wave, Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear. The soldier braves death, For a fanciful wreath, In Glory's romantic career; But he raises the foe, When in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a Tear. If, with high-bounding pride, He return to his bride, Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, All his toils are repaid, When embracing the maid — From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. Sweet scene of my youth, Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, For a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Though my vows I can pour, To my Mary no more, My Mary, to Love once so dear ; In the shade of her bower, I remember the hour, She rewarded those vows with a Tear. By another possest, May she live ever blest, Her name still my heart must revere; With a sigh I resign, What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear. Ye friends of my heart, Ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most near, If again we shall meet, In this rural retreat, May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. When my soul wings her flight, To the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier, As ye pass by the tomb, Where my ashes consume, Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. May no marble bestow The splendour of woe, Which the children of vanity rear; No fiction of fame Shall blazon my name, All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear. 1806. AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE. Delivered previous to the performance of « The Wheel of Fortune, » at a private theatre. Since the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; HOURS OF IDLENESS. Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek, Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek; Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence though she find not fame. Still, not for her alone we wish respect, Others appear more conscious of defect; To-night no veteran Roscii you behold, In all the arts of scenic action old ; No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear; To-night, you throng to witness the debut Of embryo actors, to the drama new. Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try; Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly; Failing in this our first attempt to soar, Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays, Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise, But all our Dramatis Persona? wait, In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate. No venal views our progress can retard, Your generous plaudits are our sole reward; For these, each Hero all his power displays, Each tirnid Heroine shrinks before your gaze; Surely the last will some protection find — None to the softer sex can prove unkind; Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield, The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. Yet should our feeble efforts nought avail, Should, after all, our best endeavours fail, Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live, And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX. The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a Morning Paper. Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath; These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue, We give the palm where Justice points it due. To which the Author of these Pieces sent the following Reply. Oh! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth; What, though our « nation's foes» lament the fate, With generous feeling, of the good and great; Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame? When Pitt expired, in plenitude of power, Though ill success obscured his dying hour, Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For noble spirits war not « with the dead.» His friends, in tears, a last said requiem gave, As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; He sunk, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight Of cares o'erwhelmiug our conflicting state; When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd, Who, for a time, the ruin'd fabric rear'd. He, too, is fallen, who Britain's loss supplied ; With him our fast reviving hopes have died: Not one great people only raise his urn, All Europe's far extended regions mourn. « These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue, To give the palm where Justice points it due;» Yet let not canker' d calumny assail, Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. Fox, o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep, For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, While friends and foes alike his talents own; Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine, Nor even to Pitt the patriot's palm resign, Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. STANZAS TO A LADY. fFith the Poems of Canwens. This votive pledge of fond esteem, Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou 'It prize; It sings of Love's enchanting dream, A theme we never can despise. Who blames it but the envious fool. The old and disappointed maid? Or pupil of the prudish school, In single sorrow doom'd to fade. Then read, dear girl, with feeling read, For thou wilt ne'er be one of those; To thee in vain I shall not plead, In pity for the Poet's woes. He was, in sooth, a genuine bard; His was no faint fictitious flame ; Like his, may love be thy reward, But not thy hapless fate the same. TO M ' * \ Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire, With bright but mild affection shine, Though they might kindle less desire, Love more than mortal would be thine. For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, We must admire, but still despair, — That fatal glance forbids esteem. When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, So much perfection in thee shone, She fear'd that, too divine for earth, The skies might claim thee for their own. Therefore, to guard her dearest work, Lest angels might dispute the prize, She bade a secret lightning lurk Within those once celestial eyes. These might the boldest sylph appal, When gleaming with meridian blaze ; Thy beauty must enrapture all, But who can dare thine ardent gaze! 'T is said, that Berenice's hair In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; But they would ne'er permit thee there, Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. For, did those eyes as planets roll, Thy sister lights would scarce appear; E'en suns, which systems now controul, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. 1806. BYRON'S WORKS. TO WOMAN. Woman! experience might have told me, That all must love tliee who hehold thee. Surely, experience might have taught, Thy firmest promises are nought; But, placed in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to adore thee. Oh Memory! thou choicest blessing, When join'd with hope, when still possessing; But how much cursed b yevery lover, When hope is fled, and passion 's over! Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her! How throbs the pulse, when first we view The eye that rolls in glossy blue, Or sparkles black, or mildly throws A beam from under hazel brows! How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth! Fondly we hope 't will last for aye, Y\ hen lo! she changes in a day. This record will for ever stand, « Woman ! thy vows are traced in sand.»> TO M. S. G. When I dream that you love me, you '11 surely forgive; Extend not your anger to sleep, For in visions alone your affection can live; I rise, and it leaves me to weep. Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast, Shed o'er me your languor benign ; Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, What rapture celestial is mine! They tell us, that slumber, the sister of death, Mortality's emblem is given ; To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, If this be a forestaste of heaven ! Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, Nor deem me too happy in this; If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, Oh! think not my penance deficient; When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, To awake will be torture sufficient. SONG. When I roved, a young Highlander, o'er the dark heath, And climb'd thy steep summit, oh! Morven of Snow, 2 To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that galher'd below, 3 1 The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb. 2 Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire : « Gormal of Snow* is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian. 3 This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been ac- customed to the mountains : it is by no means uncommon on attain- ing the top of Ben e vis, Ben y bourd, etc., to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally, accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down on the storm, perfectly secure from its effects. I Hi Mini 'd by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear, Need I say, my sweet Mary, 't was centred in you? Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name; What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But, still, [ perceive an emotion the same As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild : One image alone on my bosom impress'd, I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were blest, And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as my guide, From mountain to mountain I bounded along, I breasted 1 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 to my view, And warm to the skies my devotions arose, For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone, The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more; As the last of my race, I must wither alone, And delight but in days I have witness'd before. Ah! splendour has raised but embitter'd my lot, More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew; Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot, Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; 3 When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene; WheD, haply, some light-waving locks I behold, That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold, The locks that were sacred to beauty and you. Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow: But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, Will Mary be there to receive me ? ah , 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 * * * Oh ! yes, [ will own we were dear to each other, The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true; The love which you felt was the love of a brother, Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion, The attachment of years in a moment expires; Like Love too, she moves ou a swift-waving pinion, But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. 1 « Breasting the lofty surge. » — Shakspeare. 2 The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen. 3 Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle. HOURS OF IDLENESS. Full oft have we wandered through Ida together, And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow ; In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather ! But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. No more with Affection shall Memory blending The wonted delights of our childhood retrace; When Pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, And what would be Justice appears a disgrace. However, dear S , for I still must esteem you, The few whom I love I can never upbraid, The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you, Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 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 heart, my existence, If danger demanded, were wholly your own; You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance, Devoted to love and to friendship alone. You knew, — but away the vain retrospection ! The bond of affection no longer endures; Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. For the present we part, — I will hope not for ever, For time and regret will restore you at last ; To forget our dissension we both should endeavour; I ask no atonement, but days like the past. TO MARY. On receiving her picture. This faint resemblance of thy charms, Though strong as mortal art could give. My constant heart of fear disarms, Revives my hopes, and bids me live. Here, I can trace the locks of gold Which round thy snowy forehead wave; The cheeks, which sprung from Beauty's mould, The lips, which made me beauty's slave. Here, I can trace ah no ! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter's art defy, And bid him from the task retire. Here I behold its beauteous hue, Cut where's the beam so sweetly straying? Which gave a lustre to its blue, Like Luna o'er the ocean playing. Sweet copy ! far more dear to mc, Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be, Save her who placed thee next my heart. She placed it, sad, with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious, that her image, there, Held every sense in fast controul. Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 't will cheer My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; In life's last conflict 't will appear, And meet my fond expiring gaze. DAM.ETAS. In law an infant, » and in years a boy, In mind a slave to every vicious joy, From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd, In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; Versed in hypocrisy, while vet a child, Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool, Old in the world, tho' scarcely broke from school Damaetas ran through all the maze of sin, And found the goal, when others just begin ; Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; But pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, And, what was once his bliss, appears his bane. TO MARION. Marion ! why that pensive brow ? What disgust to life hast thou ? Change that discontented air; Frowns become not one so fair. 'T is not love disturbs thy rest, Love 's a stranger to thy breast ; He in dimpling smiles appears; Or mourns in sweetly timid tears ; Or bends the languid eyelid down, But shuns the cold forbidding frown. Then resume thy former fire, Some will love, and all admire ; While that icy aspect chills us, Nought but cold indifference thrills us. Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, Smile, at least, or seem to smile ; Eyes like thine were never meant To hide their orbs, in dark restraint ; Spite of all, thou fain wouldst say, Still in truant beams they play. Thy lips,— but here my modest Muse Her impulse chaste must needs refuse. She blushes, curtsies, frowns, — in short she Dreads lest the subject should transport me; And flying off, in search of reason, Brings prudence back in proper season. All 1 shall therefore say (whatc'er I think is neither here nor there), Is that such lips, of looks endearing, Were form'd for better things than sneering ; Of soothing compliments divested, Advice at least 's disinterested ; Such is my artless song to thee, From all the flow of flattery free ; Counsel, like mine, is as a brother's, My heart is given to some others; That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, It shares itself amongst a dozen. Marion, adieu! oh ! prithee slight not This warning, though it may delight not; And. lest my precepts be displeasing To those who think remonstrance teazing, At once I 11 tell thee our opinion, Concerning woman's soft dominion : 1 In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twentr-one. BYRON'S WORKS. Howe'cr we gaze with admiration On eyes of blue, or lips carnation ; Howe'er tlic flowing locks attract us, Ilowc'er those beauties may distract us, Still fickle, we are prone to rove, These cannot fix our souls to love; It is not too severe a stricture To say they form a pretty picture. But wouldst thou see the secret chain Which binds us in your humble traiD, To hail you queens of all creation,— Know, in a word, 't is Animation. OSCAR OF ALVA. 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 gory plain, Beheld in death her fading ray. Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love, 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 high, A sound is heard in yonder hall, It rises hoarsely through the sky, And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, It shakes the shield of Oscar brave; But there no more his banners rise, No more his plumes of sable wave. Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; The vassals round their chieftain's hearth, Crowd to applaud the happy morn. ' The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of u Je- ronymoand Lorenzo,* in the tirst volume of « The Armenian, or Ghost-Seer. » It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of a Macbeth.* They feast upon the mountain deer, The Pibroch raised its piercing note; To gladden more their Highland cheer, The strains in martial numbers float. And they who heard the war-notes wild, Hoped that, one day, the Pibroch's strain Should play before the Hero's child, While he should lead the Tarlan train. Another year is quickly past, And Angus hails another son; His natal day is like the last, Nor soon the jocund feast was done. Taught by their sire to bend the bow, On Alva's dusky hills of wind, The boys in childhood chased the roe, And left their hounds in speed behind. But, ere their years of youth are o'er, They mingle in the ranks of war: They lightly wield the bright claymore, And send the whistling arrow far. Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, Wildly it stream'd along the gale; But Allan's locks were bright and fair, And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, His dark eye shone through beams of truth ; Allan had early learnt controul, And smooth his words had been from youth Both, both were brave ; the Saxon spear Was shiver' d oft beneath their steel ; And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, But Oscar's bosom knew to feel. While Allan's soul belied his form, Unworthy with such charms to dwell; Keen as the lightning of the storm, On foes his deadly vengeance fell. From high Southannon's distant tower Arrived a young and noble dame; With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came : And Oscar claim' d the beauteous bride, And Angus on his Oscar smiled; It soothed the father's feudal pride, Thus to obtain Glenalvon'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 his chieftain's call. It is not war their aid demands, The Pibroch plays the song of peace ; To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. But where is Oscar ? sure 't is late : Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? While thronging guests and ladies wait, Nor Oscar nor his brother came. HOURS OF IDLENESS. At length young Allan join'd the bride, « Why comes not Oscar ?» Angus said; k Is he not here?» the youth replied, « With me he roved not o'er the glade. « Perchance, forgetful of the day, 'T is 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. « Oscar! my Son ! — Thou God of heaven ! Restore the prop of sinking age; Or, if that hope no more is given, Yield his assassin to my rage. k Yes, on some desert rocky shore, My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie; Then, grant, thou God! I ask no more, With him his frantic sire may die. « Yet, he may live — away despair; Be calm, my soul! he yet may live! 'T arraign my fate, my voice forbear; God, my impious prayer forgive! « What, if he live for me no more, 1 sink forgotten in the dust, The hope of Alva's age is o'er ; Alas! can pangs like these be just ?» Thus did the hapless parent mourn, Till Time, who soothes severest woe, Had bade serenity return, And made the tear-drop cease to flow. For still some latent hope survived, That Oscar might once more appear; His hope now droop'd, and now revived, Till Time had told a tedious year. Days roll'd along, the orb of light Again had run his destined race; No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, And sovow left a fainter trace. For youthful Allan still remain'd, And, now, his father's only joy: And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, For beauty crown'd the fair-hair' d boy. She thought that Oscar low was laid, And Allan's face was wondrous fair, If Oscar lived, some other maid Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. And Angus said, if one year more, In fruitless hope was pass'd away, His fondest scruple should be o'er, And he would name their nuptial day. Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last, Arrived the dearly destined morn ; The year of anxious trembling past, What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn! Hark to the Pibroch's pleasing note! Hark to the swelling nuptial song! In joyous strains the voices float, And still the choral peal prolong. Again the clan, in festive crowd, Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, And all their former joy recal. But who is he, whose darken'd brow- Glooms in the midst of general mirth ! Before his eye's far fiercer glow The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. Dark is the robe which wraps his form, And tall his plume of gorv red; His voice is like the rising storm, But light and trackless is his tread. 'T is noon of night, the pledge goes round, The bridegroom's health is deeply quaft ; With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, And all combine to hail the draught. Sudden the stranger chief arose, And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. « Old raanln he cried, « this pledge is done. Thou saw'st 't was duly drunk by me, It hail'd the nuptials of thy son ; Now will I claim a pledge from thee. « W 7 hile all around is mirth and joy, To bless thy Allan's happy lot; Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy? Say, why should Oscar be forgot ?» « Alas!» the hapless sire replied, The big tear starting as he spoke; « When Oscar left my hall, or died, This aged heart was almost broke. « Thrice has the earth revolved her course, Since Oscar's form has blest my sight; And Allan is my last resource, Since martial Oscar's death or flight. » «'T is well," replied the stranger stern, And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye; « Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn ; Perhaps the hero did not die. « Perchance if those whom most he loved, Would call, thy Oscar might return ; BYRON'S WORKS. Perchance the cliicf lias only roved, For him tliy Bellane 1 yet may burn. « Fill higli the bowl, the table round, We will not claim the pledge bysteallli, With wine let every cup be crown'd, Pledge me departed Oscar's health. » w With all my soul,» old Angus said, And rill'd his goblet to the brim jjfl « Here 's to my boy! alive or dead,aC I ne'er shall find a son like him. t> « Bravely, old man, this health has sped, But why does Allan trembling stand? Come, drink remembrance of tlie dead, And raise thy cup with firmer hand.» The crimson glow of Allan's face Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue; The drops of death each other chase, Adown in agonizing dew. Thrice did he raise the goblet high, And thrice his lips refused to taste; For thrice he caught the stranger's eye, On his with deadly fury placed. « And is it thus a brother hails A brother's fond remembrance here? If thus affection's strength prevails, What might we not expect from fear?» Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl; « Would Oscar now could share our mirth !» Internal fear appall'd his soul, He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. « T is he! T hear my murderer's voice,» Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form ; « A murderer's voice !» the roof replies, And deeply swells the bursting storm. The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, The stranger 's gone, amidst the crew A Form was seen, in tartan green, And tall the shade terrific grew. His waist was bound with a broad belt round, His plume of sable stream'd on high ; But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, On Angus, bending low the knee ; And thrice he frown'd on a Chief on the ground, Whom shivering crowds with horror see. The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, The thunders through the welkin ring; And the gleaming Form, through the mist of the storm, Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. Cold was the feast, the revel ceased ; Who lies upon the stony floor? Oblivion prest old Angus' breast, At length his life-pulse throbs once more. « Away, away, let the leech essay To pour the light on Allan's eyes;» His sand is done, — his race is run, Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! " Beltane-Tree.— A Highland festival, on the ist of May, held near fires lighted for the occasion. But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, His locks are lifted by the gale, And Allan's barbed arrow lay With him in dark Glentanar's vale. And whence the dreadful stranger came, Or who, no mortal wight can tell; But no one doubts the Form of Flame, For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, Exulting demons wing'd his dart, While Envy waved her burning brand, And pour'd her venom round his heart. Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow: Whose streaming life-blood stains his side ? Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, The dart has drunk his vital tide. And Mora's eye could Allan move, She bade his wounded pride rebel ; Alas! that eyes, which beam'd with love, Should urge the soul to deeds of Hell. Lo! see'st thou not a lonely tomb, Which rises o'er a warrior dead! It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. Far distant, far, the noble grave, Which held his clan's great ashes, stood ! And o'er his corse no banners wave, For they were stain'd with kindred blood. What minstrel grey, what hoary bard, Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? The song is glory's chief reward, But who can strike a murderer's praise? Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, No minstrel dare the theme awake ; Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, His harp in shuddering chords would break. No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, Shall sound his glories high in air, A dying father's bitter curse, A brother's death-groan echoes there. TO THE DUKE OF D. In looking over my papers, to select a few additional Poems for the second edition, I found the following lines, which I had totally forgotten, composed in the summer of i8o5, a short time previous to my departure from Ft . They were addressed to a young school-fellow of high rank, who bad been my frequent companion in some rambles through the neighbouring country; however, he never saw the lines, and most probably never will. As, on a re- perusal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, I have now published ihem, for the first time, after a slight revision. D— r — t ! whose early steps with mine have stray d, Exploring every path of Ida's glade, Whom, still, affection taught me to defend, And made me less a tyrant than a friend; Though the harsh custom of our youthful band Bade thee obey, and gave me to command 1 1 At every public school, the junior boysare completely subser- vient to the upper forms, till they attain a seat in the higher classes. From this state of probation, very properly, no rank is exempt ; but after a certain period, they command, in turn, those who succeed. HOURS OF IDLENESS. Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower The gift of riches, and the pride of power; E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, Renown'd in rank, not far heneath the throne. Yet, D — r — t, let not this seduce thy soul, To shun fair science, or evade control ; Though passive tutors, 1 fearful to dispraise The titled child, whose future breath may raise, View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. When youthful parasites, who bend the knee To wealth, their golden idol,— not to thee! And, even in simple boyhood's opening dawn, Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn : When these declare that pomp alone should wait On one by birth predestined to be great; That books were only meant for drudging fools; That « gallant spirits scorn the common ru!es;» Believe them not, — they point the path to shamej And seek to blast the honours of thy name : Turn to the few, in Ida's early throng, Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong; Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, Ask thine own heart ! 't will bid thee, boy, forbear, For well I know that virtue lingers there. Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, But now new scenes invite me far away; Yes ! I have mark'd within that generous mind, A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind: Ah ! though myself, by nature, haughty, wild, Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child, Though every error stamps me for her own, And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone. Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, I love the virtues which I cannot claim. T is not enough, with other Sons of power, To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour, To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, With long-drawn names, that grace no page beside; Then share with titled crowds the common lot, In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot; While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, The mouldering scutcheon, or the herald's roll, That well emblazon'd, but neglected scroll, Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find One spot to leave a worthless name behind : — There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults; A race with old armorial lists o'erspread, In records destined never to be read. Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, Exalted more among the good and wise; A glorious and a long career pursue, As first in Rank, the first in Talent too; Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun, Not Fortune's minion, but her ablest son. 1 Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most distant: I merely mention, generally, what is too often the weak- ness of preceptors. Turn to the annals of a former day, — Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display ; One, though a Courtier, liv'd a man of worth, And call'd, proud boast ! the British Drama forth. 1 Another view ! not less renown'd for Wit, Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine, In every splendid part ordain'd to shine; Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song. 2 Such were thy Fathers, thus preserve their name, Not heir to titles onlv, but to Fame. The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, To me, this little scene of joys and woes; Each knell of Time now warns me to resign Shades, where Hope, Peace, and Friendship, all were mine; Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, And gild their pinions as the moments flew; Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, By dreams of ill to cloud some future day; Friendship whose truth let childhood only tell — Alas ! they love not long who love so well. To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, Receding slowly through the dark blue deep, Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. D — r — t ! farewell ! I will not ask one part Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; The coming morrow from thy youthful mind Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere, Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, May one day claim our suffrage for the state, We hence may meet, and pass each other by With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe ; With thee no more again I hope to trace The recollection of our early race; No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice, Or hear, uuless in crowds, thy well-known voice. Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught To veil those feelings which, perchance, it ought; If these, — but let me cease the lengthen'd strain, Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, The Guardian Seraph, who directs thy fate, Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. 1 u Thomas S— k— lie, Lord E— k— st, created Earl of D by James the First, was one of the earliest and brightest ornaments to the poetry of his country, and the first who produced a regular drama. n — Asdersos's British Poets. 2 Charles S—k— He, Earl of D , esteemed the most accom- plished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II., and the gloomy one of William III. He be- haved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch, in i665, on the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song. Ilis character has be^u drawn in the highest colours, by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve.— Asderson's British Poets. BYRON'S WORKS. TRANSLATIONS IMITATIONS. ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN DYING. Animula! vagula, blandula, Hospes, comesque, corporis, Quae nunc abibis in loca? Pallidula, rigida, nudula, Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos. TRANSLATION. Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wavering Sprite, Friend and associate of this clay ! To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more, with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. « AD LESBIAM.w Equal to Jove that youth must be, Greater than Jove he seems to me, "Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, Securely views thy matchless charms; That cheek, which ever dimpling glows. That mouth from -whence such music flows, To him alike are always known, Reserved for him, and him alone. Ah ! Lesbia ! though 't is death to me, I cannot chuse but look on thee ; But, at the sight, my senses fly ; I needs must gaze, but gazing die; Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, Parch'd to the throat, my tongue adheres, My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, My limbs deny their slight support; Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, With deadly languor droops my head, My ears with tingling echoes ring, And life itself is on the wing; My eyes refuse the cheering light, Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, And feels a temporary death. TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. He who, sublime, in Epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By death's unequal hand » alike controll'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move. 1 The bond of Death is said to be unjust, or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at bis decease. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. "LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSEMS.» Ye Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread; My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Whom dearer than her eyes she loved ; For he was gentle, and so true, Obedient to her call he flew, No fear, no wild alarm he knew, But lightly o'er her bosom moved : And softly fluttering here and there. He never sought to cleave the air; But chirrup'd oft, and free from care, Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. Now having past the gloomy bourne, From whence he never can return,' His death, and Lesbia's grief, I mourn, Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save, For thou hast ta'en the bird away : From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow, Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay. IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an'age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee : Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever; E'ei\ though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavoui : Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never. TRANSLATIONS FROM ANACREON. TO HIS LYRE. I wish to tune my quivering lyre To deeds of fame, and notes of fire; To echo from its rising swell, How heroes fought, and nations fell; When Atreus' sons advanced to war, Or Tyrian Cadmu^roved afar; But still, to martial strains unknown, My lyre recurs to love alone. Fired with the hope of future fame, I seek some nobler hero's name; The dying chords are strung anew, To war, to war my harp is due; HOURS OF IDLENESS. 1 1 With glowing strings, the epic strain To Jove's great son I raise again; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra hleeds: All, all in vain, my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft desire. Adieu! ye chiefs renown'd in arms! Adieu! the clang of war's alarms. To other deeds my soul is struDg, And sweeter notes shall now he sung; My harp shall all its powers reveal, To tell the (ale my heart must feel ; Love, love alone my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss, and sighs of flame. ODE III. 'T was now the hour, when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Bootes, only, seemed to roll His Arctic charge around the Pole; While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep; At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, Descending from the realms of joy, Quick to my gate directs his course, And knocks with all his little force: My visions fled, alarm'd I rose; « What stranger breaks my blest repose ?» « Alas!» replies the wily child, In faltering accents, sweetly mild, « A hapless infant here I roam, Far from my dear maternal home; Oh! shield me from the wintry blast, The nightly storm is pouring fast; No prowling robber lingers here, A wandering baby who can fear?» I heard his seeming artless tale, I heard his sighs upon the gale; My breast was never pity's foe, But felt for all the baby's woe; I drew the bar, and by the light, Young Love, the infant, met my sight; His bow across his shoulders flung, And thence his fatal quiver hung (All ! little did I think the dart Would rankle soon within my heart); With care I tend my weary guest, His little fingers chill my breast; His glossy curls, his azure wing, Which droop with nightly showers, I wring: His shivering limbs the embers warm, And now, reviving from the storm, Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, Than swift he seized his slender bow: « I fain would know, my gentle host,» He cried, « if this its strength has lost; I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, The strings their former aid refuse :» With poison tipt, his arrow flies,, Deep in my tortured heart it lies : Then loud Lhe joyous urchin laugh'd, « My bow can still impel the shaft; T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?» FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. FROM THE PROMETHEUS VIKCTUS OF jESCHYLUS. Great Jove! to whose Almighty throne Both gods and mortals homage pay, Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. Oft shall the sacred victim fall In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; My voice shall raise no impious strain Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. How different now thy joyless fate, Since first Hesione thy bride, When placed aloft in godlike state, The blushing beauty by thy side, Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, And mirthful strains the hours beguiled ; The nymphs and Tritons danced around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd. Harrow, Dec. I, 1804. THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. A PARAPHRASE FROM THE .ENEID, LIB. 9. Nisus the guardian of the portal stood, Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; Well skill'd in fight, the quivering lance to wield, Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field ; From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, And sought a foreign home, a distant grave; To watch the movements of the Daunian host, With him Euryalus sustains the post: No lovelier mien adorn d the ranks of Troy, And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy; Though few the seasons of his youthful life, As yet a novice in the martial strife, T was his, with beauty, valour's gift to share, A soul heroic, as his form was fair; These burn with one pure flame of generous love, In peace, in war united still they move; Friendship and glory form their joint reward, And now combined, they hold their nightly guard. « What god,» exclairn'd the first, « instils this fire? Or, in itself a god, what great desire? My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, Abhors this station of inglorious rest; The love of fame with tins can ill accord, — Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb? Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign? Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen grief, Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief; Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine ( The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine); Were this decreed — beneath yon rising mouud, Methinks an easy path perchance were found, Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, And lead iEneas from Evander's halls. » With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy, His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy : « These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone? Must all the fame, the peril be thine own? 1-2 BYRON'S WORKS. Am I by thee despised, and left af.ir, As one unlit to share the toils of war? Not thus his son the rjre.it Ophcltes taught, Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; Not tlius, when Ilion fell by heavenly liate, I track'd iEneas through the walks of fate. Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear; Here is a soul with hope immortal bums, And life, ignoble life, for Gtnry spurns; Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath, The price of honour is the sleep of death. » Then Nisus — «Calm thy bosom's fond alarms. Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms; More dear thy worth and valour than my own, I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne! So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, And clasp again the comrade of my youth. But should I fall, and he who dares advance Through hostile legions must abide by chance; If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low; Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve; When humhled in the dust, let some one be, Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse: Or, if my destiny these last deny, If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, To mark thy love, and signalise my doom. Why should thy doating wretched mother weep Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep? Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared { Who braved what woman never braved before, And left her native for the Latian shore?» « In vain you damp the ardour of my soul,» Replied Euryalus, « it scorns control; Hence, let us haste.» — Their brother guards arose, Roused by their call, nor court again repose; The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man; Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold Alternate converse, and their plans unfold; On one great point the council are agreed, Au instant message to their prince decreed: Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield, And poised, with easy arm, his ancient shield; W 7 hen Nisus and his friend their leave request To offer something to their high behest. With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, The faithful pair before the throne appear; lulus greets them; at his kind command, The elder first address'd the hoary band. « With patience, » thus Hyrtacides began, « Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan; Where yonder beacons, half-expiring, beam, Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, Between the ocean and the portal placed : Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, Whose shade securely our design will cloak. If you. ye Chiefs, and Fortune will allow, We 'II bead our course to yonder mountain's brow; Where Pdllas' wails, at distance, meet the sight, Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night; Then shall /Eneas in his pride return, While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn, And Lfttian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead, Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread ; Such is our purpose, not unknown the way, Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray : Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, The distant spires above the valleys gleam.- Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, Moved by the speech, Alethes here cxclaim'd : « Ye parent Gods! who rule the fate of Troy, Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy; When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise, Yours is the god-like act, be yours the praise; In gallant youth my fainting hopes revive, And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast; With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : — « What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize Can we bestow, which you may not despise? Our deities the first, best boon have given, Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth, Doubtless, await .such young exalted worth; /Eneas and Ascanius shall combine To yield applause far, far surpassing mine.» lulus then : « By all the powers above ! By those Penates 1 who my country love; By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear, My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair! Restore my father to my grateful sight, And all my sorrows yield to one delight. Nisus! two silver goblets are thine own, Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown; My sire secured them on that fatal day, Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey. Two massy tripods also shall be thine, Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine; An ancient cup which Tyrian Dido gave, While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave : Cut, when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, When great ^Eneas wears Hesperia's crown, The casque, the buckler, and the fiery stepd, Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, Are thine; ho envious lot shall then be cast, 1 pledge my word, irrevocably pass'd; Nay more, twelve slaves, aud twice six captive dame; To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, And all the realms which now the Latianssway, The labours of to-night shall well repay. But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one; Without thy aid no glory shall be mine, Without thy dear advice, no great design; Alike, through life esteem'd, thou god-like boy, In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy.» 1 Household Gods. HOURS OF IDLENESS. To him Euryalus : « No day shall shame The rising glories, which from this I claim. Fortune may favour or the skies may frown, But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart: My mother sprung from Priam's royal line, Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine; Nor Troy nor King Acestes' realms restrain Her feeble age from clangers of the main ; Alone she came, all selfish fears above, A bright example of maternal love. Unknown, the secret enterprise I brave, Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave : From this alone no fond adieus I seek, No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ; By gloomy Night, and thy right hand, I vow Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, In thee her much-loved child may live again; Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress: So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, To rise in glory, or to fall in fame.» Struck with a filial care, so deeply felt, In tears, at once the Trojan warriors melt; Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow; Such love was his, and such had been his woe. « All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied, « Nor this alone, but many a gift beside; To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, Creusa's • style but wanting to the dame; Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. Now, by my life, my Sire's most sacred oath, To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd.» Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, For friends to envy and for foes to feel. A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil. Slain, midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, lMnestheus, to guard the elder youth, bestows, And old Alethes' casque defends his brows; Arm'd, thence they go, while all the assembled train, To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain; More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place; His prayers he sends, but what can prayers avail, Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale? The trench is past, and, favour'd by the night, Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er? Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! Chariots, and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen, And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between; Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine, A mingled chaos this of war and wine. « Now,» cries the first, « for deeds of blood prepare, With me the conquest and the labour share ; Here lies our path; lest any hand arise, Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies; 1 The mother of lulus, lost on the night when Troy was taken. I '11 carve our passage through the heediess foe, And clear thy road, with many a deadly blow.» His whispering accents then the youth represt, And pierced proud BJiamnes through his panting breas Sretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed, Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed ; To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, His omens more than augur's skill evince ; But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, Could not avert his own untimely fall. Next Bemus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell, And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell : The charioteer along his courser's sides Expires, the steel his severed neck divides; And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead, Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; From the swollen veins the blackening torrents pour, Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire; Half the long night in childish games was past, Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last ; Ah! happier far, had he the morn survey'd, And, till Aurora's dawn, his skill display'd. In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls, With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls; Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams In seas of gore, the lordly tyrant foams. Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, Cut falls on feeble crowds without a name; His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, Yet wakeful Rhaesus sees the threatening steel ; His coward breast behind ajar he hides, And, vainly, in the weak defence confides ; Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, The reeking weapon bears alternate stains; Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow, One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. Now, where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; There, unconfined behold each grazing steed, Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed ; Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm: « Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is past, Full foes enough, to night, have breathed their last; Soon Will the day those eastern clouds adorn, Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn.» What silver arms, with various art ernboss'd, What bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd, They leave regardle.-s! yet, one glittering prize Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes; The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt; This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, Once by a line of former chieftains worn. Th* exulting boy the studded girdle wears, Messapus' helm his head, in triumph, bears; Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend, To seek the vale, where safer paths extend. Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course ; • 4 BYRON'S WORKS. While the slow foot their tardy march delay, The kni;;lus, impatient, spur along the way : Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, To Turnus, with their master's promise sped : Now, they approach the trench, and view the walls, When, on the left, a light reflection falls; The plunder* d helmet, through the waning night, Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright; Volscens, with question loud, the pair alarms — « Stand, stragglers ! stand! why early thus in arms? From whence? to whom? » He meets with no reply, Trusting the covert of the night, they fly; The thicket's depth, with hurried pace, they tread, While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene; Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; But Nisus scours along the forest's maze, To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze, Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, On every side they seek his absent friend. « O God ! my boy,« he cries, « of me bereft, In what impending perils art thou left !» Listening he runs — above the waving trees, Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze ; The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground; Again he turns — of footsteps hears the noise, The sound elates — the sight his hope destroys; The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, While lengthening shades his weary way confound; Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue, Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare ? Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ! What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ! His life a votive ransom nobly give, Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ! Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : <■<■ Goddess serene, transcending every star ! Queen of the sky ! whose beams are seen afar, By night, Heaven owns thy sway, by day, the grove, When, as chaste Dlan, here thou deign'st to rove ; If e'er myself or sire have sought to grace Thine altars with the produce of the chase; Speed, speed, my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, To free my friend, and scatter far the proud. » Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung; Through parted shades, the hurtling weapon sung.; The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay : He sobs, he dies, — the troop, in wild amaze, Unconscious whence the death, with horror ga^e; While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, A second shaft with equal force is driven ; Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes, Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall; « Thou youth accurst! thy life shall pay for alL» Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals; Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies: « Me, me, your vengeance hurl on me alone, Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own; Ye starry Spheres! thou conscious Heaven attest! He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confest ! All, all was mine — his early fate suspend, He only loved too well his hapless friend ; Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove, His fault was friendship, all his crime was love.» He pray'd in vain, the dark assassin's sword Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, Declining gently, falls a fading flower; Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead. But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide ; Volscens he seeks, amidst the gathering host, Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost; Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe, Rage nerves his arm, Fate gleams in every blow ; In vain, beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; In viewless circles wheel' d his falchion flies, Nor quits the Hero's grasp till Volscens dies; Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved, Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved; Then on his bosom, sought his wonted place, And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace ! Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim, Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! Ages on ages shall your fate admire; No future day shall see your names expire ; While stands the Capitol, immortal dome! And vanquish'd millions hail their Empress, Rome! TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES. When fierce conflicting passions urge The breast, where love is wont to glow, What mind can stem the stormy surge, Which rolls the tide of human woe? The hope of praise, the dread of shame, Can rouse the tortured breast no more; The wild desire, the guilty flame, Absorbs each wish it felt before. But, if affection gently thrills The soul, by purer dreams possest, The pleasing balm of mortal ills, In love can soothe the aching breast ; If thus, thou comest in disguise, Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, What heart, unfeeling, would despise The sweetest boon the gods have given? HOURS OF IDLENESS. 10 But, never from thy golden bow May I beneath the shaft expire, Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, Awakes an all-consuming fire; Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears! With others wage eternal war; Repentance! source of future tears, From me be ever distant far. May no distracting thoughts destroy The holy calm of sacred love! May all the hours be wing'd. with joy, Which hover faithful hearts above! Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine, May I with some fond, lover sigh ! Whose heart may mingle pure with mine, With me to live, with me to die. My native soil! beloved before, Now dearer, as my peaceful home, Ne'er may I quit thy rockv shore, A hapless, banish'd wretch to roam ; This very dav, this very hour, May I resign this fleeting breath, Nor quit my silent, humble bower — A doom, to me, far worse than death. Have I not heard the exile's sigh ! And seen the exile's silent tear? Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, A pensive, weary wanderer here : Ah! hapless dame!' no sire bewails, No friend thy wretched fate deplores, No kindred voice with rapture hails Thy steps, within a stranger's doors. Perish the fiend ! whose iron heart, To fair affection's truth uuknown, Bids her he fondly loved depart, Unpitied, helpless, and alone; Who ne'er unlocks, with silver key, 2 The milder treasures of his soul; May such a friend be far from me, And Ocean's storms between us roll! FUGITIVE PIECES. THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION. 3 High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, Magnus his ample front sublime uprears; Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod; 1 Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by him for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The Chorus from which this is taken, here address Medea ; thongh a considerable li- berty is taken with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in some other parts of the translation. 1 The original is « Ky.9y.pcrj &-joi%X'JZI /.lr t ov. cp-'JOiV." literally, u Disclosing the bright key of the mind.» 3 >"o reflection is here intended against the person mentioned un- der the name of Magnus. He is merely represented as performing au unaToidable function of his office : indeed such an attempt could only recoil upon myself, as that gentleman is now as much distin- guished by his eloquence, and the dignified propriety with which he fills his situation, as he was, in his younger days, for wit and con- viviality. As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome; Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. Happy the youth ! in Euclid's axioms tried, Though little versed in any art beside; Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, Scans Attic metres wdth a critic's ken. What ! though he knows not how his fathers bled, When civil discord piled the fields with dead; When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, Or Henry trampled on the crest of France? Though marv'ling at the name of Magna Gharta, Yet, well he recollects the laws of Sparta; Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid; Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. Such is the youth, whose scientific pate, Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await; Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. But, lo ! no common orator can hope The envied silver cup within his scope : Not that our Heads much eloquence require, Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tally's fire. A manner clear or warm is useless, since We do not try, by speaking, to convince; Be other orators of pleasing proud, We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd; Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, A proper mixture of the squeak and groan; No borrow'd grace of action must be seen, The slightest motion would displease the Dean ; Whilst every staring Graduate would prate Against what he could never imitate. The man, who hopes t' obtain the promised cup, Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up; Nor stop, but rattle over every word, No matter what, so it can not be heard — Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest! Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best : Who utters most within the shortest space, May safely hope to win the wordy race. The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, Linger in ease in Gran ta's sluggish shade; Where, on Cam's sedgy banks, supine they lie, Unknown, unhonour'd live, — unwept for, die; Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, They think all learning fix'd within their walls; In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, All modern arts affecting to despise; Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, 1 or Porson's 2 note, More than the verse on which the critic wrote; Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale, To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel, When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. With eager haste they court the lord of power, Whether 't is Pitt or P — tty rules the hour. 3 1 Celebrated critics. 2 The present Greek Professor at Trinity College, Cambridge ; a man whose powers of mind and writings may perhaps justify their preference. 3 Since this was written, Lord H. P y has lost his place, and iG HYRON'S WOIIKS. To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, While distant mines to their eyes are spread ; But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, They 'd By to seek the next who lill'd his place. Such are the men who learning's treasures guard, Such is their practice, such is their reward; This much, at least, we may presume to say — The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 1S06. TO THE EARL OF u Tu scraper amoris Sit mcraor, et cari comitis no ahscedat imago.* VALERIUS FLACCUS. Friend of my youth! when young we roved, Like striplings mutually beloved, With Friendship's purest glow; The bliss which winy'd those rosy hours, "Was such as pleasure seldom showers On mortals here below. The recollection seems, alone, Dearer than all the joys I 've known, When distant far from you; Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain, To trace those days and hours again, And sigh again, Adieu ! My pensive memory lingers o'er Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, Those scenes regretted ever; The measure of our youth is full, Life's evening dream is dark and dull, And we may meet — ah ! never ! As when one parent spring supplies, Two streams, which from one fountain rise, Together join'd in vain ; How soon, diverging from their source, Each murmuring seeks another course, Till mingled in the main. Our vital streams of weal or woe, Though near, alas! distinctly flow, Nor mingle as before; Now swift or slow, now black or clear, Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, And both shall quit the shore. Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, Now flow in different channels ; Disdaining humbler rural sports, 'T is yours to mix in polish'd courts, And shine in Fashion's annals. 'T is mine to waste on love my 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. subsequently (I had almost said consequently) the honour of re- presenting the University : a fact so glaring requires no comment. Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard I Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard, That he, who sang before all; lie, who the lore of love expanded, By dire reviewers should be branded, As void of wit and moral. 1 And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Harmonious favourite 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, and those who write them; And though myself may be the next By critic sarcasm to be vext, 1 really will not fight them.* Perhaps they would do quite as well, To break the rudely sounding shell Of such a young beginner; He who offends at pert nineteen, Ere thirty, may become, I ween, A very harden'd sinner. Now ■ — , I must return to you, And sure apologies are due ; Accept then my concession; In truth, dear , in fancy's flight, I soar along from left to right, My Muse admires digression. I think I said 't would be your fate, To add one star to royal state; May regal smiles attend you! And should a noble Monarch reign, You will not seek his smiles in vain, If worth can recommend you. Yet, 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 those who best deserve you. Not for a moment may you stray From Truth's secure unerring way, May no delights decoy; O'er roses may your footsteps move, Your smiles be ever smiles of love, Your tears be tears of joy. Oh ! if you wish that happiness Your coming days and years may bless, And virtues crown your brow : Be, still, as you were wont to be, Spotless as you 've been known to me, Be, still, as you are now. ' These Stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a se- vere critique in a Northern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon. 2 A Bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mortal com- bat. If this example becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must be dipt in the river Siyx, for what else can secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants? HOURS OF IDLENESS. »7 And though some trifling share of praise, To cheer my last declining days, To me were doubly dear; Whilst blessing your beloved name, I'd waive at once a Poet's fame, To prove a Prophet here. GRANTA, A MEDLEY. Apyvf.sot.Lg \by%a.U3.i p.v.yo\> xai Travra Kpo.rr l 'jocig. Oh ! could Le Sage's ' demon's gift Be realized at my desire, This night my trembling form he 'd lift, To place it on St Mary's spire. Then would, unroofd, old Granta's halls Pedantic inmates full display; Fellows who dream on lawn, or stalls, The price of venal votes to pay. Then would I view each rival wight, Petty and Palmerston survey; Who canvass there with all their might, Against the next elective day. To ! candidates and voters lie, All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number! A race renown'd for piety, Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber Lord II , indeed, may not demur, Fellows are sage, reflecting men ! They know preferment can occur, Bat very seldom, — now and then. They know the Chancellor has got Some pretty livings in disposal ; Each hopes that one may be his lot, And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. Now, from the soporific scene I '11 turn mine eye, as night grows later, To view, uuheeded and unseen, The studious sons of Alma Mater. There, in apartments small and damp, The candidate for college prizes Sits poring by the midnight lamp — Goes late to bed, yet early rises. He, surely, well deserves to gain them, With all the honours of his college, Who, striving hardly to obtain them. Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge ; Who sacrifices hours of rest, To scan, precisely, metres Attic, Or agitates his anxious breast In solving problems mathematic ; Who reads false quantities in Sele, 2 Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, Deprived of many a wholesome meal, In barbarous Latin 3 doom'd to wrangle; 1 Tbe Diable Boiteux of Le Sige, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for his inspection. 2 Sele's publication on Greek metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy. 3 The Latin of the schools is of the casink species, and not very intelligible. Renouncing every pleasing page From authors of historic use; Preferring to the letter'd sage The square of the hypothenuse. * Still, harmless are these occupations, That hurt none but the hapless student, Compared with other recreations, Which bring together the imprudent; Whose daring revels shock the sight, When vice and infamy combine, When drunkenness and dice invite, And every sense is steep'd in wine. Not so the methodistic crew, Who plans of reformation lay : In humble attitude they sue, And for the sins of others pray. Forgetting that their pride of spirit, Their exultation in their trial, Detracts most largely from the merit Of all their boasted self-denial. 'T is morn, — from these I turn my sight: What scene is this which meets the eye ? A numerous crowd, array'd in white, 2 Across the green in numbers fly. Loud rings, in air, the chapel bell; 'T is hush'd : What sounds are these I hear? The organ's soft celestial swell Rolls deeply on the listening ear. To this is joined the sacred song, The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain; Though he who hears the music long Will never wish to hear again. Our choir would scarcely be excused, Even as a band of raw beginners; All mercy, now, must be refused To such a set of croaking sinners. If David, when his toils were ended, Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his psalms had ne'er descended, Tn furious mood he would have tore 'em. The luckless Israelites, when taken By some inhuman tyrant's order, Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, On Babylonian river's border. Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, Inspired by stratagem or fear, They might have set their hearts at ease — The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. But, if I scribble longer now, The deuce a soul will stay to read ; My pen is blunt, my ink is low, 'T is almost time to stop indeed. Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires, No more like Cleofas, I fly; No more thy theme my Muse inspires, The reader's tired, and so am I. 1806. 1 The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled tri- angle. 2 On a Saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel. 3 BYRON'S WOliKS. LACHIN Y GAIR. Lacuiit t Gais., or, aa ii is pronounced En the Erse, Loch m G«rb, towers proudlj pre-emim nt in the Northern Highlands, near fn- vercaald. One of our ma lern tourists mentions ii as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain; be this as it may, ii is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque am a Caledonian Alps.- lis appearan ■<■ is of a dusky h The Wild Huntsman," as synonymous with Vassal. 4 The Red Cross was the badge of the Crusaders. 5 As u Gloaming,., the Scottish word for Twilight, is far more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr Moore, in his Letters to Burns, 1 have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. The Priory was dedicated to the Virgin. Years roll on years — to ages ages yield — Abbot? to abbots in a line succeed, Religion's charter their protecting shield, Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls, And bade the pious inmates rest in peace; Another Henry 1 the kind gift recals, And bids devotion's hallow' d echoes cease. Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer, He drives them exiles from their blest abode, To roam a dreary world, in deep despair, — No friend, no home, no refuge but their God. Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain, Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, High-crested banners, wave thy walls within. Of changing sentinels the distant hum, The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, Unite in concert with increased alarms. An abbey once, a regal fortress 2 now, Encircled by insulting rebel powers; War's dread machines o'crhang thy threatening brow, And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave; His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. Not unavenged, the raging baron yields, The blood of traitors smears die purple plain; Unconquer'd still his faulchion there he wields, And days of glory yet for him remain. Still, in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave; Rut Charles' protecting genius hither flew, The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. Trembling she snatch'd him 3 from the unequal strife, In other fields the torrent to repel, For nobler combats here reserved his life, To lead the band where godlike Falkland i fell. From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans their painful requiem sound, Far different incense now ascends to heaven — Such victims wallow on the gory ground. There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould; From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, Raked from repose, in search for buried gold, 1 At the Dissolution of the Monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 2 IVewstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and his Parliament. 3 Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high commands in the royal army ; the former was General in Chief in Ireland, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Governor to James Duke of York, af- terwards the unhappy James II. The latter had a principal share in many actions. Vide Clarendon, Hume, etc. 4 Lucius Can, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished manor' his age, was killed at the battle of Newberry, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry. 20 BYRON'S WORKS. Hush'd is tlie harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, The minstrel's palsied hand rec]ine8 in death; No more he strikes the quivering chords with (ire, Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. At length, the sated murderers, gorged with prey, Retire — the clamour of the fight is o'er; Silence again resumes her awful sway, And sahle Horror guards the massy door. Here Desolation holds her dreary court; What satellites declare her dismal reign ! Shrieking their dirge, ill-omened birds resort To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies; The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. With storms she welcomes his expiring groans, Whirlwinds responsive greet his labouring breath ; Earth shudders as her caves receive his hones, Loathing 1 the offering cf so dark a death. The legal Ruler 2 now resumes the helm, He guides through gentle seas the prow of state; Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm, And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells, Howling resign their violated nest; Again the master on his tenure dwells, Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. Vassals within thy hospitable pale, Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return; Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note, The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake, What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake, Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. Ah ! happy days! too happy to endure! Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : No splendid vices glitter'd to allure — Their joys were many, as their cares were few. From these descending, sons to sires succeed, Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another chief impels the foaming steed, Another crowd pursue the panting hart. Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; The last and youngest of a noble line Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towers — Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep — 1 Tbis is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred imme- diately subsequent to the death, or interment, of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers ; both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition, but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my poem. 2 Charles II. Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers — These, these he views, and views them hut to weep. Yet are his tears no emblem of regret, Cherish 'd affection only bids them flow; Pride, Mope, and Love forbid him to forget, But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. Yet. he prefers thee to the gilded domes, Or gewgaw grottoes of the vainly great; Vet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, Nor breathes a murrrrur 'gainst the will of fate. Haply thy sun emerging yet may shine, Thee to irradiate with meridian ray; Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, And bless thy future as thy former day. TO E. N. L. ESQ. Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amieo. Dear L , in this sequester'd scene, While all around in slumber lie, The joyous days which ours have been Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye : Thus, if amidst the gathering storm, While clouds the darken'd noon deform, Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, I hail the sky's celestial bow, Which spreads the sign of future peace, And bids the war of tempests cease. Ah ! though the present brings but pain, I think those days may come again ; Or if, in melancholy mood, Some lurking envious fear intrude, To check my bosom's fondest thought, And interrupt the golden dream; I crush the fiend with malice fraught, And still indulge my wonted theme. Although we ne'er again can trace, In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore, Nor, through the groves of Ida, chase Our raptured visions as before; Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion. And manhood claims his stern dominion, Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy. Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring; But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell ; If frowning Age, with cold 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, 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 Piemembrance yet delays, HOURS OF IDLENESS. 1 ! 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, hence! ye hours of sable hue ; Your frowns are gone, my sorrow 's o'er ; By every bliss my childhood knew, I '11 think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast, When liilTd by zephyr to repose. Full often has my infant Muse Attuned to love her languid lyre; But now, without a theme to chuse, The strains in stolen sighs expire; My youthful nymphs, alas ! arc 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 recal ; In truth, dear L , 't was 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 meridbn 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, Extinguished with the dying embers. But now, dear L , 't is midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties 1 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, lias 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-lov'd peaceful seat, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And then, with those our childhood knew, We '11 mingle with the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of soul shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn. TO . Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine, As once this pledge appear'd a token, These follies had not then been mine, For then my peace had not been broken. To thee these early faults I owe, To thee, the wise and old reproving; They know my sins, but do not know 'T was thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, And all its rising fires could smother; Eut now thy vows no more endure, Bestowd by thee upon another. Perhaps his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my rival smile in joy, For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, "f were 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 matron's fears, These thoughtless strains to passion's measures, If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd; This cheek, now pale from early riot, With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, For nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, For then it beat but to adore thee. But now I seek for other joys : To think would drive my soul to madness ; In thoughtless throngs and empty noise I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet even in these a thought will steal, In spite of every vain endeavour ; And fiends might pity what I feel, To know that thou art lost for ever. STANZAS. I would I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wiid, Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave. The cumbrous pomp of Saxon ' pride Accords not with the free-born soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound ! I hate the touch of servile bauds— I hate the slaves that cringe around : 1 Sassenagh, or Saxon, a Gaelic word signifying either Lovdai or English. 11 BYRON'S WORKS. Place me along the rocks I love, Which sound lo ocean's wildest roar ; 1 ask but tliis — a;;ain to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are mv years, and yet I feel The world was ne'er design'd for me; All! why do darkening shades conceal The hour when man must cease to he? Once I beheld a splendid dream, A visionary scene of bliss ; Truth ! wherefore did thy hated beam Awake me to a world like this? 1 loved — but those I loved are gone ; Had friends — my early friends are fled ; How cheerless feels the heart alone, When all its former hopes are dead '. Though gay companions o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill, Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul, The heart — the heart is lonely still. How dull to hear the voice of those Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where 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 Which bear the turtle to her nest ! Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven , To flee away and be at rest. « lines WRITTEN' BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW-ON-THE-HILL. SEPT. 2, 1807. Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, Thou droopiug Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay, And frequent mused the twilight hours away; Where, as they ouce were wont, my limbs recline, But ah ! without the thoughts which then were mine. 1 Psalm lv, v. 6. — u And I said, Oh! that I bad wings like a dove, then would 1 fly away and be at rest." This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language. How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite the bosom to recal the past! And s em (o whisper, as they gently swell, « Take, while thou canst, a lingering last farewell '.» When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever' d brcait, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought 't would soothe my dying hour, If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell: With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to die- And here it lingered, here my heart might lie; Here might 1 sleep, where all my hopes arose, Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose : For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd, Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved, Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here, Deplored by those in early days allied, And unremember'd bv the world beside. THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. AN IMITATION OF MACPMEUSON'S OSSIAN. • Deak are the days of youth ! Age dwells on their re- membrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recals the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. « Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers !» Past is the race of heroes ! but their fame rises on the harp ; their souls ride on the wings of the wind! they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds ! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks clown from eddying tempests he rolls his form in the whirlwind; and hovers on the blast of the mountain. In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood; Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear : but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks — they stream'd like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul; his thoughts were given to friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle ; but fierce was the pride of Orla, gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. From Lochlin, Swaran bouuded over the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin. Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies; but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept : their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Cal- mar stood by his side. Their spears were iu their hands. Fingal called his chiefs. They stood around. The king was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. 1 It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though cansi- derably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from « I\isus and Eury- alus,» of which episode a translation has been already giveu. HOURS OF IDLENESS. 23 v< Sons of Morven," said the hero, « to-morrow we meet the foe; but where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura : he knows not of our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to arms? The path is by the swords of foes, but many are my heroes. They are thunder- bolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs ! who will arise ?» «Son of Trenmor, mine be the deed,* said dark- haired Orla, « and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay me by the stream of Lubar.»— « And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-hair'd Calmar. * Wilt thou leave thy friend afar, Chief of Oithona? not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla ! ours has been the chase of the roe-buck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger : ours has been the cave of Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar.»— « Calmar!» said the chief of Oithona, « why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air : he will rejoice in his boy : but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him not say, ' Calmar is fallen by the steel of Lochlin ; he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark -brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar, live to raise my stone of moss ; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin ! Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile Lochlin crowds around; fly through the shade of night. " Orla turns ; the helm of Mathon is cleft : his shield falls from his arm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall. His wrath rises; his weapon glitters on the head of Orla ; but a spear pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his shield : his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death ! many are the widows of Lochlin, Morven prevails in its strength. Morn glimmers on the hills ! no living foe is seen ; but the sleepers are many : grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of Ocean lifts their locks : yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey. Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'T is Calmar — he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame ; it glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives; he lives, though low. « Rise," said the king, « rise, son of Mora, 't is mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morven. » « Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla;« said the hero, « what were the chase to on the notes of praise.» — «Orla!» said the son of j me, alone? Who would share the spoils of battle with Mora « could I raise the song of death to my friend ? Calmar? Orla is at rest ! Rough was thy soul, Orla ! Could I give his fame to the winds? No; my heart would speak in sighs; faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla ! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high; the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar." They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night. The northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on Lis lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed : they frown in sleep, their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam, at distance, in heaps. The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumberiug band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade : his spear is raised on high. « Why dost thou bend thy brow, Chief of Oithona?» said fair-haired Calmar. « We are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?» — « It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. « Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound ; my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon! rise! the son ofConnal calls; thy life is his : rise to combat." Mathon starts from sleep, but did he rise alone ? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. « Fly, Calmar, fly!» said dark- haired Orla : « Mathon is mine; I shall die in joy ; but yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning; to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora : let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood : but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend : raise the song when I am dark.» They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The Bards raised the song. « What form rises on the roar of clouds? whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? his voice rolls on the thunder. 'T is Orla ; the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Cal- mar! lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but uot harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! it dweiis on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora; spread them on the arch of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm." l 1 I fear Lain j's late edition Las completely overthrown every hope that Macpberson's Ossian might prove the Translation of a series of Poems, complete in themselves; hut, while the imposture is disco- vered, the merit of thework remains undisputed, though not with- out faults, particularly, in some parts, turgid and homhastic diction. The present humhle imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original, as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an at- tachment to their fu\ourite author. 24 BYRON'S WORKS. CRITIQUE EXTRACTED FROM THE EDINRURGH REVIEW, NO. 22, FOR JANUARY l8o8. flours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a .Minor. 8vo. pp. 200. — Newark, 1807. The poesy of this young Lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more gel above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, and on the very back of the volume; it follows his name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it iu the preface, and tlie poems are connected with this general statement of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which eacli was written. Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the de- fendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he might plead minority; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder, ■ I than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, I «See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, aud this by one of only sixteen !» — But, alas! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences ; that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are edu- cated in England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron. His other plea of privilege our author rather brings forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestors — sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consi- deration only, that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to coun- sel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportuni- ties, which are great, to better account. With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure him, (hut the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of a certain number offeet; nay, although (which does not always happen) those feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately upon the fingers,— it is not the whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem ; and that a poem in the present day, to be read, must contain at least one thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so de- serving the name of poetry in verses like the following, written in i8o(>; and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it: « Shades of heroes, farewell! your desceTdant, departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. a Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret: Far distant he goes, with the same emulation ; The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. « That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish, He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; Like you will he live, or like you will he parish ; When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own.» Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the noble minor's volume. Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what the greatest poets have done before him, for comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his writing-master's) are odious. — Gray's Ode on Eton College should really have kept out the ten hobbling stanzas «On a distant view of the village and school of Harrow. » « Where fancy yet joys to retrace" the resemblance Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; How welcome to me your ue'er-fading remembrance, Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied." In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr Bogers « On a Tear,» might have warned the noble author off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as the following: «3Iild Charity's glow, To us mortals below, Shows thd soul from barbarity clear ; Compassion will melt, Where ibis virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a Tear. « The man dcom'd to sail. With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o'er the wave, Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear." CRITIQUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. 13 And so of instances in which former poets had failed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made for trans- lating, during his non-age, Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they may look at it. ■ Ah '. gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite, Friend and associate of this clay ! To what unknown region borne, Wilt tliou now win.f thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn." However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79 1 a translation, where two words {Srzla Isyet v) of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81, 2 where /zssovuxrtats 7?o0 &pcct$ is ren- dered by means of six hobbling verses? As to his Os- sianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of compo- sition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following beginning of a «Soug of Bards» is by his Lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it. «What form rises on the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 't is Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was,» etc. After detaining this « brown chief » some time, the bards conclude by giving him their advice to « raise his fair locks;» then to « spread them on the arch of the rainbow ;» and « to smile through the tears of the storm. » Of this kind of thing there are no less than nine pages; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, that they look very like Macpherson ; and we are positive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but they should « use it as no* abusing it;» and particu- larly one who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe age of nineteen) of being « an infant bard,»— (« The artless Helicon I boast is youth ;») — should either not know, or should seem not to know, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem above cited, on the family seat of the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages, on the self-same subject, introduced with an apology, « he certainly had no intention of inserting it,» but really « the particular request of some friends, » etc., etc. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, « the Seepage 10. Pase 11. last and youngest of a noble line.» There is a good deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his youth, and might have learnt that pibroch is not a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle. As the author has dedicated so large a part of his vo- lume to immortalize his employments at school and college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without present- ing the reader with a specimen of these ingenious effu- sions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, we have the following magnificent stanzas : « There, in apartments small and damp, The candidate for college prizes Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; Goes late to bed, yet early rises. « Who reads false quantities in Sele, Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, Deprived of many a wb&iesome meal, In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: « Renouncing every pleasing page, From authors of historic use, Preferring to the letter'd sage The square of the hypothenuse. « Still harmless are these occupations. That hurt none but the hapless student, Compared with other recreations, Which bring together the imprudent." We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the col- lege psalmody as is contained in the following Attic stanzas : « Our choir would scarcely he escused Even as a band of raw beginners; AH mercy now must be refused To such a set of croaking sinners. * If David, when his toils were ended, Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his psalms had ne'er descended : In furious mood he would have tore 'em i» But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we find them, and be content; for they are the last we shall ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but an intruder into the groves of Parnassus; he never lived in a garret, like thorough-bred poets; and « though he once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland," he has not of late enjoyed this advantage. Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication; and, whether it succeeds or not, «it is highly improba- ble, from his situation and pursuits hereafter," that he should again condescend to become an author. There- fore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What right have we poor devils to be nice? We are well off to have got so much from a man of this Lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but « has the sway» of Xewstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful; and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor look the gift horse in the mouth. BYRON'S WORKS. A SATIRE. I had rather be a kitten, and rry mew! Than one of these same metre I allad-moo<;ers. SHAKSPEAHB. Such shameless Bards we have j and yet, 'tis true, There are as mad, abandoned Critics too. PREFACE. 1 All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to he « turned from the career of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain, » I should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be ter- rified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or with- out arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none personally who did not commence on the offensive. An author's works are public property: he who pur- chases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them : I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better. As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations, to render it more wor- thy of public perusal. In the first edition of this Satire, published anony- mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted at the request of an inge- nious friend of mine, who has now in the press a vo- lume of poetry. In the present edition they are 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 pro- duction which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition. With regard to the real talents of many of the poet- ical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion in the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here cen- sured, renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 1 This Preface was written for the second edition of this Poem, and printed with it. than the author, that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure; but Mr Gifford has de- voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nos- trum, to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treat- ment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can reco- ver the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming.— As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed require a Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds in merely « bruising one of the heads of the serpent,* though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, he will he amply satisfied. ENGLISH BARDS. etc., etc. Still must I hear?— shall hoarse Fitzgerald 1 bawl His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Beviews Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse? Prepare for rhyme — I '11 publish right or wrong : Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. Oh ! Nature's noblest gift— my gray goose-quill ! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men ! The pen ! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, The lover's solace, and the author's pride : What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise! How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, With all the pages which 't was thine to write. Out thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 1 IMITATION. « Semper ego auditor tantum 'I nunquamne reponam, Vexatus loties raiici Theseide Codri?»— Juvenal. Sat. i. Mr Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbetx the u Small-Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of Terse on the u Literary Fund ;» not content with writing, he spouts in person, after the company have imbibed a reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the operation. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 2 7 Our task complete, like Hamel's, 1 shall be free; Though spurn' d by others, yet beloved by me: Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, No eastern vision, no distemper' d dream Inspires— our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. When Vice triumphant holds her sovereign sway, And men, through life her willing slaves, obey; When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Unfolds her motley store to suit the time; When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail, E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe, And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. Such is the force of Wit! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song; The royal vices of our age demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. Still there are follies e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race: Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame — The cry is up, and Scribblers are my game; Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small, Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all! 1 too can scrawl, and once upon a time I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme — A school-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame : I printed — older children do the same. 'T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book 's a book, although there 's nothing in "t. Not that a title's sounding charm can save Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: This Lambe must own, since his patrician name Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 2 No matter, George continues still to write, 3 Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. Moved by the great example, I pursue The self-same road, but make my own review : Not seek great Jeffrey's— yet, like him, will be Self-constituted judge of poesy. A man must serve his time to every trade, Save censure — critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, With just enough of learning to misquote; A mind well skill' d to find or forge a fault, A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : Fear not to lie, 't will seem a lucky hit; Shrink not from blasphemy, 't will pass for wit ; Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. And shall we own such judgment? no — as soon Seek roses in December, ice in June; Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff ; Believe a woman, or an epitaph ; i Cid IIamet Bekengeli promises repose to li is pen in the last chapter of Do* Quixote. Oh that our voluminous gentry would follow tbe example of Cid Ha met Bewengeli 1 2 This ingenious youth is mentioned more particularly, with his production, in another place. * In the Edinburgh Review. Or any other thing that 's false, before You trust in critics who themselves are sore; Or yield one single thought to be misled By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head. 1 To these young tyrants, 2 by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste; To these, when authors bend in humble awe, And hail their voice as truth, their word ft law, While these are censors, 't would be sin to spare; While such are critics, why should I forbear? But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 'T is doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, Our bards and censors are so much alike. 3 Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er The path which Pope and Giffokd trod before; If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed: Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, When Sense and Wit with poesy allied, No fabled Graces, flourish'd side by side, From the same fount their inspiration drew, And, rear'd by Taste, bloom'u fairer as they grew. Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain; A polislrd nation's praise aspired to claim, And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song, In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. Then Congkeve's scenes could cheer, or OxwAY'sinelt — For nature then an English audience felt. But why these names, or greater still, retrace, When all to feebler bards resign their place? Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, When taste and reason with those times are past. Now look around, and turn each trifling page, Survey the precious works that please the age; This truth at least let Satire's self allow, No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now: The loaded press beneath her labour groans, And printers' devils shake their weary bones; While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves, And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press' d twelves. Thus saith the Preacher,* « nought beneath the sun Is new:» yet still from change to change we run ; What varied wonders tempt us as they pass? The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air ! Nor less new schools of poetry arise, , Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: O'er Taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail; Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, ' Messrs Jef?het and Lambe are the Alpha and Omega, the first and last of the Edinburgh Review : the others are mentioned here- after. 2 u Stulta est dementia, cum tot ubique occurras peritura: parcere charts?. n — Juvenal. Sat. i. 3 IMITATION. u Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrcre campo Per quern magnus eques Auruncaj flaxit alumnus ; Si vacat, ei placidi rationem admittitis, edam.n — Jitv. Sat. I. 4 Ecclesiastes, chap. i. 28 15 Y RON'S WORKS. And, hurling lawful Junius from the throne, I i cts a shrine and idol of its own; Some leaden calf — hut whom il matters not, From soaring Southey down to groveling Stott.' Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, For notice eager, pass in long review: Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, And rhyme a^jd blank maintain an equal race ; Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode, And tales of terror jostle on the road; Immeasurable measures move along; For simpering Folly loves a varied song, To strange mysterious Dulncss still the friend, Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. Thus Lays of Minstrels 3 — may they he the last! On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, That dames may listen to their sound at nights: And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's 3 brood, Decoy young border nobles through the wood. And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; While high-born ladies in their magic cell, Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, Dispatch a courier to a wizard's grave, And fight with honest men to shield a knave. Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight ; 1 Stott, better known in the « Morning Post ■ by the name of lUnz. This personage is at present the most profound explorer of the bathos. I remember, to the reigning family of Portugal, a spe- cial ode of Master Stott'" s beginning thus : (Stott loquitur quoad VJibernia.) « Princely offspring of Braganza, Erin greets thee with a stanza, » etc., etc. Also a Sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most thun- I dering ode commencing as follows : ■ Oh for a lay, loud as the surge That lashes Laplaud's sounding shore.- I Lord hare mercy on us', the « Lay of the Last Minstrel" was no- ( thing to this. 2 See the ■ Lay of the Last Minstrel," passim. ]\ever was any plan so incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of this produc- tion. The entrance of Thunder and Lightning prologuising to Eaves' tragedy, unfortunately takes away the merit of originality from the dialogue between Messieurs the Spirits of Flood and Fell, in the first canto. Then we have the amiable William of Deloraine, u a stark moss-trooper ;» videlicet, a happy compound of poacher, sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The propriety of his magical la- dy's injunction not to read can only be equalled by his candid ac- knowledgment of his independence of the trammels of spelling, although, to use his own elegant phrase, « 'twas his neck-verse at Hairibee." i. e. the gallows. 3 The Biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, who travelled twice as fast as his master's horse, without the aid of seven-leagued boots, are chefs-efceuvre in the improvement of taste. For incident we have the invisible, but by no means spa- ring, box on the ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a Knight and Charger into the castle, under the very natural disguise i of a wain of hay. Marmion, the hero of the latter romance, is ex- actly what William of Deloraine would have been, had he been able to lead or write. The Poem was manufactured for Messrs Consta- ble, .Mi-RR.tr. and Miller, worsbipl'ul Booksellers, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of money ; and truly, considering the inspi- ration, it is a very creditable production. If Mr Scon will write for hire, let him do his best for his paymasters, hut not disgrace his genius, which is undoubtedly great, by a repetition of black-letter imitations. The gibbet or the field prepared to grace — A mighty mixture of the great and base. And think'st tliou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though Murray with his Miller may combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. Let such forego the poet's sacred name. Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Low may they sink to merited contempt, And scorn remunerate the mean attempt! Such be their meed, such still the just reward Of prostituted muse and hireling bard! For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, And bid a long « good night to Marmion. »< These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; These are the bards to whom the muse must bow: While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. The time has been when yet the muse was young, When Homer swept the lyre, and Ma.ro sung, An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name: The work of each immortal bard appears The single wonder of a thousand years. 2 Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, Without the glory such a strain can give, As even in ruin bids the language live. >"ot so with us, though minor bards, content, On one great work a life of labour spent : With eagle pinions soaring to the skies, Behold the ballad-monger, Southey, rise! To him letC-AMOENs, Miltom, Tasso, yield, Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, The scourge of England, and the boast of France! Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, Behold her statue placed in glory's niche: Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, A virgin Phceuix from her ashes risen. Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, 3 Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son; Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. Immortal hero! all thy foes o'ercome, For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb! Since startled metre fled before thy face, Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence, Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 1 u Good night to Marmion,"— the pathetic and also prophetic ex- clamation of Hehrt Blocst, Esquire, on the death of honest Marmion. 2 As the Odyssey is so closely connected with the story of the Iliad, tliej may almost be classed as one grand historical Poem. In alluding to Miltox and Tasso, we consider the u Paradise Lost" and * Gierusalemme Liberata » as their standard efforts, since neither the "Jerusalem Conquered > of the Italian, nor the « Paradise Re- gained » of the English Bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former poems. Query : Which of Mr Southet's will survive? 3 Thalaba, Mr Soutrbt's second pcem, is written in open defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. Joan of Arc was marvellous enough, but Thalaba was one of those poems « which (in the words of Porso>) will be read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, but — not till .'AtfH.- ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. Now, Jast and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales; Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, More old than Mandevillc's, and not so true. Oli! Southey, Southey!' cease thy varied song! A Bard may chaunt too often and too long : As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare! A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. But if, in spite of all the world can say, Thou still wilt verseward plod tliy weary way, If still in Berkley ballads, most uncivil, Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, 2 The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: « God help thee,» Southey, and thy readers too. 3 Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May; Who warns his friend « to shake off toil and trouble, And quit his books, for fear of growing double;»4 Wlio, both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose, Convincing all, by demonstration plain, Poetic souls delight in prose insane; And Christmas stories, tortured into rhyme, Contain the essence of the true sublime: Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of «an idiot Boy;» A moon-struck silly lad who lost his way, And, like his bard, confounded night with day, 5 So close on each pathetic part he dwells, And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the « idiot in his glory, » Conceive the bard the hero of the story. Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, To turgid ode, and tumid stanza dear? Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a Pixy for a Muse,6 1 We beg Mr Sootiiey's pardon : « Madoc disdains the degraded title cf epic." See his preface. Why is epic degraded? and by whom? Certainly the late Romaunts of Masters Cottle, Laureat Pte, Ogilvy, Hoyle, and gentle Mistress Cowley, have not exalted the Epic Muse; but as Mr Southey's poem u disdains the appella- tion," allow us to ask— has he substituted any thing better in its stead ? or must he be content to rival Sir Richard Bucknore, in the quantity as well as quality of his verse. 2 See The old Woman of Berkley, a Ballad by Mr Southey, where- in an aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beelzebub, on u a high- trotting horse." 3 The last line, « God help thee, » is an evident plagiarism from the Anti-Jacobin to Mr Southey on his Dactylics : u God help thee, silly one." — Poetry of the Anti-jacobin, p. 23. 4 Lyrical Ballads, page 4- — u The tables turned." Stanza I. « Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks — Why all this toil and trouble? Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you '11 grow double." 5 Mr W., in his preface, labours hard to prove that prose and verse are much the same, and certainly his precepts and practice are strictly conformable: u And thus to Betty's questions he Made answer like a traveller bold ; The cock did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, And the sun did shine so cold," etc., etc. Lyrical Ballads, page 129. 6 Coleridge's Poems, page 11. Songs of the Pixies, t". e. Devon- shire Fairies. Page 42, we have u Lines to a Young Lady ;» and, p. 52, u Lines to a Young Ass." Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass The bard who soars to elegize an ass. How well the subject suits his noble mind! « A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind!» Oh! wonder-working Lewis! Monk, or Bard, Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard! Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, Thy Muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, By gibbering spectres hail'd, thy kindred band; Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, To please the females of our modest age, All hail, M. P. !' from whose infernal brain Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train; At whose command « grim women » throng in crowds, And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, With « small grey men,» — « wild yagers," and whatnot, To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott : Again, all hail! If tales like thine may please, St Luke alone can vanquish the disease; Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd, Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listeniug dames are hush'd? 'T is Little ! young Catullus of his day, As sweet, but as immoral in his lay! Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just, Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns; From grosser incense with disgust she turns: Yet, kind to youth, this expiation o'er, She bids thee « mend thy line and sin no more.» For thee, translator of the tinsel song, To whom such glittering ornaments belong, Hibernian Strangford! with thine eyes of blue, 2 And boasted locks of red, or auburn hue, Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires, And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense ; Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace? Mend, Strangford! mend thy morals and thy taste; Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste: Cease to deceive; thy pilfer'd harp restore, Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy Moore. In many marble-cover'd volumes view Hayley, in vain attempting something new : Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme, Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst time, His style in youth or age is still the same, For ever feeble and for ever tame. Triumphant first see « Temper's Triumphs» shine! At least, 1 'm sure, they triumph'd over mine. 1 u For every one knows little Mat 's an M.P."— See a Poem to Mr Lewis, in The Statesman, supposed to be written by Mr Jekyll. 2 The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, may refer to « Strangfobd's Camoens," page 127, note to page 56, or to the last page of the Edinburgh Beview of Stkasgford's Camoehs. It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the public as Poems of Camoens. are no more to be found in the original Portuguese than in the Song of Solomon. BYRON'S WORKS. Of « Music's Triumphs » all who read may swear That luckless Music never triumph'd there.' Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward On dull Devotion— lo! the Sabbath bard, Sepulchral Grahame, pours his notes sublime In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme, Breaks into blank the Gospel of St Luke, And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch; And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. 3 Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings A thousand visions of a thousand things, And shows, dissolved in thine own melting tears, The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles? Thou first great oracle of tender souls! Whether in sighing winds thou seek'st relief, Or consolation in a yellow leaf; Whether thy muse most lamentably tells What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, 3 Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend In every chime that jingled from Ostend? Ah ! how much juster were thy Muse's hap, If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest, All love thy strain, but children like it best. 'T is thine, with gentle Little's moral song, To soothe the mania of the amorous throng! With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years : But in her teens thy whining powers are vain : She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine The lofty numbers of a harp like thine : « Awake a louder and a loftier strain !»4 Such as none heard before, or will again ; Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, By more or less, are sung in every book, From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. Nor this alone, but pausing on the road, The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ;5 And gravely tells — attend each beauteous Miss! — When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell, Stick to thy sonnets, man ! at least they sell. ' Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are, « Triumphs of Temper, 11 and u Triumphs of Music." He has also written much comedy in rhyme, Epistles, etc., etc. As he is rather an elegant writer of notes and biography, let us recommend Pope's advice to WrcHERLEY to Mr H.'s consideration; viz. « to convert his poetry into prose," which may be easily done by taking away the final syl- lable of each couplet. 1 Mr Grahame has poured forth two volumes of Cant, under the name of « Sabbath Walks," and * Biblical Pictures." 3 See Bowles's Sonnets, etc.— « Sonnet to Oxford," and « Stanzas on hearing the Bells of Ostend. » 4 "Awake a iouder,» etc, etc., is the first line in Bowles's « Spirit of Discovery ;» a very spirited and pretty Dwarf Epic. Among other exquisite lines we have the following: — » ^ -. .-A kiss Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet Here beard ; they trembled even as if the power, • etc., etc. — That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss, very much asto- nished, as well they might be, at such a phenomenon. 5 The episode above alluded to is the story of « Bobert a Machin, and Annad'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, who performed the kiss above-mentioned, that startled the woods of Madeira. But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe; If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd, Now, prone in dust, can only be revered; If Pope, whose fame and genius from the first [lave foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, Do thou essay; each fault, each failing scan; The first of poets was, alas! but man ! Piake from each ancient dunghill every pearl, Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll; 1 Let all the scandals of a former age Perch on thy pen and flutter o'er thy page; Affect a candour which thou canst not feel, Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal; Write as if St John's soul could still inspire, And do from hale what Mallet 2 did for hire. Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme, 3 Tlirong'd with the rest around his living head, Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead, A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains.4 Another Epic! who inflicts again More books of blank upon the sons of men? Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, And sends his goods to market — all alive! Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five! Fresh fish from Helicon! who 'II buy? who '11 buy? The precious bargain 's cheap — in faith not I. Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight, Too much o'er bowls of 'rack prolong the night: 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! Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold. Oh! Amos Cottle! Phoebus ! what a name To fill the speaking-trump of future fame ! Oh ! Amos Cottle ! for a moment think What meagre profits spread from pen and ink! When thus devoted to poetic dreams. Who will peruse thy prostituted reams? Oh! pen perverted! paper misapplied! Had Cottle 5 still adorn'd the counter's side, Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, Been taught to make the paper which he soils, Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. As Sisyphus against the infernal steep Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may sleep, ' Corll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a bookseller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Hervet, author of « Lines to the Imitator of Horace." 2 Lord Bolisgbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his de- cease, because the poet had retained some copies of a work by Lord Bolingbroke (the Patriot King), which that splendid but malignant genius had ordered to be destroyed. 3 Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. » Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls. Making night hideous — answer him ye owls !" — Dunciad. 4 See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for which he receive! 3o4 I. : thus Mr B. has experienced how much easier it is to profit by the reputation of another, than to elevate his own. 5 Mr Cottle, Amos or Joseph, I don't know which, but one or both, once sellers of books they did not w rite, and now writers of books that do not sell, have published a pair of Epics: u Alfred,* (poor Alfred 1 Pyb has been at him too !) and the Fall of u Cambria." ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 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 Alcjsus wanders down the vale! Though fair they rose, and might have bloom' d at last, His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : 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 ! 2 Yet say! why should the Bard at once resign His claim to favour from the sacred Nine? For ever startled by the mingled howl Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl : A coward hrood, 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? 3 Health to immoral 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; Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw. Since well instructed in the patriot school To rail at party, though a party tool, Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore Rack to the sway they forfeited before, His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, And raise this Daniel to the Judgment Seat? Let Jeffries' 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 traduce mankind, This cord receive — for thee reserved with care, To yield in judgment, and at length to wear.n Health to great Jeffrey! Heaven preserve his life, To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, And guard it sacred in his future wars, Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ! Can none remember that eventful day, Tliat ever-glorious, almost fatal fray, • Mr Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a pon- derous quarto, upon the beauties of « Richmond Hill » and the like : it also takes in a charming view of Turnham Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and New, and the parts adjacent. 2 Poor Montgomery-, though praised by every English Review, has been bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. After all, the Bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable genius: his « Wanderer of Swit- zerland" is worth a thousand u Lyrical Ballads," and at least fifty « Degraded Epics." J Arthur's Seat, the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by? « O 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 wave to form a tear, The other half pursued its calm career; 2 Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base, The surly Tolbooth 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 : 3 Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn, The sixteenth story, where himself was born, His patrimonial garret fell to ground, And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white reams, Flow'dall the Canongate with inky streams; This of his candour seem'd the sable dew, That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue, And all with justice deem'd the two combined The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. But Caledonia's Ooddess hover'd o'er The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore, From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, And straight restored it to her favourite's head : That head, with greater than magnetic power, Caught it, as Danae the golden shower ; And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine, Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. « My son,» she cried, « ne'er thirst for gore again, Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; O'er politics and poesy preside, Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! For long as Albion's heedless sons submit, Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, So long shall last thine unmolested reign, Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. Heboid a chosen band shall aid thy plan, And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. First in the ranks illustrious shall be seen The travell'd Thane! Athenian Aberdeen. 4- Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer, 5 and sometimes, In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rhymes. i In 1806, Messrs Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk-Farm. The duel was prevented by the interference of the magistracy ; and, on examination, the balls of the pistols, like the courage of the com- batants, were found to have evaporated. This incident gave occa- sion to much waggery in the daily prints. 2 The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum : it would have been highly reprehensible in the English half of the river to have shown the smallest symptom of apprehension. 3 This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth (the prin- cipal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to have been most affected on this occasion, is much to be commended. It was to be ap- prehended, that the many unhappy criminals executed in the front might have rendered the edifice more callous. She is said to be of the softer sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this day was truly fe- minine, though, like most feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish. 4 His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the Athe- nian Society, and reviewer of « Gell's Topography of Troy.» 5 Mr Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other Poetry. One of the principal pieces is a u Song on the Recovery of Thor's Ham- mer." The translation is a pleasant chaunt in the vulgar tongue, and ended thus: — « Instead of money and rings, I wot, The hammer's bruises were her lot ; Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 3i BYRON'S WORKS. Smug Sydney ■ too thy bitter page shall seek, And classic Hallam, 2 much renown' d for Greek. Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, j And paltry Pillans 3 shall traduce his friend : j While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe, 4 1 As he himself was damn'd, shall try to damn. I Known he thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes To Holland's hirelings, and to learning's foes. Yet mark one caution, — ere thy next Review Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, Beware lest blundering Brougham 5 destroy the sale, Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail.» Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist. 6 Illustrious Holland ! hard would be his lot, His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! Holland, with Henry Petty at his back, The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse! Long, long beneath that hospitable roof, Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, Resume his pen, review his lordship's work, And, grateful to the founder of the feast, Declare his landlord can translate, at least ! 7 Dunedin! view thy children with delight, They write for food, and feed, because they write: And lest, when heated with th' unusual grape, Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 1 The Rev. SroxEr Smith, the reputed Author of Peter Plymley's Letters, and sundry criticisms. 2 Mr Halum reviewed Patse ELijight s Taste, and was exceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein : it was not discovered that the lines were Pindar's, till the press rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, which still stands an everlasting monument of Hal- lan's ingenuity. The said Hallam is incensed, because he is falsely accused, saying- thai he never dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sorry — not for having said so, but on his account, as I understand his lord- ship's feasts are preferable to his compositions. If he did not review- Lord Hollasd's performance, I am glad, because it must have been painful to read, and irksome to praise it. If Mr Hallam will tell ; me who did review it, the real name shall find a place in the text, ! provided nevertheless the said name be of two orthodox musical syl- j lables, and will come into the verse ; till then, Hallam must stand : for want of a better. 3 Ptllaks is a tutor at Eton. 4 The Hon. G. Lambe reviewed « Bebbsfobd's Miseries;" and is moreover author of a Farce enacted with much applause at the Priory, Stanmore, and damned with great expedition at the late Theatre Covent-Garden. It was entitled u Whistle for it.» 5 Mr Brougham, in Xo XXV of the Edinburgh Pieview, throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de Cevallos, has displayed more politics than policy ; many of the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh be- ing so incensed at the infamous principles it evinces, as to have withdrawn their subscriptions. It seems that Mr Brougham is not a Pict. as I supposed, but a bor- ilerer, and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent to Tay. So be it. 6 I ought to apolojise to the worthy Deities for introducing a new Goddess with short petticoats to their notice ; but, alas ! what was to be done ? I could not say Caledonia's Genius, it being well known there is no Genius to be found, from Clackmannan to Caithness : yet without supernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved? The " national Kelpies," etc. are too unp-etical, and the «BrownieS" and u Gude Xeighboursn (Spirits of a good disposition.) refused to extri- cate him. A Goddess therefore has been called for the purpose, and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only com- munication he ever held or is likely to hold with any thing heavenly. 1 Lord H- has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega inserted in his Life of the Author : both are bepraised by his disinterested guest. 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 invite! Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent, 2 And Dikdin's nonsense, yield complete content. Though now, thank Heaven ! the Bosciomania '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 Beynqlds vents his « dammes, poohs, and zounds, » 3 And common-place, and common sense confounds? While Kenny's World, just suffer'd to proceed, Proclaims the audience very kind indeed ! And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords A tragedy complete in all but words } A Who but must mourn while these are all the rage, The degradation of our vaunted stage? Heavens! is all sense of shame and talent gone? Have we no living bard of merit? — none! Awake, George Colman, Cumberland, awake! B.ing the alarum-bell, let folly quake! Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, Let Comedy resume her throne again ; Abjure the mummery of German schools, Leave new Pizarros to trauslating fools; Give, as thy last memorial to the age, One classic Drama, and reform the stage. Gods ! o'er those boards shall Foliy rear her head Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread? On those shall Farce display Buffoonery's mask, And Hooke conceal his heroes in a cask? Shall sapient managers new scenes produce From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose? While Shakspeare, Otway, Massi.nger, 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 skiriless coats and skeletons of plays Benown'd alike; whose genius ne'er confines Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs; 5 Nor sleeps with « Sleeping Beauties," but anon In five facetious acts comes thundering on,*> While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene, Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean; 1 Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having displayed her matchless wit in the Edinburgh Beview : however that may be, we know from good authority that the manuscripts are submitted to her perusal — no doubt for correction. 2 In the melo-drame of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel on the stage— a new asylum for distressed heroes. 3 All these are favourite expressions of Mr R., and prominent in his Comedies, living and defunct. 4 Mr T. SnEBiDAir, the new Manager of Drury-Lane Theatre, stripped the Tragedy of Bonduca of the Dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacles of Caractacus. Was this worthy of his sire, or of himself? 5 Mr Greei>wood is, we believe, Scene-Painter to Drury-Lane The- atre : as such Mr S. is much indebted to him. 6 Mr S. is the illustrious author of the « Sleeping Beauty ;» and some Comedies, particularly « Maids and Bachelors ;" Baccalaurei baculo magis quam lauro digni. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. But as some hands applaud, a venal few! Rather tlian sleep, why John applauds it too. Such are we now, all i wherefore should we turn To what our fathers were, unless to mourn! Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame, Or, kind to dulness, do ye fear to blame? "Well may the nobles of our present race. Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face; Well may they smile ou Italy's buffoons, And worship Catalani's pantaloons,' Since their own drama yields no fairer trace Of wit than puns, of humour 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 the 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 point the pliant toe : Collini trill her love-inspiring song, Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng! Piaise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice! Pieforming 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 display Your holy reverence for the sabbath-day. Or hail at once the patron and the pile Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle ! 2 Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, Behold the new Petronius 3 of the day, The 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 orgy, and the mazy dance, The smile of beauty, and the Hush of wine, For fops^ fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine : Each to his humour, — Comus all allows; Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 1 >'aldi and Catala>-i require little notice, for the visage'of the one, and the salary of the other, will enable us long to recollect these amusing vagabonds ; besides we are still black and blue from the squeeze on the first night of the lady's appearance in trowsers. 2 To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a man, I beg leave to state, that it is the Institution, and not the Duke of that name, which is here alluded to. A gentleman with whom I am , slightly acquainted, lost in the Argyle Rooms several thousand pounds at backgammon. It is but justice to the manager in this instance to say, that some degree of disapprobation was manifested.^ But why are the implements of gaming allowed in a place devoted to the society of both sexes? A pleasant thing for the wives and daughters of those who are blest or cursed with such connexions, to hear the: billiard-tables rattling in one room, and the dice in another! That this is the case I myself can testify, as a late unworthy member of an institution which ma- terially 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 behaviour. 3 Petronius. " arbiter elegantiarum » to Xero, u and a very pretty fellow in his dav,» as Mr Cosgreve's old Bachelor saith. 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 beggar which his grandsire was, The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, The audience take their turn upon the floor; Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, New in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters lea]) : The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, The last display the free unfetter'd limb : Those for Ilibernia's lusty sons repair With art the charms which Nature could not spare; These after husbands wing their eager flight, Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease! Where, all forgotten but the power to please, Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught: There the blithe youngster just return'd from Spain, Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main : The jovial caster 's set and seven 's the nick, Or — done!— a thousand on the coming trick! If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, And all your hope or wish is to expire, Here 's Powell's pistol ready for your life, And, kinder still, a Paget for your wife. Fit consummation of an earthly race Begun in folly, ended in disgrace, While none but menials o'er the bed of death, Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath : Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, The mangled victims of a drunken brawl, To live like Clodivs, 1 and like Falkland 2 fall. Truth! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand, To drive this pestilence from out the land. Even I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, Just skiil'd to know the right and chuse the wrong, Freed at that age when Reason's shield is lost. To fight my course through Passion's countless host, Whom every path of pleasure's flowery way Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal; Although some kind censorious friend will say, «What art thou better, meddling fool, than they?n 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 for ever ! and my voice Be only heard to hail him and rejoice; Bejoice, and yield my feeble praise; though I May feel the lash that virtue must apply. 1 Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur. 2 I knew the late Lord Falklasd well. On Sunday night I beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the honest pride of hospita- lity ; on Wednesday morning at threeo'clock, Isaw, stretched before me, all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gallant and successful officer ; his faults weri the faults of a sailor— as such, Britons will forgive them. He died like a brave man in a better cause, for had he fallen in like manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just appointed, his last moments would have j been held up by his countrymen as an example to succeeding heroes. I 5 34 BYRON'S WORKS. 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 tilings of ton their harmless lays indite, Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, What harm? in spite of every critic elf, Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try, And live in prologues, though his dramas die. Lords too are bards: such things at times befal, And 't is 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? Pioscommon! Sheffield! with your spirits fled, No future laurels deck a noble head; No muse will cheer, with renovating smile, The paralytic puling of Carlisle : The puny school-boy and his early lay Men pardon, if his follies pass away; But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? What heterogeneous honours deck the peer! Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer! 2 So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage : But managers for once cried « hold, enough !» Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, And ease his volumes in congenial calf: Yes! doff that covering where morocco shines, And hang a calf-skin 3 on those recreant lines. With you, ye Druids! rich in native lead, Who daily scribble for your daily bread, With you I war not: Gifford's heavy hand Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. On « all the talents » vent your venal spleen, Want your defence, lei pity be your screen. Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, And Melville's Mantle 4 prove a blanket too! One common Lethe waits each hapless bard, And peace be with you! 't is your best reward. Such damning fame as Dunciads only give, Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; But now at once your fleeting labours close, With names of greater note in blest repose. Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade, 1 What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, Hafiz, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, where he re- poses with Ferdousi and Sad r, the Oriental Homer and Catullus, and behold his name assumed by one Sroix of Dromore, the most impu- dent and execrable of literary poachers for the daily prints? 2 The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny pamphlet on the state of the stage, and offers his plan for building a new theatre: it is to be hoped his lordship will be permitted to bring forward any thing for the stage, except his own tragedies. 3 « Doff that lion's hide, And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." Shaks. King John. Lord C.'s works, most resplendently bound, form a conspicuous or- nament to his book-shel . es : " The rest is all but leather and prunella." 4 Melville's Mantle, a parody on « Elijah's Mantle," a poem. Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, Leave wondering comprehension far behind. 1 Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, Some stragglers skirmish round their columns still; 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. 2 When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, St Crispin quits, and cobbles for the Muse, Heavens! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds applaud! How ladies read, and literati laud! If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 'T is sheer ill-nature, don't the world know best? Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, And Capel Lofft 3 declares 't is 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 labours of a servile state, Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over Fate. 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 inclosed, without an odeA Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, Let Poesy go forth, pervade the whole, Alike 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 5 weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems— when they pay for coats. To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, Neglected Genius ! let me turn to you. Come forth, O Campbell! 6 give thy talents scope; Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope? And thou, melodious Rogers ! rise at last, Recal the pleasing memory of the past; 1 This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew K seems to be a follower of the Delia Crusca School, and has published two volumes of very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times go ; besides sundry novels in the style of the first edition of the Monk. ' 2 These are the signatures of various worthies who figure in the poetical departments of the newspapers. 3 Capel Lofft, Esq., the Maecenas of shoemakers, and Preface- writer general to distressed versemen ; a kind of gratis accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to bring it forth. 4 See Nathaniel Bcoomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever he or any one else chuses to call it, on the enclosure of «Honington Green." 5 Vide « Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Stafford- shire." 6 It would be superfluous to recal to the mind of the reader the authors of « The Pleasures of Memory," 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 and Rogers are become strange. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 35 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 honour and thine own. What! must deserted Poesy still weep Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep? Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns, To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns! No ; though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood. The race who rhyme from folly, or for food; Yet still some genuine sons 't is hers to boast, Who, least affecting, still affect the most; Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — Bear witness, Gifford, Sotheby, Macneil. 1 «Why slumbers Gifford ?» once was ask'd in vain: 3 Why slumbers Gifford? let us ask again : Are 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 every street? Shall peers or princes tread Pollution's path, And 'scape alike the laws' and Muse's wrath ! Nor blaze with guilty glare through future lime, Eternal beacons of consummate crime? Arouse thee, Gifford! be thy promise claim'd, Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. Unhappy White! 3 while life was in its spring, And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoiler came, and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son ! Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sow'd the seeds, but Death has reap'd the fruit. 'T was thine own genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart : Keen were bis pangs, but keener far to feel He 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 praise; That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 'T is true that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, Shrink from that fatal word to genius— trite; ' Gifforii, author of the Baviad and Majviad, the first satires of the clay, and translator of Juvenal. Sotheby, translator of Wielasd'« Oberon and Virgil's Georgics, and author of Saul, an epic poem. Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular : particularly "Scotland's Scaith, or the Waes of War," of which ten thousand copies were sold in one month. 2 Mr Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad and Maeviad should not be his last original woiks : let him remember, «mox in reluctantes dracones.» 3 Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, iSo6,in con- sequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies, that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which Death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified evou the sacred functions be was destined to assume. Yet truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name let Crabbe attest — Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. And here let Shee 1 and genius find a place, Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; To guide whose hand the sister arts combine, And trace the poet's or the painter's line; Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow, Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow, While honours doubly merited attend The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. Blest is the man who dares approach the bower Where dwelt the Muses at their natal hour; Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd afar The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore : But doubly blest is he whose beart expands With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands; Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, And views their remnants with a poet's eye! Wright ! 2 'twas thy happy lot at once to view Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; And sure no common muse inspired thy pen, To hail the land of gods and godlike men. And you, associate Bards ! 3 who snateb'd to light Those gems too long withheld from modern sight; Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, And all their renovated fragrance flung, To grace the beauties of your native tongue, Now let those minds that nobly could transfuse The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone, Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. Let these, or such as these, with just applause, Restore the Muse's violated laws: But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme; Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear, In show the simple lyre could once surpass, But 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.4 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 LAMBEand Lloyd; 5 Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : « Mr Shee, author of u Bhymes on Art,» and u Elements of Art. » 2 Mr Wright, late Consul-General for the Seven Islands, is author of a very beautiful poem just published : it is entitled « Horse Ion ica?,» and is descriptive of the Isles and the adjacent coast of Greece. 3 The translators of the Anthology have since published separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opportunity to attain eminence. 4 The neglect of the u Botanic Garden » is some proof of returning taste : the scenery is its soL> recommendation. 5 Messrs Lambe and Llotb, the most ignoble followers of Southey and Co. 36 BYRON'S WORKS. The native genius with their feeling given Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. And thou, too, Scott!' resign to minstrels rude The wilder slogan of a Border feud : Let others spin their meagre rhymes for hire — Enough for genius if itself inspire! Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, Prolific every string, be too profuse; Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse, And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse; Letspectre-mongering Lewis aim at most, To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost; Let Moore be lewd; let Strangford steal from Moore, And swear thatCAMOENS sang such notes of yore: Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, And godly Grahame chaunt a stupid stave; Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine, And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line : Let Stott, Carlisle, 2 Matilda, and the rest Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-place the best, Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain, Or common sense assert her rights again : But thou, -with powers that mock the aid of praise, Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lays : Thy country's voice, the voice of all the Nine, Demand a hallow' d harp — that harp is thine. Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield The glorious record of some nobler field, Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man? Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food For outlaw' d Sherwood's tales of Robin Hood? Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, And be thy praise his first, his best reward! Yet not with thee alone his name should live, But own the vast renown a world can yive ; Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, And tell the tale of what she was before ; To future times her faded fame recal, And save her glory, though his country fall. 1 By the bye, I hope that in Mr Scott's next poem his hero or he- roine will be less addicted io «gramarye,» and more to grammar, than the Lady of the Lay. and her bravo, William of Deloraine. 2 It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few years ago. The guardianship was 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 on a very essential occasion to me, I shall not burthen my memory with there- collection. I do not think that personal differences sanction the unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler ; but I 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 publics (as the odver- tisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides I do not step aside to vituperate the Earl: no— his works come fairly in review with those of other patrician literati. If, before I escaped from my teens, I said any thing in favour of his lordship's paper books, it was in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from the advice of others than my own judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere recantation. I have heard that some persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord Carlisle : if so, I shall be most particularly happy to learn what they are, and when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated aod publicly acknowledged. What I havehumbly advanced as an opinion on his printed things, I am prepared to support, if necessary, by quotations from elegies, eulogies, odes, episodes, and certain face- tious and dainty tragedies, bearing his name and mark: u What can ennoble knaves or fools, or cowards? Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards !» SosavsPoPE. Amen. Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope To conquer ages, and with time to cope? New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, And other victors 1 fill the applauding skies: A few brief generations fleet along, Whose sons forget the poet and his song : E'en now what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim, The transient mention of a dubious name! When Fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last, And glory, like the phcenix, 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, Expert in science, more expert at pujjgg|j£j Shall these approach the muse? ah, no! she Hies, And even spurns the great Seatonian prize, Though printers condescend the press to soil With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by Koyle : Nor, him whose page, if still upheld by whist, Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. 2 Ye, who in Gran fa's honours 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-be satirist, a hired buffoon, A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean, And furnish falsehoods for a magazine, Devotes to scandal his congenial mind — Himself a living libel on mankind. 3 dark asylum of a Vandal race!4 At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ; So sunk in dulness and so lost in shame, That Smythe and Hodgson 5 scarce redeem thy fame ! But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, The partial muse delighted loves to lave; On her green banks a greener wreath is wove, To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove, Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, And modern Britons justly praise their sires. 6 For me, who thus, unask'd, have dared to tell My country what her sons should know too well, Zeal for her honour bade me here engage The host of idiots that infest her age. 1 a Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora.n — Virgil. 2 The "Games of Hoyle,» wrll known to the votaries of whilst chess, etc. are not to be superseded by the vagaries of his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, as expressly stated in the adver- tisement, all the « Plagues of Egypt. » s This person, who has lately betrayed the most rapid symptoms of confirmed authorship, is writer of a poem denominated the u Art of Pleasing," as « lucus a non lucendo," containing little pleasantry, and less poetry. lie also acts as monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the Satirist. If this unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the mathematics, and endeavour to take a decent degree in his university, it might eventually prove more serviceable than his present salary. 4 ulnto Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus transported a con- siderable body of Vandals. n— Gibbon's Decline and Full, page 8 3, vol. 2. There is no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion— the breed is still in high perfection. 5 This gentleman's name requires no praise: the man who in translation displays unquestionable genius, may well be expected to excel in original composition, of which it is to be hoped we shall soon see a splendid specimen. 6 The u Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem by RicnvRDs. ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 3 7 No just applause her honour' d name shall lose, As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. Oh, would thy hards but emulate thy fame, And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name! What Athens was in science, Rome in power, What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 'T is thine at once, fair Albion, to have been Earth's chief dictatress, Ocean's mighty queen : But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter' d in the main: Like these thy strength may sink in*ruin hurl'd, And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. But let me cease, aud dread Cassandra's fate, With warning- ever seoff'd at, till too late; To themes less lofty still my lay confine, And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine. Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest, The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! Still hear thy motley orators dispense 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 2 adverse height, And Stamboul's 3 minarets must greet my sight : Thence shall I stray through beauty's 4 native clime, Where Kaff 5 is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows sublime. But should I back return, no letter'd rage Shall drag my common-place book on the stage : Let vain Yalentia 6 rival luckless Carr, And equal him whose work he sought to mar; Let Aberdeen and Elgin 7 still pursue The shade of fame through regions of virtu; Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques; And make their grand saloons a general mart For all the mutilated blocks of art : Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, I leave topography to classic Gell;8 And, quite content, no more shall interpose To stun mankind with poesy or prose. Thus far I 've held my undislurb'd career, Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear: This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own — Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown: 1 A frieud of mine being asked why Lis Grace of P. was likened to an old woman? replied, « he supposed it was because he was past bearing, n 2 Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar. 3 Slamboul is ihe Turkish word lor Constantinople. 4 Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants. 5 Mount Caucasus. 6 Lord Valextia (whose tremendous travels are forthcoming, with due decorations, graphical, topographical, and typographical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, that Dubois' satire pre- vented his purchase of the « Stranger in Ireland."— Oh tie, my Lord! has your lordship no more feeling lor a fellow-tourist? but « two of a trade, » they say, etc. 7 Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, with and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of Phidias! "Credat Judseus.» 8 Mr Gell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail to ensure the approbation of every man possessed of classical taste, as well for the information Mr G. conveys to the mind of the reader, as for the ability and research the respective works display. 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 Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, Edina's brawny sons aud brimstone page. Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, And feel they too are « penetrable stuff :» And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall From lips that now may seem imbued with gall, Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise The meanest tiling that crawl'd beneath my eyes: But now, so callous grown, so changed siuce youth, I 've learned to think and sternly speak the truth ; Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree, And break him on the wheel he meant for me; To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss: Nay, more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, I too can hunt a poetaster down ; And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. Thus much I've dared to do; how far my lay Hath wrong' d these righteous times, let others say; This let the world, which knows not how to spare, Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. POSTSCRIPT. I have been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that my trusty and well beloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehe- ment critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting muse, whom they have already so bedeviled with their ungodly ribaldry : u Tant«eue animis ccclestibus irac!* I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Ague- cheek saith, « an I had known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought him.» What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the next number has passed the Tweed ! But yet I hope to light my pipe with it in Persia. My northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literary Anthropophagus, Jeffrey : but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed « by lying and slandering," and slake their thirst by « evil-speaking?» I have adduced facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion ; nor has he thence sustained any injury: what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud ? It may be said that I quit England because I have censured there « persons of honour and wit about town ;» but I am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are very different from fears, literary or per, soual; those who do not, may one day be convinced. 1 Published to the Second Edition. 38 BYRON'S WORKS. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed ; I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expecta- tion of sundry cartels; but, alas! « The age of chi- valry is over;» or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days. There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (subaudi, Esq.), a sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe a denizen of Berwick upon Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has been accustomed to meet: he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and, for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the Satirist, for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation; indeed I am guiltless of having heard his name, till it was coupled with the Satirist. He has, therefore, no reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than other- wise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except the editor of the Satirist, who, it seems, is a gentleman. God wot ! 1 wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle : I hope not ; he was one of the few who, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy, and whatever he may say or do, « pour on, I will endure. » I have nothing further to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publisher; and, in the words of Scott, I wish « To all and each a fair good night, And rosy dreams and slumbers light.* The following Lines were written by Mr Fitzgerald, in a Copy of English" Bards and Scotch Reviewers : — I find Lord Byron scorns my muse — Our fates are ill agreed! His verse is safe — I can't abuse Those lines I never read. W. F. F. His Lordship accidentally met with tlie Copy, and subjoined the following pungent Reply: — What 's writ on me, cried Fitz, I never read; — What 's wrote by thee, dear Fitz, none will indeed. The case stands simply thus, then, honest Fitz : — Thou and thine enemies are fairly quits, Or rather woidd be, if, for time to come, They luckily were deaf, or thou wert dumb — But, to their pens, while scribblers add their tongues, 1 The waiter only can escape their lungs. l Mr Fitzgerald is in the habit of reciting his own poetry. — See note to English Bards, p. 26. A ROMAUNT. L'univers est une espece de livre, dont on n'a lu que la premiere page, quand on n'a vue que son pays. J'en ai feuillete* un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouve'es egalement mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point ete infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vdcu, m'ont reconcilie avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tire d'autre benefice de mes voyages que celui-la, je n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les fatigues. LE COSMOPOLITE. PREFACE. The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's obser- vations in those countries. Thus much it may be ne- cessary to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There for the present the poem stops : its reception will determine whether the author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia : these two cantos are merely experimental. A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some connexion to the piece; which, however, makes no pretension to regularity. It has been sug- gested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, that in this fictitious character, « Childe Harold, » I may incur the suspicion of having intended some real personage : this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim — Harold is the child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for such a notion; but in the main points, I should hope, none whatever. It is almost superfluous to mention that the appella- tion « Childe,» as « Childe Waters," « Childe Childers,» etc., is used as more consonant with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The « Good night, » in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by « Lord Maxwell's Good Night,» in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr Scott. With the different poems which have been published on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coincidence in the first part, which treats of the penin- sula, but it can only be casual ; as, with the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the Levant. The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr Beattie makes the following observation : « Not long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 3 9 and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or senti- mental, tender or satirical, as the humour strikes me ; for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted, admits equally of all these kinds of composition. »> — Strengthened in my opinion by such authority, and by the example of some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar variations in the following composition; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their failure must be in the execution, rather than in the design sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. I have now waited till almost all our periodical jour- nals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have nothing to object; it would ill become me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when perhaps, if they had been less kind they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst the many objections justly urged to the very indifferent character of the « vagrant Childe» (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious per- sonage), it has been stated that, besides the anachron- ism, he is very unknicjhtly , as the times of the knights were times of love, honour, and so forth. Now it so happens that the good old times, when « l'amour du bon vieux temps, l'amour antique» flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may consult St Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii, page G9. The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows whatsoever, and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid. — The « Cours d'amour, par- lemens d'amour, ou de courtoisie et de gentilesse,» had much more of love than of courtesy or gentleness. — See Roland on the same subject with St Palaye. — Whatever other objection may be urged to that most unamiable personage, Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly knight- ly in his attributes — « No waiter, but a knight tem- plar." 2 — By the bye, I fear that Sir Tristram and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should be, although very poetical personages and true knights « sans peur,» though not « sans reproche.» — If the story of the insti- tution of the « Garter » be not a fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are over, though Marie Antoinette was quite as chaste as most of those in whose honours lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of an- cient and modern times), few exceptions will be found to this statement, and I fear a little investigation will teach us not to regret those monstrous mummeries of the middle ages. I now leave « Childe Harold » to live his day, such as he is; it had been more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more 1 Beattie's Letters. 2 Ths Rovers. — Antijacobin. and express less, but he never was intended as an ex- ample, further than to show that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature, and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of all excitements), are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to the close, for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco. TO 1ANTHE. Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd ; Not in those visions tc the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dreanrd, Hath aught like thee, in truth or fancy seem'd : Nor, having seen thee, shall 1 vainly seek To paint those charms which varied as theybeam'd — To such as see thee not my words were weak ; To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak ? Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond hope's imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. Young Peri of the West!— 't is well for me My years already doubly number thine ; My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine; Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline, Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign To those whose admiration shall succeed, But mix'd with pangs to love's even loveliest hours de- creed. Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, "Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, Could I to thee be ever more than friend: This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why To one so young, my strain I would commend, But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. Such is thy name with this my verse entwined j And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast Ou Harold's page, Ian die's here enshrined Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: My days once number'd, should this homage past Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, Such is the most my memory may desire; Though more than hope can claim, could friendship less require? 4o BYRON'S WORKS. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CANTO I. Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, Muse! form'd or fahled at the minstrel's will ! Since shamed full oft hy later lyres on earth, Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill : Yet there I've wander'd hy thy vaunted rill; Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine, 1 Where, save that feehle fountain, all is still; Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine, To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. II. Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; But spent his days in riot most uncouth, And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of night; Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, Sore given to revel and ungodly glee; Few earthly things found favour in his sight Save concubines and carnal companie, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. HI. Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say; Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day: But one sad losel soils a name for aye, However mighty in the olden time; Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. IV. Childe Harold bask'd him in the noon-tide sun, Disporting there like any other fly; Nor deem'd before his little day was done, One blast might chill him into misery. But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, Worse than adversity the Childe befel; He felt the fulness of satiety : Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seem'd to him more lone than eremite's sad cell. For he through sin's long labyrinth had run, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one, And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss, Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoil'd her goodly lauds to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste. VI. And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his fellow bacchanals would flee; 'T is said, at times the sullen tear would start, But pride congeal'd the drop within his ee: Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, And from his native land resolved to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; With pleasure drugg'd he almost longd for woe, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. VII. The Childe departed from his father s hall : It was a vast and venerable pile: So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile! Where superstition once had made her den, Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; And monks might deem their time was comeagen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. VIII. Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood, Strange pangswould flash along Childe Harold's brow, As if the memory of some deadly feud Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; For his was not that open, artless soul, That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er his grief mote be, which he could not control. IX. And none did love him — though to hall and bower He gather'd revellers from far and near, He knew them flatterers of the festal hour; The heartless parasites of present cheer. Yea, none did love him — not his lernans dear — But pomp and power alone are woman's care, And where these are light Eros finds a feere; Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair. X. Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, Though parting from that mother he did shun : A sister whom he loved, but saw her not Before his weary pilgrimage begun : If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel; Ye who have known what 't is to dote upon A few dear objects, will in sadness feel Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. XI. His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, The laughing dames in whom he did delight, Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, And long had fed his youthful appetite; His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, And all that mote to luxury invite, Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, And traverse Paynimshores, and pass earth's central line. 1 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 4l XII. 5. ' My father bless'd me fervently, \et did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh . Till I come back again.' — « Enough, enough, my little lad, Such tears become thine eye ; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry. The sails were fill'd, and fair the light -winds blew, As glad to waft him from his native home; And fast the -white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam : And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. XIII. 6. But when the sun was sinking in the sea, He seized his harp, which he at times could string And strike, albeit with untaught melody, When deem'd he no strange ear was listening: And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. While flew the vessel on her snowy "wing, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, « Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? Or shiver at the gale?» — ' Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I 'm not so weak ; But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek. Thus to the elements he pour'd his last « Good Night. » 1 i. « Adieu, adieu ! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. ' My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake, And when they on their father call, What answer shall she make?' — « Enough, enough, my yeoman good, Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight ; Farewell awhile to him and thee, Thy grief let none gainsay; But 1, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away. My native Land— Good Night! 2. « A few short hours and he will rise 8. « For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour? To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate. Fresh feercs will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. 3. « Come hither, hither, my little page ! Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along. » 9- « And now I 'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide sea: But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again, He 'd tear me where he stands. 4- 10. ' Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, « With thee, my bark, I '11 swiftly go I fear not wave nor wind ; Athwart the foaming brine; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, Am sorrowful in mind; So not again to mine. For I have from my father gone, Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves ' A mother whom I love, And when you fail my sight, And have no friend, save these alone, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! But thee — and one above. My native Land — Good Night !» 6 45 BYRON'S WORKS. XIV. Ou, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, And winds are rude in Uiscay's sleepless bay. Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, New shores descried make every bosom gay; And Ciutra's mountain greets them on their way, And T.igus dashing onward to the deep, His fabled golden tribute bent to pay; And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. XV. Oh ! Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land! What fruils of fragrance blush on every tree ! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! But man would mar them with an impious hand : And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, With treble vengeauce will his hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. XVI. What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! Her image floating on that noble tide, Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, Hut now whereon a thousand keels did ride Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, And to the Lusians did her aid afford: A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord. XVII. But whoso entereth within this town, That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, Disconsolate will wander up and down, 'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; For hut and palace show like filthily, The dingy denizens are reared in dirt; Ne personage of high or mean degree Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt. Though shentwith Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, unhurt. XVIII. Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest scenes — Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes In variegated maze of mount and glen. Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates, Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken Than those whereof such things the bard relates, Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates? XIX. The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must w : eep, The tender azure of the unruffled deep, The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, The vine on high, the willow branch below, 31ix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. XX. Then slowly climb the many-winding way, And frequent turn to linger as you go, From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, And rest ye at « our Ladv's house of woe;» 2 Where frugal monks their little relics show, And sundry legends to the stranger tell : Here impious men have punished been, and lo ! Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell. XXI. And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 3Iark many rude-caned crosses near the path : Vet deem not these devotion's offering — These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; And grove and glen with thousand such are rife Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life.3 XXII. On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; But now the wild flowers round them only breathe; Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. And yonder towers the prince's palace fair : There thou too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son, Once form'd thy paradise, as not aware When wanton wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, .Meek peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. XXIII. Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, Beneath yon mountain's ever-beauteous brow : But now, as if a thing unblest by man, Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou! Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow To halls deserted, portals gaping wide : Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; Swept into wrecks anon by time's ungentle tide! XXIV. Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened: 4 Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye! With diadem bight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, There sits in parchment robe arrav'd, and by His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, And sundry signatures adorn the roll, Whereat the urchin points and laughs with all his soul. XXV. Convention is the dwarfish demon styled That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, And turned a nation's shallow jov to gloom. Here folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume, And policy regain'd what arms had lost : For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom! Woe to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, Since baffled triumph droops on Lusitania's coast! CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 43 XXVI. And ever since that martial synod met, Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; And folks in office at the mention fret, And fain would hlush, if hlush they could, for shame. How will posterity the deed proclaim ! Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, To view these champions cheated of their fame, By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, Where scorn her finger points through many a coming year? XXVII. So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he Did take his way in solitary guise : Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee More restless than the swallow in the skies : Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, For meditation fix'd at times on him ; And conscious reason whisper'd to despise His early youth, mispent in maddest whim ; But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. XXVIII. To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits, A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : Again he rouses from his moping fits, But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; And o'er him many changing scenes must roll Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. XXIX. Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, 5 Where dwelt of yore the Lusian's luckless queen ; And church and court did mingle their array, And mass and revel were alternate seen ; Lordlings and freres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! But here the Babylonian whore hath built A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, And bow the knee to pomp that loves to varnish guilt. XXX. O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, (Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race !) Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place. Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace. Oh ! 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 shepherds tend Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows — Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, And all must shield their all, or share subjection's woes. XXXII. Where Lusitania and her sister meet, Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? Or Dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? Or fence of art, like China's vasty 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 : XXXIII. But these between a silver streamlet glides, And scarce a name distiuguisheth the brook, Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. 6 XXXIV. But, ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, Dark Guadiana rolls his power along In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, So noted ancient roundelays among. Whilome upon his banks did legions throng Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest : Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong ; The Paynim turban and the Christian crest Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd. XXXV. Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land ! Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, When Cava's traitor-sire first called the band That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?7 Where are those bloody banners which of yore Waved o'er thy sons, victorious, to the gale, And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? Bed gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent paie, While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matron's wail. XXXVI. Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! When granite moulders and when records fail, A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, See how the mighty shrink into a song! Can volume, pillar, pile preserve the great? Or must thou trust tradition's simple tongue, When flattery sleeps with thee, and history does thee wrong? XXXVII. Awake ! ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance! Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar : In every peal she calls — « Awake ! arise !» Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore ? 44 BYRON'S WORKS. xxxviir. Hark! — heard you not those hoofs of dreadful uote? Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath 1 Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death, The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Pied Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. XXXIX. Lo ! where the giant on the mountain stands, His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon Flashing afar,^and at his iron feet Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done ; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. XL. By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, Their various arms that glitter in the air ! What gallaut war-hounds rouse them from their lair, And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, And havoc scarce for joy can number their array. XLI. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies; The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! The foe, the victim, and the fond ally That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, Are met — as if at home they could not die — To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. XLH. There shall they rot — ambition's honour'd fools ! Yes, honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! Vain sophistry ! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts — to what?-— a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? XLI1I. Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! As o'er thy plain the pilgrim prick'd his steed, Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed! Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed And tears of triumph their reward prolong! Till others fall where other chieftains lead, Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song ! XLIV. Enough of battle's minions ! let them play Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, Though thousands fall to deck some single name. In sooth, 't were sad to thwart their noble aim Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's good, And die, that living might have proved her shame; Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, Or in a narrower sphere wild rapine's path pursued. XLV. Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : Yet is she free— the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ! Soon, soon shall conquest's fiery foot intrude, Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. Inevitable hour ! 'gainst fate to strive Where desolation plants her famished brood Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, And virtue vanquish all, and murder cease to thrive. XLVI. But all unconscious of the coming doom, The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds : Not here war's clarion, but love's rebeck sounds ; Here folly still his votaries enthralls : And young-eyed lewdness walks her midnight rounds Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, Still to the last kind vice clings to the tott'ring walls. XLVII. Not so the rustic— with his trembling mate He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. No more beneath soft eve's consenting star Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : Ah ! monarcbs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, Not in the toils of glory would ye fret ; The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and man be happy yet. XLVIII. How carols now the lusty muleteer ! Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay, As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? No ! as he speeds, he chaunts : — « Viva el Bey !» 8 And checks his song to execrate Godoy, The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, And gore-faced treason sprung from her adulterate joy. XLIX. On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, Wide-scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ; And, scathed by fire, the green sward's darken'd vest Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest ; Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 45 And whomsoe'er along the path you meet Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet :9 Woe to the man that walks in public view Without of loyalty this token true : Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, If subtle poniards, wrapped beneath the cloak, Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. LI. At every turn Morena's dusky height Sustains aloft the battery's iron load; And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, The mountain howitzer, the broken road, The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd, The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, 10 Lir. Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway A moment pauseth e'er he lifts the rod; A little moment deigneth to delay: Soon will his legions sweep through these their way; The West must own the scourger of the world. Ah, Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, When soars Gaul's vulture, with his wings unfurl'd, And thou shaltview thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd ! liii. And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the brave, To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign? No step between submission and a grave? The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? And doth the Power that man adores ordain Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? Is all that desperate valour acts in vain? And counsel sage, and patriotic zeal, The veteran's skill, youth's fire, and manhood's heart of steel? LIV. Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsex'd, the aulace hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? And she whom once the semblance of a scar Appall'd, and owlet's larum chill'd with dread, Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread. LV. Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Heard her light lively tones in lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower Beheld her smile in danger's Gorgon face, Thin the closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase. LVI. Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear; Her chief- is slain — she fills his fatal post; Her fellows flee — she checks their base career; The foe retires — she heads the sallying host: Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost? Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall? 11 LVII. Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, But form'd for all the witching arts of love: Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 'T is but the tender fierceness of the dove, Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : In softness, as in firmness, far above Bemoter females, famed for sickening prate; Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. LVIII. The seal love's dimpling finger hath impress'd Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch : 12 Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch ! Who round the north for paler dames would seek? How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak. LIX. Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud; Match me, ye haramsof the land! where now I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow; Match me those houries, whom ye scarce allow To taste the gale lest love should ride the wind, With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — deign to know There your wise prophet's paradise we find, His black-eyed maids of heaven, angelically kind. LX. Oh, thou Parnassus!' 3 whom I now survey, Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! What marvel if I thus essay to sing ! The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by W T ould gladly woo thine echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one muse will wave her wing. LXI. Oft have I dream'd of thee ! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : And now I view thee, 't is, alas ! with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore. When I recount thy worshippers of yore I tremble, and can only bend the knee; Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy In silent joy to think at last I look on thee ! 46 BYRON'S WORKS. LXII. Happier in this than mightiest hards have been, Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, Shall I unmoved behold the hallovv'd scene, Which otliers rave of, though they know it not? Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. LXIII. Of thee hereafter. — Even amidst my strain I turn'd aside to pay my homage here; Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear, And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt Let me some remnant, some memorial bear; Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. LXIV. But ne'er didst thou, fair mount! when Greece was young, See round thy giant base a brighter choir, Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, Nursed in the glowing lap of soft desire : Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though glory fly her glades. LXV. Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days;>4 But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. Ah, vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape The fascination of thy magic gaze, A cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. LXVI. When Paphos fell by time— accursed time! The queen who conquers all must yield to thee — The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime; And Venus, constant to her native sea, To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee; And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white : Though not to one dome circumscribeth she Pier worship, but, devoted to her rite, A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. LXVII. From morn till night, from night till startled morn Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, The song is heard, the rosy garland worn, Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu Of true devotion monkish incense burns, And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. LXV1II. The sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; What hallows it upon this Christian shore? Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast: Hark ! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar? Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn; The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more; Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, Nor shrinks the female eye, nor even affects to mourn. LXIX. The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer : Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artizan, And smug apprentice, gulp their weekly air : Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl; To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair; Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. LXX. Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, Others along the safer turnpike fly; Some Bichmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, And many to the steep of Highgate hie. Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! the reason why?' 5 'T is to the worship of the solemn horn, Grasp'd in the holy hand of mystery, In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught and dance till LXXL All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, Thy saint-adorers count the rosary : Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free (Well do I ween the only virgin there) From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; Then to the crowded circus forth they fare, Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. LXXII. The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames, abound, Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by love's sad archery. LXXIII. Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest,goldspur,andlight-poiscd lance, Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, And lowly bending to the lists advance; Bich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance : If in the dangerous game they shine to day, The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, Best prize of better acts they bear away, And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 47 LXXIV. In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, But all a-foot, the light-limb'd Matadore Stands in the centre, eager to invade The lord of lowing herds; but not before The ground with cautious tread is traversed o'er, Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can man achieve without the friendly steed, Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. LXXV. Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide waving to and fro His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. LXXVI. Sudden he stops; his eye is fix'd ; away, Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear : Now is thy time, to perish, or display The skill that yet may check his mad career. With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer: On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear; He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellovvings speak his woes. LXXVII. Again lie comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; Though man and man's avenging arms assail, Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. One gallant steed isstretch'd a mangled corse; Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears, His gory chest unveils life's panting source, Though death-struck still his feeble frame he rears, Staggering, butstemmingall, his lord unharm'd he bears. LXXVIII. Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, And foes disabled in the brutal fray : And now the Matadores around him play, Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: Once more through all he bursts his thundering way — Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the sand! LXXIX. Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies, He stops— he starts— disdaining to decline ; Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, Without a groan, without a struggle, dies. The decorated car appears— on high The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes — Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. LXXX. Such the ungentle sport that oft invites The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. What private feuds the troubled village stain! Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the foe, Enough, alas! in humble homes remain, To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow. LXXXI. But jealousy has fled; his bars, his bolts, His wither' d sentinel, duenna sage! And all whereat the generous soul revolts, Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage, Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen (Ere war uprose in his volcanic rage), With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, While on the gay dance shone night's lover-loving queen ? LXXXII. Oh ! many a time and oft had Harold loved, Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream; But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream; And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, Full from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.' 6 LXXXIII. Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; Not that philosophy on such a miud E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes: But passion raves itself to rest, or flies; And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom Wrote on his faded brow cursed Cain's unresting doom. LXXXIV. Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song; But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? Nought that he saw his sadness could abate: Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, And as in beauty's bower he pensive sate, Poui'd forth this unpremeditated lay, To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day. TO INEZ. Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, Alas! I cannot smile again; Yet Heaven avert that ever thou Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. BYRON'S WORKS. And dost thou ask, what secret woe I bear, corroding joy and youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang even thou must fail to soothe? 3. It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low ambition's honours lost, That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I prized the most ; 4- It is that weariness which springs From all I meet, or hear, or see; To me no pleasure beauty brings ; Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 5. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; That -will not look beyond the tomb, But cannot hope for rest before. 6. What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life— the demon thought. 7- Yet others rapt 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 't is mine to go, With many a retrospection curst; And all my solace is to know, Whate'er betides, I 've known the worst. What is that worst ? Nay do not ask — In pity from the search forbear : Smile on — nor venture to unmask Man's heart, and view the hell that 's there. LXXXV. Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu! Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? When all were changing thou alone wert true, First to be free, and last to be subdued: And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye; A traitor only fell beneath the feud:'7 Here all were noble, save nobility; None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen chivalry! LXXXVI. Such be the sons of Spain, and, strange her fate! They fight for freedom who were never free; A kingless people for a nerveless state, Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, True to the veriest slaves of treachery: Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, Pride points the path that leads to liberty; Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, « war even to the knife !» l8 lxxxvh. 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 remorseless 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 unbleachingstain, 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 Bepairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls murder unrestrain'd. XC. Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, Not Albuera, lavish of the dead, Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. Wiien shall her olive-branch be free from blight?. When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil? How 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!'9 — since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain — Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid even friendship to complain: But thus unlaurelld, to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding 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 esteem'd the most, Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear' Though to my hopeless days for ever 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. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 49 XCIII. Here is one fytte 7 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 quelle! . CANTO II. i. Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou, alas ! Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — Goddess of wisdom ! here thy temple was, And is, despite of war and wasting fire, 1 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. 3 II. Ancient of days! august Athena ! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone, glimmering thro' the dream of things that were; First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole? A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour ? The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the shade of power. III. Son of the morning, rise! approach you here! Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn: Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre! Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. Even gods must yield — religions take their turn : 'T was Jove's — 't is Mahomet's — and other creeds 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. IV. Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — Is 't not enough, unhappy thing ! to know Thou art ? Is (his a boon so kindly given, That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so On earth no more, but mingled with the skies ? Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. Or burst the vanish'd hero's lofty mound; Far on the solitary shore he sleeps: 3 He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around ; But now not one of saddening thousands 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 even the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell ! VI. Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall, The dome of thought, the palace of the soul : Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, The gay recess of wisdom and of wit, And passion's host, that never brook'd control ; Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? VII. Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! « All that we know is, nothing can be known. r> Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ? Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers grcan With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. Pursue what chance or fate proclaimeth best; Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, But silence spreads the couch of ever-welcome rest VIII. Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be A land of souls beyond that sable shore, To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; How sweet it were in concert to adore With those who made our mortal labours light! To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more! Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, The Bactrian, Samiansage, and all who taught the right! IX. There, thou! — whose love and life together fled, Have left me here to love and live in vain — Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, When busy memory flashes on my brain ? Well — I will dream that we may meet again, And woo the vision to my vacant breast : If aught of young remembrance ihen remain, Be as it may futurity's behest, For me 't were 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 fav'rite throne : 4 Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. It may not be : nor even can fancy's eye Restore what time hath labour'd to deface. Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh — Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. 7 5o BYRON'S WORKS. XL But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee The latest relic of her ancient reign; The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be ! England! I joy no child he was of thine: Thy free-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. 5 XII. But most the modern Pitts ignoble boast, To rive what Goth, and Turk, and time hath spared : 6 Cold as the crags upon his native coast, His mind as barren and his heart as hard, Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,7 And never knew, till then, the weight of despot's chains. XIII. What ! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, Albion was happy in Athena's tears? Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; The ocean queen, the free Britannia bears The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears, Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. XIV. Where was thine aegis, Pallas ! that appall'd Stern Alaric and havoc on their way? 8 Where Peleus' son ? whom hell in vain enthrali'd, His shade from Hades upon that dread day, Bursting to light in terrible array ! What! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, To scare a second robber from his prey? Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. XV. Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on 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 guard 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 enslave ; But Harold felt not as in other times, 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, The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight; Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. XVIII. And oh, the little warlike world within ! The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,9 The hoarse command, the busy humming din, When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high : Hark to the boatswain's call, the cheering cry! While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides: Or school-boy 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 lieutenant walks : Look on that part which sacred doth remain For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which 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! Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray; Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, That lagging barks may make their lazy way. Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! What leagues are lost before the dawn of day, Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these! XXI. The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve! Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe : Such be our fate when we return to land ! Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love; A circle there of merry listeners stand, Or to some well-known measure featly move, Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. XXII. Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore; Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! Lands of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase ; But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. D i XXIII. 'T is night, when meditation bids 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. Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, When youth itself survives young love and joy ? Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, Death hath but little left him to destroy! Ah ! happy years ! ouce 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, And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. XXV. To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been ; To climb the trackless mountain all unseeu, With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean — This is not solitude ; 't is but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her store* 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 splendour shrinking from distress! None that, with kindred consciousness endued, If we were not, would seem to smile the less Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued : This is to be alone; this, this is solitude ! XXVII. More blest the life of godly eremite, Such as on lonely Athos may be seen Watching at eve upon the giant height, Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, That he who there at such an hour hath been Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot; Then slowly tear him from the 'witching scene, Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. XXVIII. Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, And each well-known caprice of wave and wind ; Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel ; The foul, the fair, the coutrary, 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 essayed the dreadful leap Stern Mentor urg'd from high to yonder tide; While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sigh'd. XXX. Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : But 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": But 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, Who knew his votary often lost and caught, But knew him as his worshipper no more, And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : Since now he vainly urged him to adore, Well deem'd the little god his ancient sway was o'er. xxxir. Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, One who, *t was said, still sigh'd to all he saw, Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, Which others hail'd with real, or mimic awe, Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law ; All that gay beauty from her bondsmen claims : And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames. XXXIII. Little knew she that seeming marble heart, Now mask'd in 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 : I!ut Harold on such 3rts no more relied ; And had he doated on those eyes so blue, Yet never would he join the lovers' whining crew. XXXIV. Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs; What careth she for hearts when once possess'd ? Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; But not too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness, if thou art wise ; Brisk confidence still best with woman copes; Pique her and soothe in turn, soon passion crowns thy hopes. BYRON'S WORKS. XXXV. 'T is an old lesson ; time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most; When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, These are thy fruits, successful passion ! these ! If, kindly cruel, early hope is crost, 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 we have many a mountain-path to tread, And many a varied shore to sail along, By pensive sadness, not by fiction, led — Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head Imagined in its little schemes of thought; Or e'er in new Utopias were read, To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 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 favour'd child. Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path : To me by day or night she ever smiled, Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath. XXXVIII. Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose, Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, And he, his namesake, -whose oft-baftled foes Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize : Land of Albania! ll 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. XXXIX. Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot 12 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. 'T was on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar ; A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave : Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar;' 3 Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loathed the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial wight. XLI. But when he saw the evening star above Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love,'4 He felt, or deem'd he fell, no common glow : And as the stately vessel glided slow, Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, He watch' d the billows' melancholy How, 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 v/olf, the eagle whets his beak, Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. XLHI. 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. XLIV. 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 Boman chief and Asian king l5 To doubtful conflict, cerlain slaughter bring: Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose ! l6 Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering : 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, Even to the centre of Illyria's vales, Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales; Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails, Though classic ground and consecrated most, To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 53 XLVI1. He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, 1 ? And left the primal city of the land, And onwards did his further journey take To greet Albania's chief,' 8 whose dread command Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : Yet here and there some daring mountain-band Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.'9 XLVI1I. Monastic Zitza! 20 from thy shady brow, TIiou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! Where'er we gaze, around, ahove, below, What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound, And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul. XLIX. 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, The convent's white walls glisten fair on high : Here dwells the caloyer, 21 nor rude is he, Nor niggard of his cheer; the passer by Is welcome still; nor heedless will he flee From hence, if he delight kind nature's sheen to see. Here in the sultriest season let him rest, Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : The plain is far beneath — oh ! 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, 22 Chimaera'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 ! 23 Once consecrated to the sepulchre. Pluto! if this be hell I look upon, Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for noue ! LII. Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view; Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, Veil'd by the screen of hills! here men are few, Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot; But, peering down each precipice, the goat Browseth : and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, The little shepherd in his white capote 2 -i 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 broke? Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine : Wouldstthou survive the marble or the oak? When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the stroke ! LIV. Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail; Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale As ever spring yclad in grassy dye : Even on a plain no humble beauties lie, Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, And woods along the banks are waving high, Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, Or with the moon-beams sleep in midnight's solemn trance. LV. The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, 25 And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by; 26 The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, When, down the steep banks winding warily, Guide Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, The glittering minarets of Tepalen, Whose walls o'erlook the stream; and drawing nigh, He heard the busy hum of warrior-men Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the iength'ning glen. LVL He pass'd the sacred haram's silent tower, And, underneath the wide o'erarching gate, Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, While busy preparations shook the court, Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait; With a palace, and without, a fort: Mere men of every clime appear to make resort. LVIL Richly caparison'd, a ready row Of armed horse, and many a warlike store Circled the wide-extending court below : Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridor; And oft-times through the Area's echoing door Some high-capp'd Tartar spurrd his steed away: The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, Here mingled in their many-hued array, While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close of day. LYIII. The wild Albanian kirtlcd to his knee, With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see ; The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon; The Delhi with his cap of terror on, And crooked glaive; the lively, supple Greek; And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son; The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 54 BYRON'S WORKS. LIX. Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, And some that smoke, andsomethatplay, are found; Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground; Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate; Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, «ThereisnogodbutGod ! — to prayer — lo! God is great !» LX. Just at this season Ramazani's fast Through the long day its penance did maintain : But when the lingering twilight hour was past, Revel and feast assumed the rule again : Now all was bustle, and the menial train Prepared and spread the plenteous board within; The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, But from the chambers came the mingling din, As page and slave anon were passing out and in. LXI. Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, She yields to one ber person and her heart, Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove •. For, not unhappy in her master's love, And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, Who never quits the breast no meaner passion shares. LXII. In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring Of living water from the centre rose, Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, A li reclined, a man of war and woes; Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, While gentleness her milder radiance throws Along that aged venerable face, The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. LXIH. It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard III suits the passions which belong to youth ; Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth, Beseeming all men ill, but most the man In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; Dlood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. LXIV. 'Mid many things most new to ear and eye The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, And gazed around on Moslem luxury, Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat Of wealth and wantonness, the choice retreat Of sated grandeur from the city's noise : And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet; But peace abhorreth artificial joys, And pleasure, leagued with pomp, the zest of both destroys. LXV. Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. Where is the foe that ever saw their back? Who can so well the toil of war endure? Their native fastnesses not more secure Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : Their wrath how deadly! but iheir friendship sure, When gratitude or valour bids them bleed, Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. LXVI. Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower Thronging to war in splendour and success; And after view'd them, when, within their power, Himself awhile the victim of distress; That saddening hour when bad men bother press: But these did shelter him beneath their roof, When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less, And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof — 2 7 In aught that tries the heartliow few withstand the proof ! LXVIT. It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, When all around was desolate and dark; To land was perilous, to sojourn more; Yet for a while the mariners forbore, Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. LXVIH. Vain fear! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome hand, Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland, And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp, And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp, And spread their fare; though homely, all they had : Such conduct bears philanthropy's rare stamp — To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. LXIX. It came to pass, that when he did address Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress, And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; And therefore did he take a trusty band To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, In war well season'd, and with labours tann'd, Till lie did greet white Achelous' tide, And from his further bank iEtolia's wolds espied. LXX. Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove, Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, As winds come lightly whispering from the west! Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene. — Here Harold was received a welcome guest, Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, For many a joy could he from night's soft presence glean CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 55 LXXI. On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, 28 And he that unawares had there ygazed With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, The native revels of the troop began; Each Palikar 2 9 his sabre from him cast, And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled clan . LXXII. Childe Harold at a little distance stood And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee, And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd, Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd, While thus hi concert they this lay half sung, half scream'd; 3o 3l Tameourgi? Tambourgi ! ' thy 'larum afar Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war; All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote! Oh! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; For a time they abandon the cave and the chase: But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 5. Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, And track to his covert the captive on shore. I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy; Shall win the young bride with her long-flowing hai And many a maid from her mother shall tear. I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe; Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre, And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 1 Drummer. Remember the moment when Previsa fell, 32 The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell; The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; He neither must know who would serve the vizier: Since the days of our prophet the crescent ne'er saw A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw, Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, Let the yellow-hair'd l Giaours 2 view his horse-tail 3 with dread; When his Delhis* come dashing in blood o'er the banks, How few shali escape from the Muscovite ranks! Selictar! 5 unsheathe then our chiefs scimitar: Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, Shall view us as victors, or view us no more! LXXIII. Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! 33 Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, And long accustom'd bondage uncreate? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb? LXXIV. Spirit of freedom! when on Pliyle's brow 3 * Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deedunmann'd. LXXY. In all, save form alone, how changed! and who That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew With thy unquenched beam, lost liberty? And many dream withal the hour is nigh That gives them back their fathers' heritage: For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, Or tear their name defiled from slavery's mournful page. 1 Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. 2 Infidels. } Horse-tails are the insignia of a Pacha. 4 Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. 5 Sword-bearer. 56 BYRON'S WORKS. lxxvl Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not "Who would be free tbemselvcs must strike tbe blow? By their right arms tbe conquest must be wrought? Will Gaul or 31uscovite redress ye? no! True, they may lay your proud despoiiers low, But not for you will freedom's altars flame. Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe! Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. LXXVII. The city won for Allah from the Giaour, The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; And the Serai's impenetrable tower Beceive the fiery Frank, her former guest; 35 Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, 36 May wind their path of blood along the West ; But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. LXXVIII. Yet mark their mirth— ere lenten days begin, That penance which their holy rites prepare To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; But ere his sackcloth garb repentance wear, Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, In motley robe to dance at masking ball, And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. LXXIX. And whose more rife with merriment than thine, Ob Stamboul! once the empress of their reign? Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain !) Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, All felt the common joy they now must feign, Nor oft I 've seen such sight nor heard such song, As woo'd the eye, and thrill' d the Bosphorus along. LXXX. Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, Oft music changed, but never ceased her tone, And timely echoed back the measured oar, And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : The queen of tides on high consenting shone, And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 'T was, as if darting from her heavenly throne, A brighter glance her form reflected gave, Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. LXXXI. Glanced many a light caique along the foam, Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, While many a languid eye and thrilling hand Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still: Oh love ! young love ! bound in thy rosy band, Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, These hours, and only these redeem life's years of ill! LXXXIL But, 'midst the throng in merry masquerade, Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, Even through the closest searment half betrav'd? To such the gentle murmurs of the main Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain: How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud? LXXXIII. This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe thee most; Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde ! LXXXIV. When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, When Athens' children are with hearts endued, When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, Then mayst thou be restored; but not till then. A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; An hour may lay it in the dust; and when Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, Becal its virtues back, and vanquish time and fate? LXXXV. And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow 3 7 Proclaim thee nature's varied favourite now: Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, Commingling slowly with heroic earth, Broke by the share of every rustic plough : So perish monuments of mortal birth, So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth ; LXXXVI. Save where some solitary column mourns Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; 38 Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave ; Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, Where the grey stones and unmolested grass Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, While strangers only not regardless pass, Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh « Alas!» LXXXVII. Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild; Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields; There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air; Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; Art, glory, freedom fail, but nature still is fair. CLIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. LXXXVIII. Where'er we tread 't is haunted, holy ground; No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the muse's tales seem truly told. Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone: Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. LXXXIX. The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same; Unchanged in all except its foreign lord- Preserves alike ils bounds and bouodless fame The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde First bovv'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, As on the morn to distant glory dear, When Marathon became a magic word; 3 9 Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. XC. The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; Mountains above, earth's, ocean's plain below; Death in the front, destruction in the rear! Such was the scene — what now remaineth here? What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, Recording fredom's smile and Asia's tear? The rifled urn, the violated mound, The dust thy courser's hoof,rude stranger! spurns around. XCI. Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng; Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast, Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore; Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! Which sages venerate and bards adore, As Pallas and the muse unveil their awful lore. XGII. The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that 's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; He that is lonely hither let him roam, And gaze complacent on congenial earth. Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth ; But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth, When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side> Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. XCIII. Let such approach this consecrated land, And pass in peace along the magic waste ; But spare its relics — let no busy hand Deface the scenes, already how defaced ! Not for such purpose were these altars placed : Revere the remnants nations once revered : So may our country's name be undisgraced, So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, By every honest joy of love and life endear'd ! XCIV. For thee, who thus in too protracted song Hast soothed thine idlesse ■with inglorious lays, Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng Of louder minstrels in these later days : To such resign the strife for fading bays — 111 may such contest now the spirit move Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise; Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, And none are left to please when none are left to love. xcv. Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! Whom youth and youth's affection bound to me; Who did for me what none beside have done, Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see — Would they had never been, or were to come! Would he had ne'er return' d to find fresh cause to roam ! XCVI. Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved! How selfish sorrow ponders on the past, And clings to thoughts now better far removed! But time shall tear thy shadow from me last. All thou couldsthave of mine, stern Death! thou hast; j The parent, friend, and now the more than friend : Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, And grief with grief continuing still to blend, Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. xcvir. Then must I plunge again into the crowd, And follow all that peace disdains to seek? Where revel calls, and laughter, vainly loud, False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak : Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique; Smiles form the channel of a future tear, Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. XCVIII. What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now. Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd : Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow, Since time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. 58 BYRON'S WORKS. CANTO III. Afin que cette application vous format tic penser a autre chose, il n'y a en v^rite tie reniede que celui-la et le temj '7/6. LettreduRoide Prusse a d'Alcmbart, Se;:t. I. Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, And then we parted, — not as now we part, But with a hope. — Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices : I depart, Whither I know not; hut the hour s gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. n. Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! Though the slrain'd mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. III. In my youth's summer I did sing of one, The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; Again 1 seize the theme then but begun, And bear it with me, as the rushing wind Bears the cloud onwards : in that tale I find The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, O'er which all heavily the journeying years Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower appears. IV. Since my young days of passion — joy, or pain, Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, And both may jar : it may be, that in vain I would essay as I have sung to sing. Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling; So that it wean me from the weary dream Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. He, who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him; nor below Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. VI. 'T is to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now. What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou, Soul of my thought '. with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow Alix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my orush'd feelings' dearth. VII. Yet must I think less wildly:— I have thought Too long and darkly, till my brain became, In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, I\ly springs of life were poison'd. 'T is too late! Yet am 1 changed; though still enough the same In strength to bear what time can not abate, And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate. VIII. Something too much of this : — but now 't is past, And the spell closes with its silent seal. Long absent Harold re-appears at last; He of the breast which fain no more would feel, Wrung with the wounds which kill not but ne'er heal; Yet time, who changes all, had alter'd him In soul and aspect as in age : years steal Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. IX. His had been quaffd too quickly, and he found The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd again, And from a purer fount, on holier ground, And deem'd its spring perpetual; but in vain! Still round him clung invisibly a chain Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain, Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Entering with every step he took, through many a scene. X. Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd Again in fancied safety with his kind, And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; And he, as one, might midst the many stand Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find Fit speculation ! such as in strange land He found in wonder-works of God and nature's hand. XL But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek To wear it? who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? Who can contemplate fame through clouds unfold The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd On with the giddy circle, chasing time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. GHiLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 59 XII. But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with man ; with whom he held Little in common; untaught to submit His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell'd He would not yield dominion of his mind To spirits against whom his own rebell'd; Proud though in desolation; which could find A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. XIII. Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends ; Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; Where a blue sky and glowing clime extends, He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, Were unto him companionship,- they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake For nature's pages, glass'd by]sunbeams on the lake. XIV. Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth-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 which it mounts, as if to break the link That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. XV. But in man's dwellings he became a thing Restless and worn, aud stern and wearisome, Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing, To whom the boundiess 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 impcdcd_soul would through his bosom eat. xvr. Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, With nought of hope left, but with 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 't were wild, — as on the pluuder'd wreck When mariners would madly meet their doom With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, — Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. XVII. Stop! — for thy tread is on an empire's dust! An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? Nor column 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'd by 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 by the shaft of banded nations through ; Ambition's life and labours all were vain ; He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain. XIX. Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit And foam in fetters; — but is earth more free? Did nations combat to make One submit; Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? What! shall reviving thraldom again be The patch' d-up idol of enlighten'd days? Shall we, who struck the lion down, s*hall we Pay the wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove before 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, aud broken by the accord Of roused-up millions: all that most endears Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes the sword Such as llarmodius 2 drew on Athens' tyrant lord. XXI. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts 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 ; 3 But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! XXII. Did ye not hear it?— No; 't was but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet, To chase the glowing hours with flying feet : — Hut, hark!— that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is— it is — the cannon's opening roar! XXHI. Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 6o BYRON'S WORKS. XXIV. Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an Lour a«o Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? XXV. And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips— « The foe! They come! they come !« XXVI. And wild and high the « Cameron's gathering » rose ! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard too, have her Sax*n foes:— How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's,4Donald's 5 fame rings in each clansman's ears ! XXVII. And Ardennes 6 waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. XXVIII. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day Battle's magnificently-stern array ! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse,— friend, foe,— in one red burial blent ! XXIX. Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine; Yet one I would select from that proud throng, Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song ; And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, Theyreach'd no noblerbreast than thine, young, gallant Howard ! XXX. There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree. Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turn'd from all she brought tothose she could not bring.7 XXXI. I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; The archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of fame Slay for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. XXXII. They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourn. The tree will wither long before it fall; The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall Stands when its wind-worn batllements are gone; The bars survive the captive they enthral, The day drags through though storms keep outthe sun; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : XXXI [I. Even as a broken mirror, which the glass In every fragment multiplies; and makes A thousand images of one that was The same, and still the more, the more it breaks ; And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. XXXIV. There is a very life in our despair, Vitality of poison, — a quick root Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were As nothing did we die ; but life will suit Itself to sorrow's most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's* shore, All ashes to the taste; did man compute Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er Such hours 'gainst years of life,— say, would he name three-score ? XXXV. The Psalmist number'd out the years of man: They are enough ; and if the tale be true, Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children's lips shall echo them, and say — « Here, where the sword united nations drew, Our countrymen were warring on that day !» And this is much, and all which will not pass away. CIIILRE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 61 XXXVI. There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose spirit antithetically mixt One moment of the mightiest; and again On little ohjects with like firmness fixt, Extreme in all things! hadst thou heen betwixt, Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, And shake again the world, the thunderer of the scene! XXXVII. Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou? She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now That thou art nothing, save the jest of fame, Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became The flatterer of thy fierceness, tiil thou wert A god unto thyself; nor less the same To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deem'd thee for 3. time whate'er thou didst assert. XXXVII I. Oh, more or less than man — in high or low, Battling with nations, flying from the field ; Now making monarch's necks thy footstool, now More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield; An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted fate will leave the loftiest star. XXXIX. Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide With that untaught innate philosophy, Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled With a sedate and all-enduring eve ; — When fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child, He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. XL. Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show That just habitual scorn which could contemn Men and their thoughts ; 't was wise to feel, not so To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, And spurn the instruments thou wert to use Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow: T is but a worthless world to win or lose; So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who chuse. XLI. If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, Their admiration thy best weapon shone: The part of Philip's son was thine, not then (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.9 XLII. But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire And motion of the soul which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire; And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. XLIII. This makes the madmen who have made men mad By their contagion; conquerors and kings, Founders of sects and systems, to whom add Sophists, bards, statesmen, all unquiet things, Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school Which would un teach mankind the lust to shine or rule. XL1V. Their breath is agitation, and their life A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. That should their days, surviving perils past, Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste With its own flickering, or a sword laid by Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. XLV. He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, Hound him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. XLVL be Away with these ! true wisdom's world wil Within its own creation, or in thine, Maternal nature ! for who teems like thee, Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? There Harold gazes on a work divine, A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine, And chiefless castles, breathing stern farewells From gray but leafy walls, where ruin greenly dwells. XLVII. And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, Or holding dark communion with the cloud. There was a day when they were young and proud, Banners on high, and battles pass'd below, But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 62 BYROJN'S WORKS. XLVIII. Beueath these battlements, within those walls, Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud slate Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Doing his evil will, nor less elate Than mightier heroes of a iouger date. What want these outlaws 10 conquerors should have, But history's purchased page to call them great? A wider space, an ornamented grave? Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave. XLIX. In their baronial feuds and single fields, What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! And love, which lent a blazon to their shields, With emblems well devised by amorous pride, Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide; But still their Hume was fierceness, and drew on Keen contest and destruction near allied, And many a tower for some fair mischief won, Saw the discolour'd Bhine beneath its ruin run. But thou, exulting and abounding river ! Making thy waves a blessing as they flow Through banks whose beauty would endure forever, Could man but leave thy bright creation so, Nor its fair promise from the surface mow With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know Earth paved like heaven ; and to seem such to me Even now what wants thy stream? — that it should Lethe be. LI. A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, But these and half their fame have pass'd away, And slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks — Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray; But o"er the blacken' d memory's blighting dream Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as:they seem. LIf. Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, Yet not insensibly to all which here Awoke the jocuud birds to early song In glens which might have made even exile dear : Though on his brow were graven lines austere, And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place Of feelings fierier far but less severe ; Joy was not always absent from his face, But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. LIU. Nor was all love shut from him, though his days Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. It is iu vain that we would coldly gaze On such as smile upon us ; the heart must Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. LIV. And he had learn'd to love, — T know not why, For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — The helpless looks of blooming infancy, Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, To change like this, a mind so far imbued With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; But thus it was; and though in solitude Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow. LV. And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, Which unto his was bound by stronger ties Than the church links withal ; anil, (hough unwed, That love was pure, and, far above disguise, Had stood the test of mortal enmities Still undivided, and cemented more By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; But this was firm, and from a foreign shore Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour : i. The castled crag of Drachenfels ls Frowns o'er the wide and winding Bhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strew r 'd a scene, which I should see With double joy wert thou with me ! 2. And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of grey, And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch, in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers ; But one thing want these banks of Bhine, — Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 3. I send the lilies given to me ; Though, long before thy hand they touch, I know that they must wither'd be, But yet reject them not as such : For I have cherish'd them as dear, Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here, When thou hehold'st them drooping nigh, And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, And offer' d from my heart to thine ! 4- The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round ; The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Bhine ! CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 63 LVI. By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, There is a small and simple pyramid, Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, Our enemy's, — but let not that forbid Honour to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. LV1F. Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes; And fitly may the stranger lingering here Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose; For he was Freedom's champion,— one of those, The few in number, who had not o'erstept The charter to chastise which she bestows On such as wield her weapons : he had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. ' 2 LVIII. Here Ehrenbreitstein,' 3 with her shatter'd wall, Black with the miner's blast, upon her height Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball Bebounding idly on her strength did light; A tower of victory ! from whence the flight Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain : But peace destroy'd what war could never blight, And laid those proud roofs bare to summer's rain — On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in vain. LIX. Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted The stranger fain would linger on his way ! Thine is a scene alike where souls united, Or lonely contemplation, thus might stray: And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, Where nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year. LX. Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; The mind is colour'd by thy every hue; And if reluctantly the eyes resign Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 'T is with the thankful glance of parting praise; More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine, But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days. Lxr. The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been In mockery of man's art ; and these withal A race of faces happy as the scene, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them fall. LXII. But these recede. Above me are the Alps, The palaces of nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! All that expands the spirit, yet appals, Gather around these summits, as to show How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man below. LXIII. But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, — Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain ; Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, A bony heap, through ages to remain, Themselves their monument ;— the Stygian coast Cnsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering ghost. '4 LXIV. While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; They were true glory's stainless victories, Won by the unambitious heart and hand Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, All unbought champions in no princely cause Of vice-enlail'd corruption ; they no land Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause. LXV. By a lone wall a lonelier column rears A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days; 'T is the last remnant of the wreck of years, And looks as with the wild bewilder'd gaze Of one to stone converted by ablaze, Yet still with consciousness; and there it stands, Making a marvel that it not decays, When the coeval pride of human hands, Levell'd Aventicum,' 5 hath sirew'd her subject lands. LXYI. And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name ! — Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave The life she lived in ; but the judge was just, And then she died on him she could not save. Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.' 6 lxvii. But these are deeds which should not pass away, And names that must not wither, though the earth Forgets her empires with a just decay, Tiie enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth ; The high, the mountain-majesty of worth Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, And from its immortality look forth In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, '7 Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 6S BYRON'S WORKS. LXVIII. Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, The mirror where the stars and mountains view The stillness of their aspect, in each trace Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue : There is too much of man here, to look through With a fit mind the might which I behold ; Cut soon in me shall loneliness renew Thoughts hid, but not less cherish' d than of old, Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. LXIX. To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil In the hot throng, where we become the spoil Of our infection, till too late and long We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong, 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. LXX. There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of night ; The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, The boldest steer but where their ports invite, But there are wanderers o'er eternity, Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. LXXI. Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love earth only for its earthly sake ? By the blue rushing of the arrowy Bhone, lS Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, Which feeds it as a mother who doth make A fair but froward infant her own care, Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — Is it not better thus our lives to wear, Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear ? LXXII. I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me ; and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities tortures : I can see Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. LXXI1I. And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : I look upon the peopled desert past As on a place of agony and strife, Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast, To act and suffer, but remount at last With a fresh pinion ; which I feel. to spring, Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the blast Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being clinfr. LXX1V. And when, at length, the mind shall be all free From what it hates in this degraded form, Beft 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 1 not Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? The bodiless thought? the spirit of each spot, Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? LXXV. Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion? should I not contemn All objects, if compared with these ? and stem A tide of suffering, rather than forego Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow ? LXXVI. But this is not my theme ; and I return To that which is immediate, and require Those who find contemplation in the urn, To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, A native of the land where I respire The clear air for a while — a passing guest, Where he became a being, — whose desire Was to be glorious ; 't was a foolish quest, The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. LXXVII. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Bousseau, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from woe Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew The breath which made him wretched: yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and cast O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. LXXV1II. 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 enamour'd, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame, Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, But of ideal beauty, which became In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. LXXIX. This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 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, From hers, who but with friendship his would meet; But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ; In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest.'9 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 65 LXXX. His life was one long war with self-sought foes, Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind Had grown suspicion's sanctuary, and chose For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. But lie was phrenzied, — wherefore, who may know? Since cause might be which skill could never find; But he was phrenzied by disease or woe, To that worst pitch of all which wears a reasoning show. LXXXI. For then he was inspired, and from him came, As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, Those oracles which set the world in flame, Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : Did he not this for France? which lay before Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? Broken and trembling, to the yoke she bore, Till by the voice of him and his compeers, Roused up to too much wrath which follows o'ergrown fears ? LXXXII. They made themselves a fearful monument ! The wreck of old opinions — things which grew Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they rent, And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. But good with ill they also overthrew, Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild Upon the same foundation, and renew Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd, As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. LXXXIII. But this will not endure, nor be endured ! Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. They might have used it better, but, allured By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt On one another ; pity ceased to melt With her once natural charities. But they, Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day; Y\ T hat marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey? LXXX1V. What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it; and they who war With their own hopes, and have been vanquish 'd, bear Silence, but not submission : in his lair Fix'd passion holds his breath, until the hour Which shall atone for years; none need despair: It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. LXXXV. Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction : once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, ThatI with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. LXXXVI. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and, drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; LXXXVII. He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill; But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues. Lxxxvm. Ye stars! which are the poetry of Heaven! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 't is to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great. Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. LXXXIX. All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, But breathless, as Ave grow when feeling most ; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — All heaven and earth are still : from the high host Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, All is concenter' d in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence. XG. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone; A truth, which through our being then doth melt, And purifies from self: it is a tone, The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, ,. Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, Binding all things with beauty; — 't v/ould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. XCI. Not vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places and the peak Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, 20 and thus take A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek The spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer ! 9 66 BYRON'S WORKS. xcu. The sky is changed '.—and such a change! Oh night, 2 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! XCIII. And this is in the night :— most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — t A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! And now again 't is black, — and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. XCIV. Now, where the swift Bhone cleaves his -way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's hloom, and then departed ; Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. XGV. Now, where the quick B.hone thus has cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around : of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd His lightnings, — as if he did understand, That in such gaps as desolation work'd, There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. XCVI. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? Are ye like those within the human breast? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high uest? XCVII. Could I embody and unbosom now That which is most within me, could I wreak My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, All that I would have sought, and all I seek, Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, And that one word were Lightning, I would speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard, With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. XCVIII. The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — And glowing into day : we may resume Tlie march of our existence: and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much that may give us pause, if ponder' d fittingly. XCIX. Clarens! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep love! Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought; Thy trees take root in love ; the snows above The very glaciers have his colours caught, And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought 22 By rays which sleep there lovingly: the rocks, The permanent crags, tell here of love, who sought In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then mocks. C. Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — Undying love's, who here ascends a throne To which the steps are mountains ; where the god Is a pervading life and light, — so shown Not on those summits solely, nor alone In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown, His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. CI. All things are here of him ; from the black pines, Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines Which slope his green path downward to the shore, Where the bow'd waters meet him and adore, Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood, The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, Cut light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. CII. A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, And innocently open their glad wings, Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, Mingling, and made by love, unto one mighty end. cm. He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, And make his heart a spirit; he who knows That tender mystery, will love the more, For this is love's recess, where vain men's woes, And the world's waste, have driven him far from those, For 't is his nature to advance or die ; He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity! GHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CIV. 'T was not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, Peopling it with affections; but he found It was the scene which passion must allot To the mind's purified beings; 't was the ground Where early love his Psyche's zone unbound, And hallow'd it with loveliness : 't is lone, And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throne. CV. Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes 2 '* Of names which unto you bequeatb'd a name; Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, A path to perpetuity of fame : They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile Thoughts which should call down thunder and the flame Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while On man and man's research could deign do more than smile. CVI. The one was fire and fickleness, a child, Most mutable in wishes, but in mind A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — Historian, bard, philosopher combined; He multiplied himself among mankind, The Proteus of their talents : but his own Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, — Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. CVII. The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year, In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer : The lord of irony,— that master-spell, Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell, Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. GVIII. Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, If merited, the penalty is paid; It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn; The hour must come when such things shall be made Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust, Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd ; And when it shall revive, as is our trust, T will be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just, CIX. But let me quit man's works, again to read His Maker's spread around me, and suspend This page, which from my reveries I feed, Until it seems prolonging without end. The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er May be permitted, as my steps I bend To their most great and growing region, where The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. CX. Italia! too,— Italia! looking on thee, Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, To the last halo of the chiefs and sages Who glorify thy consecrated pages; Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still, The fount at which the panting mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. CXI. Thus far I have proceeded in a theme Renew'd with no kind auspices: — to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be,— and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, — Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or zeal, — Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought; Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught. CXII. And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile, — The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not So young as to regard men's frown or smile, As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or forgot. CXIII. I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd To its idolatries a patient knee, — Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed 2 * my mind, which thus itself subdued. CXIV. I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things,— hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing : I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; 25 That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. cxv. My daughter ! with thy name this song begun — My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall end — I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend : Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend, And reach into thy heart, — when mine is cold, — A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 68 BYRON'S WORKS. CXVI. To aid thy mind's development, — to watch Thy dawn of little joys,— to sit and see Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee! To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, I know not what is there, yet something like to this. CXVII. Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, I know that thou wilt love me; though my name Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught With desolation, — and a broken claim : Though the grave closed between us, 't were the same — I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain My blood from out thy being, were an aim, And an attainment,— all would be in vain, — Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. cxvnr. The child of love, — though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements, — and thine no less. As yet such are around thee,— but thy fire Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, And from the mountains where I now respire, Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, As, with a sigh, I deem thou rnightst have been to me ! CANTO IV. Visto bo Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, Quel monte che divide, e quel cbe serra Italia, e un mare e 1' altro cbe la bagna. Ariosto, Sa'irah JOHN CAM HOEHOUSE, ESQ. A.M. F.R.S. etc. etc. etc. My deak Hobhotjse, After an interval of eight years between the composi- tion of the first and last cantos of Chi'de Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to the public. In parting with so old a friend, it is not extra- ordinary that I should recur to one still older and better,— to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than — though not ungrateful — I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favour reflected through the poem on the poet, — to one, whom I have known long, and accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prospe- rity and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril— to a friend often tried and never found wanting; — to yourself. In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in de- dicating to you in its complete, or at least concluded state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I wish to do honour to myself by the record of many years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flattery; yet the praises of sin- cerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friend- ship, and it is not for you, nor even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will as to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to commemorate your good qualities, or rather the ad- vantages which I have derived from their exertion. Even the recurrence of the dale of this letter, the an- niversary of the most unfortunate day of my past existence, but which cannot poison my future, while I retain the resource of your friendship, and of my own faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recol- lection for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could experience without thinking better of his species and of himself. It has been our fortune to traverse together, at va- rious periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy : and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me from first to last; and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on a composition which in some degree connects me with the spot where it was produced, and the objects it would fain describe; and however unworthy it may be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, and a feeling for what is glorious, it has been to me a source cf pleasure in the production, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I hardly suspected that events could have left me for imaginary objects. With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author speaking in his own person. The fact is, that I had become weary of drawing a line which every one seemed determined not to perceive : like the Chinese in Goldsmith's « Citizen of the World, » whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, and imagined, that 1 had drawn a dis- tinction between the author and the pilgrim; and the very anxiety to preserve this difference, aud disappoint- ment at finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, that I determined to abandon it altogether — and have done so. The opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference; the work is to depend on itself, and not on the writer; and the author, who has no re- sourcesin 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 inten- tion, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. % of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for the iahyrinth of external objects and the consequent reflections ; and for the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, lam 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 dissimilar: and requires an attention and impartiality which would induce us, — though perhaps no inatten- tive observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of the people amongst whom we have recently abode, — to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more narrowly examine our iuformation. The state of lite- rary, as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impar- tially between them is next to impossible. It may be enough then, at least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful language— « .Mi pare clie in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la piu nobile ed insieme la piu dolce, tutte tutte ie vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto l'antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima. » Italy has great names still — Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonti, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzofanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will secure to the present generation an honourable place in most of the departments of art, science, and belles-lettres; and in some the very highest ; — Europe — the world — has but one Canova. It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that h La pianla uomo nasce piu robusta in Italia che in qualun- que altra terra — e que gli stessi atroci delitli che vi si commettono ne sono una prova.» Without subscribing to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doc- trine, the truth of which may be disputed on better grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than their neighbours, that man must be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of beauty, and, amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair of ages, their still unquenched « longing after immor- tality,)) — the immortality of independence. And when we, ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the labourers' chorus, « 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, • Xon movero tuai 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 be- comes ascertained that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus ; it is enough for them to lock at home. For what they have done abroad, and especially in the I I South, « verily tliev will have their reward," and at no j very distant period. Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse,a safe and agreeable ' return to that country whose real •welfare can be dearer j to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed state ; and repeat once more how truly I am ever Your obliged And affectionate friend, BYRON. Venice, January 2, 181 8. I. I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 1 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 onherhundred isles! II. She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 2 Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers : And such she was; — her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 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. In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 3 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 : >"or 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 mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway; Ours is a trophy which will not decay Wiih the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away — The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore. The beings of the mind are not of clay ; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray And more beloved existence : that which fate Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 7° BYRON'S WORKS. VI. Such is the refuge of our youth and age, The first from hope, the last from vacancy; And this worn feeling peoples many a page, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye : Yet there are things whose strong reality Outshines our fairy land ; in shape and hues More beautiful than cur fantastic sky, And the strange constellations which the muse O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse. vir. 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 fantasies unsound, And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 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 1 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 chuse 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 iu their scope incline, — If my fame should be as my fortunes are, Of hasty growth and blight, and dull oblivion bar My name from out the temple where the dead Are honour'd by the nations— let it be — And light the laurels on a loftier head ! And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — « Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.»4 Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted — they have torn me, — and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. XI. 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 5 Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, Over the proud Place where an emperor sued. And monarchs gazed and envied, in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. XII. The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 6 An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt ; Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt The sunshine for a while, and downward go Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt; O for one hour of blind old Dandolo \l Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. XIII. Before St Mark still glow his steeds of brass, Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; But is not Doria's menace come to pass? 8 Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose! Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. XIV. In youth she was all glory,— a new Tyre, — Her very by-word sprung from victory, The « Planter of the Lion,»9 which through fire And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; Though making many slaves, herself still free, And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Voucli it, ye Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. XV. Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file Of her dead doges are declined to dust; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 10 Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. XVI. When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, Bedemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 11 Her voice their only ransom from afar : See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins Fall from his hands— his idle scimitar Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. XVII. Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, Thy choral memory of the bard divine, Thy love of Tasso should have cut the knot Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, Albion ! to thee : the ocean queen should not Abandon ocean's children ; in the fall Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. xvm. I loved her from my boyhood — she to me Was as a fairy city of tho heart, Fusing like water-columns from the sea, Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; And Otway, Raclcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's arf, 12 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, aud 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: And of the happiest moments which were wrought Within the web of my existence, some From thee, fair Venice ! have their colours caught. There are some feelings time can not benumb, Xor torture shake, or mine would nowbe cold and dumb. XX. But from their nature will the tannen grow 13 Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, Rooted in barrenness, where nought below Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks The howling tempest, till its height and frame Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks Of bleak, grey granite, into life it came, And grew a giant tree; — the mind may grow the same. XXI. Existence may be borne, and the deep root Of life and sufferance make its firm abode In bare and desolated bosoms: mute The camel labours with the heaviest load, And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd In vain should such example be; if they, Things of ignoble or of savage mood, Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. XXII. All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy 'd, Even by the sufferer; and, in each event Ends: — some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, Return to whence they came — with like intent, And weave their web again; some, bow'd and bent, Wax grey and ghastly, withering ere their time, And perish with the reed on which they leant; Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb. XXIII. But ever and anon of grief subdued There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever : it may be a sound — A tone of music, — summer's eve— or spring, A flower — the wind— the ocean— which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound: XXIV. And how and why we know not, nor can trace Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which out of things familiar, undesigu'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, The mourn'd, the lov'd, the lost— too many ! yet how few ' 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 was the mightiest in its old command, And is the loveliest, and must ever be The master-mould of nature's heavenly hand, Wherein were cast the heroic 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' fertilitv; Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm -which cannot be defaced. XXVII. The moon is up, and yet it is not night — Sunset divides the'sky with her — a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be belted 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, aud reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still 1 4 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, aud remains Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, As day and night contending were, until Nature reclaim'd her order: — gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Vhich 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 imbues With a new colour as it gasps awav, The last still loveliest, till — 't is gone— and all is grey. 7 2 EYRON'S WORKS. 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 15 'With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. XXXI. They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; 16 The mountain-village where his latter clays Went down the vale of years; and 't is their pride — An honest pride — and let it be their praise, To offer to the passing stranger's gaze His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain And venerably simple, such as raise A feeling more accordant with his strain Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. XXXII. And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt Is one of that complexion which seems made For those who their mortality have felt, And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, Which shows a distant prospect far away Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, For they can lure no further ; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, XXXHI. Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, And shining in the brawling brook, where-by Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours With a calm languor, which, though to the eye Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. If from society we learn to live, 'T is solitude should teach us how to die ! It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone — man with his God must strive: XXXIY. Or, it may be, with demons, 1 ? 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 't were a curse upon the seats Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood Of Este, which for many an age made good Its strength within thy 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. XXXVI. And Tasso is their glory and their shame. Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell: The miserable despot could not quell The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell Where he had plunged it. Glory without end Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend XXXVII. The tears and praises of all time; while thine Would rot in its oblivion— in the sink Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line Is shaken into nothing; but the link Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink From thee! if in another station born, Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn: XXXVIII. Thou! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou Hadst a more splendid trough and wider stye: He! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, Which emanated then, and dazzles now In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow '8 No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire! XXXIX. Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 't was his In life and death to be the mark where Wrong Aim'd with her poison'd arrows ; but to miss. Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song! Each year brings forth its millions; but how long The tide of generations shall roll on, And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine! though all in one Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a sun. XL. Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those, Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, The bards of hell and chivalry : first rose The Tuscan father's Comedy Divine; Then, not unequal to the Florentine, The Southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth A new creation with his magic line, And, like the Ariosto of the north, Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. XLI. The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust'9 The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves, Nor was the ominous element unjust, For the true laurel-wreath which glory weaves 20 Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; Yet still, if fondly superstition grieves, Know that the lightning sanctifies below 21 Whate'er it strikes;— yon head is doubly sacred now. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 73 XLII. It3lia! oh Italia! thou wlio hast 22 The fatal gift of beauty, which became A funeral dower of present woes and past. On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough 'd by shame, And annals graved in characters of flame. Oh God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim Thy right, and awe the robbers back ■who press To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress: XLIII. Then migbtst thou more appal; or, less desired, Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored % For thy destructive charms; then, still untired, Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. XLIV. Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 23 The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind, The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, Came Megara before me, and behind ^jina 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 crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, These sepulchres of cities, which excite Sad -wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. XLVI. That page is now before me, and on mine His country s ruin added to the mass Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, And I in desolation : all that was Of then destruction is; and now, alas! Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, In the same dust and blackness, and we pass The skeleton of her Titanic form, 2 4 Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. XLVII. Yet, Italy! through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, 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, Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. XLVIII. But 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 Her corn, and wine, and oil, and plenty leaps To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 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 fills 25 The air around with beauty; we inhale The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils Part of its immortality; the veil Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale We stand, and iu that form and face behold What mind can make, when nature's self would fail; And to the fond idolaters of old Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould : We gaze and turn away, and know not where, Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart Reels with its fulness; there — for ever there — Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal art, We stand as captives, and would not depart. Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise, The paltry jargon of the marble mart, Where pedantry gulls folly — we have eyes; Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan shep- herd's prize. LI. Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise? Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies Before thee thy own vanquish'd lord of war? And gazing in thy face as toward a star, Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! 26 while thy lips are With lava kisses melting while they burn, Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn? LII. Glowing, and circumfused in r-peechless love, Their full divinity inadequate That feeling to express, or to improve, The gods become as mortals, and man's fate Has moments like their brightest; but the weight Of earth recoils upon us; — let it go! We can recal such visions, and create, From what has been or might be, thiugs which grow Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. Lin. 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 : Let these describe the undescribable: I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 74 BYRON'S WORKS. LIV. In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 2 7 Ashes which make it holier, dust which is Even in itself an immortality, Though there -were nothing save the past, and this, The particle of those sublimities Which have relapsed to chaos: — here repose Aogelo's, Altieri's bones, 2f > and his, The starry Galileo, with his woes; Here Machiavelli's earth relurn'd to whence it rose. 2 9 LV. These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation: — Italy! Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand rents Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, And hath denied, to every other sky, Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay Is still impregnate with divinity, Which gilds it with revivifying ray; Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. LVI. But where repose the all Etruscan three — Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay Their bones, distinguish'd from our commou clay In death as life? Are they resolved to dust, And have their country's marbles nought to say? Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust? LVII. Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, 3 ° Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; ■*■ Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore Their children's children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages; and the crown 32 Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine own. LVI II. Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 33 His dust, — and lies it not her great among, With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech? No; — even his tomb Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, 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 Caesar'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 ! honour'd sleeps The immortal exile; — Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and weeps. LX. What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 3 4 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 Tlian ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. LXI. There be more things to greet the heart and eyes In Arno's dome of art's most princely shrine, Where sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; There be more marvels yet — but not for mine; For I have been accustom'd to entwine My thoughts with nature rather in the fields, Than art in galleries : though a work divine Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields LXII. Is of another temper, and I roam By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter' d o'er, 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, beneath the fray, An earthquake reel'd unheededly away! 35 None felt stern nature rocking at his feet, And yawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! LXIV. The earth to them was as a rolling bark Which bore them to eternity; they saw The ocean round, 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 Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words. LXV. Far other scene is Thrasimene now; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Bent 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 wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. LXVI. But thou,CIitumnus! in thy sweetest wave 36 Of the most living crystal that was e'er The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! And most serene of aspect, and most clear; Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters, A mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters! LXVI I. And on thy happy shore a temple still, Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, Upon a mild declivity of hill, Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps The finny darter with the glittering scales, Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. LXVIII. Pass not unblest the genius of the place ! If through the air a zephyr more serene Win to the brow,'t is his ; and if ye trace Along his margin a more eloquent green, If on the heart the freshness of the scene Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust Of weary life a moment lave it clean With nature's baptism, — 't is to him ye must Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. LXIX. The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; The fall of waters! rapid as the light The 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 jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, LXX. And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, Is an eternal April to the ground, Making it all one emerald !— how profound The gulf! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent, With his fierce footsteps, yield m chasms a fearful vent LXXf. To the broad column which rolls on, and show* More like the fountain of an infant sea Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes Of a new world, than only thus to be Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,. With many windings, through the vale: — lookback! Lo! where it comes like an eternity, As if to sweep down all things in its track, Charming the eye with dread,— a matchless cataract, 3 ? LXXII. Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 38 Like hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. LXXUI. 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 3 9 — might be worshipp'd more; But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar Glaciers of bleak Mont-Blanc both far and near, And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, LXXIV. Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly Like spirits of the spot, as 't were for fame, For still they soar'd unutterably high : I 've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye; Alhos, Olympus, iEtna, Atlas, made These hills seem things of lesser dignity, All, save the lone Soracte's height, display'd Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid LXXV. For our remembrance, and from out the plain Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain May he, who will, his recollections rake And quote in classic raptures, and awake The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorr'd Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word 4° In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record LXXVI. Aught that recals 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 fix'd inveteracy wrought By the impatience of my early thought, That, witli the freshness wearing out before My mind could relish what it might have sought, If free to chuse, I cannot now restore Its health; but what rt 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, Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 7 6 BYRON'S WORKS. LXXV1II. Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of tlie heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye Whose agonies are evils of a day ! — • A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. LXXIX. The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless and crownless, ia her voiceless woe; An empty urn within her wither' d hands, Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; 4' The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress ! LXXX. The Goth, the Christian, time, war, flood, and fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hiU'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 Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, « here was, or is,» where all is doubly night? LXXXI. The double night of ages, and of her, Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap All round us; we but feel our way to err : The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, And knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap Our hands and cry « Eureka !» it is clear- When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. LXXXII. Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! The trebly hundred triumphs ?4 2 and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass. The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! Alas, forTully's voice, and Virgil's lay, And Livy's pictured page! — but these shall be Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. Alas, for earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! LXXXI II. Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on fortune's wheel, 43 Triumphant Sylla! thou who didst subdue Thy country's foes ere thou would pause to feel The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frown Annihilated senates — Roman, too, With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — LXXXIV. The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine To what would one day dwindle that which made Thee more than mortal? and that so supine By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? She who was named eternal, and array'd Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, Her rushing wings — Oh! she who was almighty hail'd ! LXXXV. Sylla was first of victors; but our own The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See What crimes it costs to be a moment free And famous through all ages! but beneath His fate the moral lurks of destiny; His day of double victory and death Beheld him win two realms,and, happier, yield his breath. LXXXVf. The third of the same moon whose former course Had all but crown'd him, on the self-same day Deposed him gently from his throne of force, And laid him with the earth's preceding clay.44 And show'd not fortune thus how fame and sway, And all we deem delightful, and consume Our souls to compass through each arduous way, Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom ! LXXXVII. And thou, dread statue! yet existent in The austerest form of naked majesty, 4* Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar 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 puppets of a scene? LXXXVIII. And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! 46 She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art, Thou standest : — mother of the mighty heart, Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, And thy limbs black with lightning— dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? LXXXIX. Thou dost;— but all thy foster^babes are dead — The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled In imitation of the things they fear'd, And fought and conquer'd, and thesame coursesteer'd, At apish distance; but as yet none have, Nor could the same supremacy have near'd, Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave — CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 77 XC. The fool of false dominion — and a kind Of bastard Caesar, following him of old With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould,47 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 the distaff now he seem'd At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beam'd, xcr. And came — and saw — and conquer'd! But the man Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be A listener to itself, was strangely 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 this the conqueror rears The arch of triumph! and for this the tears And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, An universal deluge which appears Without an ark for wretched man's abode, And ebbs but to reflow! — Renew thy rainbow, God! XCITI. What from this barren being do we reap? Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,4 8 Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, And all things weujh'd in custom's falsest scale; Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil Mantles the earth with darkness, until right And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale Lest their own judgments should become too bright, And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light. XCIV. And thus they plod in sluggish misery, R-otting from sire to son, and age to age, Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Requeathing their hereditary rage To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and, rather than be free, Rleed 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 between 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 l d, The edict of earth's rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud, And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. XGVI. Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, And freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? Or must such minds be uourish'd in the wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled On infant Washington? Has earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ? XCVII. But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, And dreadful have her Saturnalia been 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. XCVII1. Yet, freedom ! yet thy banner torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind: Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the north; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. XCIX. There is a stern round tower of other days,f9 Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army's baffled strength delays, Standing with half its battlements alone, And with two thousand years of ivy grown, The garland of eternity, where wave The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown : — What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's grave. 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? How lived — how loved — how died she? Was she not So honour'd — and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? CI. Was she as those who love their lords, or they Who love the lords of others? such have been, Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, Or the light air of 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. 7 8 BYRON'S WORKS. GIL Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom Heaven gives its favourites — early death ; 5 ° yet shed A sunset charm around her, and illume With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. cm. Perchance she died in age — surviving all, Charms, kindred, children — with the silver grey On her long tresses, which might yet recal, It may be, still a something of the day When they were braided, and her proud array And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed By Rome But whither would conjecture stray? Thus much alone we know — Metella died, The wealthiest Roman's wife ; behold his love or pride ! 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 me With recollected music, though the tone Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan Of dying thunder on the distant wind: Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone Till I had bodied forth the heated mind Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind ; CV. And from the planks far shatter'd o'er the rocks, Built me a little bark of hope, once more To battle with the ocean and the shocks Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar Which rushes on the solitary shore Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. CVI. Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony Shall henceforth be my music, and the night The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry, As I now hear them, in the fading light Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, Answering each other on the Palatine, With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright, And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs? — let me not number mine. CVII. Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower grown Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescos steep'd In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, Deeming it midnight: — temples, baths, or halls? Pronounce who can ; for all that learning reap'd From her research hath been, that these are walls — Behold the Imperial Mount ! 't is thus the mighty falls. 5 ' CVI 1 1. There is the moral of all human tales; 5z 'T is 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 one page,— 't is better written here, Where gorgeous tyranny had thus amass'd All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, Heart, soul, could seek, tongue ask— Away with words I 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 gew-gaws shining in the van, Tiil the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd! Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build ? CX. Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Thou nameless column with the buried base ! What are the laurels of the Ca?sar's brow ? Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, Titus', or Trajan's? No— 't is that of Time: Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, 53 CXI. Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, And looking to the stars : they had contain'd A spirit which with these would find a home, The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, But yielded back his conquests: — he was more Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore. 5 * CXII. Where is the rock of triumph, the high place Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep Tarpeian? fittest goal of treason's race, The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap Their spoils here? Yes : and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — The forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with Cicero! CXIII. The field of freedom, faction, fame, and b\< od: Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, From the first hour of empire in the bud To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd; But long before had freedom's face been veil'd, And anarchy assumed her attributes; Till every lawless soldier who assail'd Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 79 CXIV. Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — Rienzi! last of Romans! 5 5 While the tree Of freedom's wither' d trunk puts forth a leaf, Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — The forum's champion, and the people's chief — - Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas! too brief. cxv. Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 56 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thioe ideal breast; whate'er thou art Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, The nympholepsy of some fond despair; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. CXVI. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled W T ilh thine Elysian water-drops ; the face Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, Whose green, wild margins now no more erase Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep, Prison'd in marble; bubbling from the base Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o'er, and round, fern , flowers, and ivy creep, CXVII. Fantastically tangled; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass; Flowers, fresh in hue, and many in their class, Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its skies. CXVIII. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; The purple midnight veil'd that mystic meeting W T ith her most starry canopy, and seating Thyself by thine adorer, what befel? This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamour'd goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy love — the earliest oracle! CXIX. And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, Rlend a celestial with a human heart; And love, which dies, as it was born, in sighing, Share with immortal transports? could thine art Make them indeed immortal, and impart The purity of heaven to earthly joys, Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — The dull satiety which all destroys — And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys? cxx. Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert; whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison ; such the plants Which spring beneath her steps as passion flies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. CXXI. O love ! no habitant of earth thou art — An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, Even with its own desiring phantasy, And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied — wrung — and riven. CXXII. Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation : — where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone. Can nature show so fair? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men — The unreach'd paradise of our despair, Which o'erinforms the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it -would bloom again ? CXXIII. Who loves, raves — 't is youth's frenzy — but the cure Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's Ideal shape of such, yet still it binds The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Seems ever near the prize. — wealthiest when most un- done. CXX1V. We wither from our youth, we gasp away — Sick— sick; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — But all too late, — so are we doubly curs'd. Love, fame, ambition, avarice— 't is the same, Each idle— and all ill— and none the worst — For all are meteors with a different name, And death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. cxxv. Few— none— find what they love or could have loved, Though accideut, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed Antipathies, — but to recur, ere long, Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong; And circumstance, that unspiritual god And miscreator, makes and helps along Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, Whose touch turns hope to dust, — the dust we all have trod. So BYRON'S WORKS. cxxvr. Our life is a false nature— 't is not in The harmony cf things,— this hard decree, This uneradicable taint of sin, This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. CXXVII. Yet let us ponder boldly 5 7 — 't is a base Abandonment of reason to resign Our right of thought — our last and only place Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: Though from our birth the faculty divine Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine Too brightly on the unprepared mind, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. CXXVIII. Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would built up all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands; the moon-beams shine As 't were its natural torches, for divine Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long-explored but still exhaustless mine Of contemplation; and the azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume CXXIX. Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, And shadows forth its glory. There is given Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruin'd battlement, For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. CXXX. Time! the beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled — Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, Which never loses though it doth defer — Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift Illy hands, and eves, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: CXXXI. Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine And temple more divinely desolate, Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, Ruins of years— though few, yet full of fate : — If thou hast ever spen me too elate, Hear me not : but if calmly I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hate Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn? CXXXH. And thou, who never yet of human wrong Lost the unbalanced scale, great Nemesises Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long— >• Thou, who didst call the furies from the abyss, And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss For that unnatural retribution — just, Had it but been from hands less dear— in this Thy former realm, 1 call thee from the dust! Dost thou not hear my heart! — Awake! thou shalt, and must. CXXXIII. It is not that I may not have incurr'd For my ancestral faults or mine the wound I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound; But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; To thee I do devote it— thou shalt take The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, Which if / have not taken for the sake But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. CXXXIV. And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now I shrink from what is suffer'd: let him speak Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; But in this page a record will I seek. Not in the air shall these my words disperse, Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak, The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse ! cxxxv. That curse shall be forgiveness — Have I not— Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven!^ Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, Hope sapp'd, name blighted, life's life lied away? And only not to desperation driven, Because not altogether of such clay As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. CXXXVI. 1 From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy, Have I not seen what human things could do? From the loud roar of foaming calumny To the small whisper of the as paltry few, And subtler venom of the reptile crew, The Janus glance of whose significant eye, Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 1 The following stanza was written as the i36th, but afterwards suppressed: — If to forgive be heaping coals of fire. As God hath spoken, on the heads of foes, Mine should be a volcano, and rise higher Than o'er the Titans crush'd Olympus rose, Or Athos soars, or llazing ^Etna roars. True, they who stung were creeping things— but what Than serpents' teeth inflicts with deadlier throes? The lion may be goaded by the gnat : Who sucks the sluniberer's blood? the eagle?— no! the bat. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. CXXXVJI. But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, And my frame perish even in conquering pain, But there is that within me which shall tire Torture and time, and breathe when I expire; Something unearthly, which they deem not of, Like the remember'd tone of a mute lvre, Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. cxxxvnr. The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power! Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight h,our With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear That we become a part of what has been, And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. CXXXIX. And here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, As man was slaughter' d by his fellow man. And wherefore slaughter'd? wherefore ! but because Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not! What matters where we fall to fill the maws Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. CXL. I see before me the gladiator lie : 5 9 He leans upon his hand — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him — he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won. CXLT. He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay There were his young barbarians all at play, Tliere was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Boman holiday — 6o All this rush'd with his blood— Shall he expire, And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! CXLTI. But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam; And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; Here, where the Boman million's blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 6 ' My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint ravs On the arena void — seats crush'd— walls bow'd — And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. CXLT1I. A ruin— yet what ruin ! from its mass Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd? Alas! developed, opens 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. 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 And the low night-breeze waves along the air lne garland-forest, which the grev walls wear Like laurels on the bald first CaesaVs head 62 ' ^hen the light shines serene but doth not' glare, Then in this magic circle raise the dead • Heroes have trod this spot- 1 is on their dust ye tread. CXLV. « While stands the Coliseum, Borne shall stand 63 T\ hen falls the Coliseum, Borne shall fall ■ And when Borne falls-the world.» From our ow land Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wa j| In Saxon times, which we are wont to call Ancient; and these three mortal things are still On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; Borne 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 ; 6 4 Locking tranquillity, while falls or nods" Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods His way throngh thorns to ashes-glorious dome < Shalt thou not last? Time's scythe and tyrants' rods Shiver upon thee— sanctuary and home Of art and piety— Pantheon !— pride of Rome! CXLVH. Belie of nobler days, and noblest arts; Despoii'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads A holiness appealing to all hearts— To art a model ; and to him who treads Borne 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 honour'd forms, whose busts around them close. 65 CXLVIH. There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 66 What do T gaze on? Nothing: Look again! Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight Two insulated phantoms of the brain : It is not so ; I see them full and plain— An old man, and a female young and fair, Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar.— but what doth she there, With her unmanlled neck, and bosom white and bare? 1 1 HYRON'S WOliKS. CXLIX. Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, Where on the heart and from the heart we took Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leaves— What may the fruit be yet? I know not— Gain was Eve's. CL. But here youth offers to old age the food, The milk of his own gift :— it is her sire, To whom she renders back the debt of 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 Great nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Than Egypt's river:— from that gentle side Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds no such tide. CLT. The starry fable of the milky way Has not thy story's purity ; it is A constellation of a sweeter ray, And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds:— Oh, holiest nurse ! No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. CHI. Turn to the mole which Adrian rear'd on high, 6 7 Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 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. But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, 68 To which Diana's marvel was a eel! — Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb! I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell The hyJBiia and the jackall in their shade ; I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd lis sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd; CL1V. But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. Since Zion's desolation, when that He Forsook his former city, what could be, Of earthly structures in his honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled Fn 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 Mis Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. CLVI. Thou movest— but increasing with the advance, Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; Yastness which grows — but grows to harmonize — All musical in its immensities : Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies In air with earth's chief structures, though their frame Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must claim. CLVII. Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break, To separate contemplation, the great whole; And as the ocean many bays will make, Tiiat ask the eye — so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart Its eloquent proportions, and unroll Jn mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, CLV1H. Not by its fault — but thine : our outward sense Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is Jhat what we have of feeling most intense Outstrips our faint expression; even so this Outshining and overwhelming edifice Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, Defies at first our nature's littleness, Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. CLIX. Then pause, and be enlightened ; there is more In such a survey than the sating gaze Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore The worship of the place, cr the mere praise Of art and its great masters, who could raise What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan ; The fountain of sublimity displays Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. CLX. Or, turning to the Vatican, go see Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — A father's love and mortal's agony With an immortal's patience blending: — vain The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepeniug of the dragon's grasp, The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chaiu Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles ga s p on gasp. CPIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. S3 CLXI. Or view the Lord of the unerring how, The God of life, and poesy, and light — The sun in human limhs arrayed, 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 the deity. CLxu. Rut in his delicate form — a dream of love, Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast Long'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 unearthly mood, When each conception was a heavenly guest — A ray of immortality — and stood, Star-like, around, until they gather'd to a god! CLXIII. 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 bands, is not of human thought; And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust — nor bath it. caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 't was wrought. CLXIV. But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, The being who upheld it through the past? Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. He is no more — these breathings are his last ; His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, And he himself as nothing: if he was Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd With forms which live and suffer — let that pass— r His shadow fades away into destruction's mass, CLXV. Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all That we inherit in its mortal shroud, And spreads the dim and universal pall Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud 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, CLXVf. 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 io 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 sootli that once we bore These fardels of the heart— the heart whose sweat was gore. GLXVU. 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 the rending ground, The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. CLXVHT. 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 The present happiness and promised joy Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. CLXIX. Peasants bring forth iu safety. — Can it be, O thou that wert so happy, so adored ! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for One; for she had pour'd Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead! CLXX. Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : iu the dust The fair-hair d daughter of the isles is laid, The love of millions ! How we did entrust Futurity to her! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd Our children should obey her child, and bless'd Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes: — 't was but a meteor beam'd. CLXXI. Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : The fickle wreath of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the fnlse oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate Which tumbles mightiestsovereigus, 6 9andhath flung Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the 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 stprn moment tear! From thy sire's to his humblest subject's breast Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. 8, BYRON'S WORKS. CLXxm. Lo, Nemi!7° navell'd in the woody hills So far, that the uprooting wind, which tears The oak from his foundation, and which spills The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares The oval mirror of thy glassy lake : And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears A deep cold settled aspect 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 Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight The Sabine farm was till'd — the weary bard's delight. 7 ' 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 fi'iend of youth, that ocean, which when we beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roll'd CLXXVI. Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — Long, though not very many, since have done Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears Have left us nearly where we had begun: Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, We have had our reward — and it is here ; That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As it there were no man to trouble what is clear. CLXXVII. Oh! that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her ! 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. CLXXVI II. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods^ There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar : I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. CLXXIX. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Mau marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore.- — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unkneli'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. CLXXX. His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. CLXXXI. The armaments which thunder-strike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. CLXXXII. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. CLXXXTII. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving;— bouudless, endless, and sublime— The image of eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. CLXXXIV. And I have loved thee, ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — 't was a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee. And trusted to thy billows far and near. And laid my hand upon thy mane— as I do here. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 85 CLXXXV. My task is done— my song hath ceased— my theme Has died into an echo; it is fit The spell should break of this protracted dream. The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit My midnight lamp— and what is writ, is writ,— Would it were worthier! but I am not now That which I have been — and my visions flit — Less palpably before me— and the glow IThich in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. GLXXXVI. Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — A sound which makes us linger, — yet — farewell ! Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain He wore his sandal-shoou, and scallop-shell; Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, : such there were — with you, the moral of his strain. NOTES. CANTO I. Note i. Stanza i. Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine. The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock : « One,» said the guide, « of a king who broke his neck hunting.^ His Majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cow-house. On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monas- tery; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and ap- parently leading to the interior of the mountain: pro- bably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the « Dews of Castalie.» Note 2. Stanza xx. And rest ye at u our Lady's house of woe.. The convent of «Our Lady of Punishment,» Nossa Senora tie Pena, * on the summit of the rock. Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St Ho- norius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view. Note 3. Stanza xxi. Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life. It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809, the assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity 1 Since the publication of this poem I hare been informed of tli misapprehension of the term Nbssa Senora de Pena. It was owing to the want of the tilde, or mark orer the n, which alters the sig- nification of the word: with it, Pena signifies a rock; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted. I do not think it necessary to alter the passage, as, though the common acceptation affixed to it is « our Lady of the Rock,» I may well assume the other sense, from the severities practised there. were not confined by the Portuguese to their country- men, but that Englishmen were daily butchered: and, so far from redress being obtained, we were requested not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defend- ing himself against his allies. I was once stopped in the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were not more empty than they gene- rally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend; had we not fortunately been armed, I have not the least doubt that we should have adorned a tale instead of telling one. The crime of assassination is not confined to Portugal: in Sicily and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever punished! Note 4- Stanza xxiv. Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! The convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies of Cintra. He has, indeed, done wonders: he has perhaps changed the character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his predecessors. Note 5. Stanza xxix. Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. The extent of Mafra is prodigious; it contains a pa- lace, convent, and most superb church. The six organs are the most beautiful f ever beheld in point of deco- ration : we did not hear them, but were told that their tones were correspondent to their splendour. Mafra is termed the Escurial of Portugal. Note 6. Stanza xxxiii. Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized tbem. That they are since improved, at least in cou- rage, is evident. Note 7. Stanza xxxv. When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band That dyed thy nioonta n streams with Gothic gore ? Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pela- gius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after some centuries, completed their struggle by the con- quest of Grenada. Note 8. Stanza xlviii. Xo'. as he speeds, he chaunts: — « Viva el Rey!» «Viva el Rey Fernando !» — Long live King Ferdi- nand! is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs : they are chiefly in dispraise of the old King Charles, the Oueen, and the Prince of Peace. I have heard many of them; some of the airs are beautiful. Godoy, the Principe de In Paz, was born at Uadajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, etc. etc. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country. Note 9. Stanza 1. Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. The red cockade, with « Fernando Sep timo» in the centre. 86 BYRON'S WORKS. Note 10. Stanza li. The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match. All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyra- midal form in which shot and shells are piled. The Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile through which I passed in my way to Seville. Note ii. Stanza lvi. Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall. Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. When the author was at Seville she walked daily on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by command of the Junta. Note 12. Stanza lviii. The seal love's dimpling finger hath impressed Denotes how soft that thin that bears his touch. uSigilla in mento impressa amoris digitulo Vestigio demonstrant inollitudinem.» — Auu. Gel. Note 1 3. Stanza lx. Oh, thou Parnassus! These stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), at the foot of Parnassus, now called Aix/.jpu — Liakura. Note 14. Stanza Ixv. Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days. Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. Note i5. Stanza Ixx. Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why? This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the best situation for asking and answering such a question ; not as the birth-place of Pindar, but as the capital of Bneotia, where the first riddle was propounded and solved. Note 16. Stanza lxxxii. Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. « Medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat.* — Luc. Note 17. Stanza Ixxxv. A traitor only fell beneath the feud. Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the Governor of Cadiz. Note 18. Stanza Ixxxvi. u War even to the knife!" « War to the knife ;» Palafox's answer to the French General at the siege of Saragoza. Note 19. Stnnza xci. And thou, rny friend ! etc. The honourable I*, W** of the Guards, who died of a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. In the short space of one month I have lost her 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 till'd 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 honours, against the ablest candidates, than those of any graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently established his fame on the spot where it was acquired, while his softer qualities live in the recol- lection of friends who loved him too well to envy his superiority. CANTO II. Note 1. Stanza i. —despite of war and wasting fire— Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion of a magazine during the Venetian siege. Note 2. Stanza i. 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 polished breasts bestow. We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are beheld; the reflections suggested by such objects are too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his country, appear more conspicuous than in the record of what Athens was, and the certainty of what she 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 disturbance, between the bickering agents of certain British nobility and gentry. « The wild foxes, the owls, and serpents in the ruins of Babylon, » were surely less degrading 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 Par- thenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of each succeeding firman! 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 destruction in part, by fire, during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, and a mosque. In each point of view it is an object of regard: it changed its worshippers; but still it was a place of worship thrice sacred to devotion: its violation is a triple sacrilege. But u Man, vain man, Drest in a little brief authority, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As make the angels weep.n Note 3. Stanza v. Far on the solitary shore he sleeps. Tt 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 gods after their decease, and he was indeed neglected who had not an- nual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, etc., and at last even Antinous, whose death was as heroic as his life was infamous. Note 4- Stanza x. Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne. The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen columns entirely of marble yet survive: originally there were i5o. These columns, however, are by many sup- posed to have belonged to the Pantheon. Note 5. Stanza xi. And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 8' Note 6. Stanza xii. To rive What Goih, and Turk, and lime bath spared. At this moment (January 3, 1809), besides what has been already deposited in London, an Hydriot vesseJ is in the Piraeus to receive every portable relic. Thus, as I heard a young Greek observe, in common with many of his countrymen — for, lost as they are, they yet feel on this occasion — thus may Lord Elgin boast of having ruined Athens. An Italian painter of the first eminence, named Lusieri, is the agent of devastation; and, like the Greek finder of Verres in Sicily, who followed the same profession, he has proved the able instrument of plun- der. Between this artist and the French consul Fauvel. -who wishes to rescue the remains for his own govern- ment, there is now a violent dispute concerning a car employed in their conveyance, the wheel of which — I wisii they were both broken upon it — has been locked up by the consul, and Lusieri has laid his complaint before the Waywode. Lord Elgin has been extremely happy in his choice of Signor Lusieri. During a re- sidence of ten years in Athens, he never had the curio- sity to proceed as far as Suuium, 1 till he accompanied us in our second excursion. However, his works, as far as they go, are most beautiful : but they are almost all unfinished. While he and his patrons confine them- selves to tasting medals, appreciating cameos, sketching columns, and cheapening gems, their little absurdities are as harmless as insect or fox-hunting, maiden- speechifying, barouche-driving, or any such pastime; but when they carry away three or four ship-loads of the most valuable and massy relics that time and bar- barism have left to the most injured and most cele- brated of cities; when they destroy, in a vain attempt to tear down, those works which have been the admi- ration of ages, 1 know no motive which can excuse, no name which can designate, the perpetrators of this dastardly devastation. It was not the least of the crimes laid to the charge of Verres, that he had plundered Sicily, in the manner since imitated at Athens. The most unblushing impudence could hardly go further than to affix the name of its plunderer to the walls of 1 Xow Cape Colonna. In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Marathon, there is no scene more interesting than Cape Colonna. To the antiquaryand artist sixteen columnsare an inexhaustiblesouroe of observation and design ; to the philosopher, the supposed scene of some of Plato's conversations will not be unwelcome ; and the travel- ler will be struck with the beauty of the prospect over « Isles thai crown thesEyean deep;' but for an Englishman, Colonna has yet an additional interest, as the actual spot of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten in ihe recollection of Falconer and Campbell : k Here in the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, The seaman's cry was heard along the deep.™ This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great distance. In two journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna, the view from either side, by land, was less sinking than the approach from the isles. In our second land excursion, we had a narrow escape from a party of Mainotes, concealed in the cavernsbeneath. We were told afterwards, by one of their prisoners subsequently ransomed, that they were deterred from attacking us by the ap- pearance of my two Albanians: conjecturing very sagaciously, but falsely, that we had a complete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, they remained stationary, and thus saved our party, which was too small to have opposed any effectual resistance. Colonna is no less a resort of painters than of pirates ; there u The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, And makes degraded nature picturesque." (See Hodgson's Lady Jane Grey, etc.) But there nature, wilh the aid of art, has done that for herself.— I was fortunate enough to engage a very superior German artist ; and hope to renew my acquaintance wilh this and many other Le- vantine scenes, by the arrival of his performances. 1 the Acropolis; while the wanton and useless deface- ment of the whole range of the basso-relievos, in one compartment of the temple, will never permit that name to be pronounced, by an observer, without exe- cration. On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a col- lector or admirer of collections, consequently no rival; but I have some early prepossessions in favour of Greece, and do not think the honour of England advanced by plunder, whether of India or Attica. Another noble Lord has done better, because he has done less : but some others, more or less noble, yet « all honourable men,» have done best, because, after a deal of excavation and execration, bribery to the Waywode, mining and countermining, they have done nothing at all. We had such ink-shed, and wine-shed, which almost ended in blood-shed! Lord E.'s « prig,» — see Jonathan Wylde for the definition of « priggism,» — quarrelled with another, Gropius > byname (a very good I name too for his business), and muttered something j about satisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of the i poor Prussian: this was stated at table to Gropius, who ( laughed, but could eat no dinner afterwards. The rivals were not reconciled when I left Greece. I have j reason to remember their squabble, for thev wanted to make me their arbitrator. Note 7. Stanza xii. Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard. Vet felt some portion of their mother's pains. 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 tenfold weight to my testimony, to insert the following extract from a very obliging letter of his to me, as a note to the above lines : « When the last of the metopes was taken from the Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the super- structure with one of the triglvphs was thrown down by ihe 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 supplicat- ing tone of voice, said to Lusieri, T£A©s ! — I was present. » The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present Disdar. Note 8. Stanza xiv. Where was thine aegis, Pallas', that appall'd Stern Alaric and havoc on their way? According to Zozimus, Minerva and Achilles fright- ened Alaric from the Acropolis; but others relate that the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scot- tish peer. — See Chandler. Note 9. Stanza xviii. the netted canopv. The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from fall- ing on deck during action. 1 This Sr Gropius was employed by a noble Lord for the sole purpose of sketching, in which he excels ; but I am sorry to say, that he has, through the abused sanction of that most respectable name, been treading at a humble distance in the steps of Sr Lusieri. A shipful of his trophies was detained, and, I believe, confiscated at Constantin- ople in 1810. I am most happy to be now enabled to state, that * this wasnot in his bond ;» lhathe was employed solely asapainter, and that his noble patron disavows all connexion with him, except as an artist. If the error in the first and second edition of this poem has given the noble Lord a moment's pain, I am very sorry for it ; Sr Gropius has assumed for years the name of his agent ; and, though I cannot much condemn myself for sharing in the mistake of so many, lam happy in being one of the first to be undeceived. Indeed, I have as much pleasure in contradicting this as I felt regret instating it. . I 88 BYRON'S WORKS. Note 10. Stanza xxix. But nol in silence pass Calypso's isles. Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. Note i J. Stanza xxxviii. Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes On thee, thou ru{j(jed nurse of savage men ! Albania comprises part of Macedonia, lllyria, Chaonia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish word for Alexan- der; and the celebrated Scanderbeg (Lord Alexander) is alluded to in the third and fourth lines of the thirty- eighth stanza. I do not know whether lam correct in making Scanderbeg the countryman of Alexander, who was born at Pella in Macedon, but Mr Gibbon terms him so, and adds Pyrrhus to the list, in speaking of his exploits. Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country « within sight of Italy is less known than the interior of Ame- rica. « Circumstances, of little consequence to men- tion, led Mr Hobhouse and myself into that country before we visited any other part of the Ottoman domi- nions , and with the exception of Major Leake, then officially resident at Joanuina, no other Englishmen have ever advanced beyond the capital into the interior, as that gentleman very lately assured me. Ali Pacha was at that time (October, 1S09) carrying on war against Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to Herat, a strong fortress which he was then besieging: on our arrival at Joanuina we were invited to Tcpaleni, his Highness's birth-place, and favourite Serai, only one day's distance from Berat; at this juncture the Vizier had made it his head-quarters. After some stay in the capital, we accordingly fol- lowed ; but though furnished with every accommoda- tion, and escorted by one of the Vizier's secretaries, we were nine days (on accouut of the rains) in accomplish- ing a journey which, on our return, barely occupied four. On our route we passed two cities, Argyrocastro and Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina in size , and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to the scenery in the vicinity of Zitza aud Delvinachi, the frontier vil- lage of Epirus and Albania Proper. On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to descant, because this will be done so much better by my fellow-traveller, in a work which may probably precede this in publication, that I as little wish to follow as I would to anticipate him. But some few observa- tions are necessary to the text. The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in dress, figure, and manner of living. Their very mountains seemed Caledonian, with a kinder climate. The kilt, though white; the spare, active form; their dialect, Celtic in its sound, and their hardy habits, all carried me back to Morveu. No nation are so detested and dreaded by their neighbours as the Albanese : the Greeks hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turks as Mos- lems; and in fact they are a mixture of both, and some- times neither. Their habits are predatory : all are armed; and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montene- grins, Chimariots, and Gegdes, are treacherous; the others differ somewhat in garb, and essentially in cha- racter. As far as my own experience goes, I can speak favourably. I was attended by two, an Infidel and a Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other part of Turkey which came within my observation; and more faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service, are rarely to be found. The Inlidel was named Basilius, the Mos- lem, Dervish Tahiri; the former a man of middle age, and the latter about my own. Basili was strictly charged by Ali Pacha in person to attend us; and Der- vish was one of fifty who accompanied us through the forests of Acarnania to the banks of Achelous, and on- ward to Messaluughi iu iEtolia. There I took him into my own service, and never had occasion to repent it till the moment of my departure. When in 1810, after the departure of my friend Mr II. for England, I was seized with a severe fever in the Morea, these men saved my life by frightening away my physician, whose throat they threatened to cut if I was not cured within a given time. To this consola- tory assurance of posthumous retribution, and a reso- lute refusal of Dr Bomanelli's prescriptions, I attributed my recovery. I had left my last remaining English servant at Athens; my dragoman was as ill as myself, aud my poor Arnaouts nursed me with an attention which would have done honour to civilization. They had a variety of adventures ; for the Moslem, Dervish, being a remarkably handsome man, was al- ways squabbling with the husbands of Athens; inso- much that four of the principal Turks paid me a visit of remonstrance at the Convent, on the subject of his havingtaken a woman from the bath — whom he had law- fully bought however — a thing quite contrary to etiquette. liasili also was extremely gallant amongst ins own persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the church, mixed with the highest contempt of church- men, whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most hetero- dox manner. Yet he never passed a church without crossing himself; and I remember the risk he ran in entering St Sophia, in Stambol, because it had once been a place of his worship. On remonstrating with him on his inconsistent proceedings, he invariably an- swered, « our church is holy, our priests are thieves;» and then he crossed himself as usual, aud boxed the ears of the first «papas» who refused to assi-t in any required operation, as was always found to be neces- sary where a priest had any influence with the Cogia liashi of his village. Indeed a more abandoned race of miscreants cannot exist than the lower orders of the Greek clergy. When preparations were made for my return, my Albauians were summoned to receive their pay. Basili took his with an awkward show of regret at my in- tended departure, and marched away to his quarters with his bag of piastres. I sent for Dervish, but for some time he was not to be found; at last he entered, just as Signer Logotheli, father to the ci-devant Anglo- consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek ac- quaintances, paid me a visit. Dervish took the money, but on a sudden dashed it to the ground ; and clasping his hands, which he raised to his forehead, rushed out of the room weeping bitterly. From that moment to the hour of my embarkation, he continued his lamen- tations, and all our efforts to console him only pro- duced this answer, « M' oupstV£l,» « He leaves me.» Sig- nor Logotheti, who never wept before for any thing less than the loss of a para, » melted ; the padre of the convent, my attendants, my visitors — and I verily be- lieve that even « Sterne's foolish fat scullion» would have left her « fish-kettle» to sympathize with the un- affected and unexpected sorrow of this barbarian. 1 Para, about tbe fourth of a farthingh. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 89 For my own part, when I remembered that, a short time before my departure from England, a noble and most intimate associate had excused himself from tak- ing leave of me, because he had to attend a relation « to a milliner's, » I felt no less surprised than humi- liated by the present occurrence and the past recollec- tion. That Dervish would leave me with some regret was to be expected : when master and man have been scrambliug over the mountains of a dozen provinces to- gether, they are unwilling to separate ; but his present feelings, contrasted with his native ferocity, improved my opinion of the human heart. I believe this almost feudal fidelity is frequent amongst them. One day, on our journey over Parnassus, an Englishman in my ser- vice gave him a push in some dispute about the bag- gage, which he unluckily mistook for a blow; he spoke not, but sat down, leaning his head upon his hands. Foreseeing the consequences, we endeavoured to ex- plain away the affront, which produced the following answer: — «I have been a robber, I am a soldier; no captain ever struck me ; you are my master, I have eaten your bread ; but by that bread! (a usual oath) had it been otherwise, I would have stabbed ihe dog your ser- vant, and gone to the mountains. » So the affair ended, but from that day forward he never thoroughly forgave the thoughtless fellow who insulted him. Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjec- tured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic: be that as it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful agility. It is very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull round-about of the Greeks, of which our Athenian party had so many specimens. The Albanians in general (I do not mean the culti- vators of the earth in the provinces, who have also that appellation, but the mountaineers) have a fine cast of countenance; and the most beautiful women I ever be- held, in stature and in features, we saw levelling the road broken down by the torrents between Delvinachi and Libochabo. Their manner of walking is truly the- atrical, but this strut is probably the effect of the ca- pote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their long hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their cou- rage in desultory warfare is unquestionable. Though they have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never saw a good Arnaout horseman: my own preferred the En- glish saddles, which, however, they could never keep. But on foot they are not to be subdued by fatigue. Note 1 2. Stanza xxxix. and pass'd the barren spot Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave. Ithaca. Note 1 3. Stanza xl. Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar. 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 of Don Quixote lost his left hand. Note 14. Stanza xli. And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown her- self. Note i5. Stanza xlv. many a Roman chief and Asian king. It is said, that on the day previous to the battle of Actium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. Note 16. Stanza xlv. Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose! Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippo- drome survives in a few fragments. Note 17. Stanza xlvii. Acherusia's lake. According to Pouqueville, the Lake of Yanina; but Pouqueville is always out. Note 18. Stanza xlvii. To greet Albania's chief. The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Travels. Note 19. Stanza xlvii. • Yet here and there some daring mountain band Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the castle of Suli, withstood 3o,ooo Albanians for eighteen years: the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this contest there were several acts performed not unworthy of the better days of Greece. Note 20. Stanza xlviii. Monastic Zitza, etc. The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' jour- ney from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pa- cini! ick. In the valley the river Kalamas (once the Ache- ron) flows, and, not far from Zitza, forms a fine cataract. The situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, though the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acarnania and vEtolia may contest the palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonnaand Port Raphti, are very inferior; as also every scene in Ionia or the Troad: I am almost inclined to add the approach to Constanti- nople; but, from the different features of the last, a comparison can hardly be made. Note 21. Stanza xlix. Here dwells the caloyer. The Greek monks are so called. Note 22. Stanza li. Nature's volcanic amphitheatre. The Chimariot mountains appear to have been vol- canic. Note 23. Stanza li. behold black Acheron ! Now called Kalamas. Note 24. Stanza Hi. in his white capote — Albanese cloak. Note 2o. Stanza lv. The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit. Anciently Mount Tomarus. Note 26. Stanza lv. And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by. The river Laos was full at the time the author passed it ; and, immediately above Tepaleen, was to the eye as 9° BYRON'S WORKS. ■wide as the Thames at Westminster; at least in the opinion of the author and his fellow-traveller, Mr Hob- house. In the summer it must be much narrower. It certainly is the finest river in the Levant: neither Ache- loiis, Alpheus, Acheron, Scamander, nor Cayster, ap- proached it in breadth or beauty. Note 27. Stanza Ixvi. And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof. Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. Note 28. Stanza lxxi. the red wine circling fast. The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, and indeed very few of the others. Note 29. Stanza lxxi. Each Palikar his sabre from him cast. Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, from Ualuckpi, a general name for a soldier amongst the Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic — it means properly «a lad.» Note 3o. Stanza Ixxii. While thus in concert, etc. As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of the lllyric, I here insert two of their most popular choral songs, which are generally chaunted in dancing by men or women indiscriminately. The first words are merely a kind of chorus, without meaning, like some in our own and all other languages. Bo, Ho, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; Naciarura, popuso. be thou silent. Naciai ura na civin I come, I run ; open the Ha pe uderini ti bin. door that I may enter. Ha pe uderi escrotini Open the door by halves, Ti vin ti mar servetini. that I may take my tur- ban. Caliriote me surme Ea ha pe pse dua tive. Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Gi egem spirta esimiro. Caliriote vu le funde Ede vete tunde tunde. Caliriote me surme Ti mi put e poi mi le. Se ti puta citi mora Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. Va le ni il che cadale Celo more, more celo. Phi hari ti tireti Plu huron cia pra seti. Caliriotes' with the dark eyes, open the gate that I may enter, Lo, lo, I hear thee, my soul. An Arnaout girl, in costly garb, walks with grace- ful pride. Caliriot maid of the dark eyes, give me a kiss. If I have kissed thee, what hast thou gained ? My soul is consumed with fire. Dance lightly, more gently, and gently still. Make not so much dust to destroy your embroider- ed hose. The last stanza would puzzle a commentator : the men have certainly buskins of the most beautiful texture, but the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be ad- dressed) have nothing under their little yellow boots < The Albanese, particularly the women, are frequently termed u Caliriotes ;» for what reason I inquired in -vain. and slippers but a well-turned and sometimes very white ancle. The Arnaout girls are much handsomer than the Greeks, and their dress is far more picturesque. They preserve their shape much longer also, from being al- ways in the open air. It is to be observed that the Arnaout is not a written language ; the words of this song, therefore, as well as the one which follows, are spelt according to their pronunciation. They are copied by one who speaks and understands the dialect perfectly, and who is a native of Athens. Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa I am wounded by thy love, Vettimi upri vi lofsa. and have loved but to scorch myself. Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse Thou hast consumed me! Si mi rini mi la vosse. Ah, maid ! thou hast struck me to the heart. Uti tasa roba stua I have said I wish no dow- Sitti eve tulati dua. ry but thine eyes and eye-lashes. Roba stinori ssidua The accursed dowry I want Qu mi sini vetti dua. not, but thee only. Ourmini dua civileni Give me thy charms, and Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. let the portion feed the flames. Utara pisa vaisisso me simi I have loved thee, maid, rin ti hapti with a sincere soul, but Eti mi hire a piste si gui thou hast left me like a dendroi tiltati. withered tree. Udi vura udorini udiri ci- If I have placed my hand cova cilti mora on thy bosom, what have Udorini talti hollua u ede I gained? my hand is caimona mora. withdrawn, but retains the flame. I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a differ- ent measure, ought to belong to another ballad. An idea something similar to the thought in the last lines was expressed by Socrates, whose arm having come in contact with one of his « bnoy.o'Xnioi, » Crkobulus or Cleobulus, the philosopher complained of a shooting pain as far as his shoulder for some days after, and therefore very properly resolved to teach his disciples in future without touching them. Note 3i. Song, stanza 1. Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! thy 'larum afar, etc. These stanzas are partly taken from different Alba- nese songs, as far as I was able to make them out by the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic'and Italian. Note 32. Song, stanza 8. Remember the moment when Previsa fell. It was taken by storm from the French. Note 33. Stanza lxxiii. Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth, etc. Some thoughts on this subject will be found in the subjoined papers. Note 34- Stanza Ixxiv. Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train. Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, has still considerable remains: it was seized by Thrasy- bulus previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 9 1 Note 35. Stanza lxxvii. Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest. When taken by the Latins and retained for several years. — See Gibbox. Note 36. Stanza lxxvii. The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. Note 37. Stanza Ixxxv. Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow — On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the in- tense heat of the summer; but I never saw it lie on the plains, even in winter. Note 38. Stanza Ixxxvi. Save where some solitary column mourns Above its prostrate brethren of the cave. Of Blount Pentelicus_, from whence the marble was dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will till the end of time. Note 39. Stanza Ixxxix. When Marathon became a magic word — « Siste, viator — heroa calcas!» was the epitaph on the famous Count Merci ; — what then must be our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The prin- cipal barrow has recently been opened by Fauvel ; few or no relics, as vases, etc., were found by the excava- tor. The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine hundred pounds! Alas! — « Expende — quot libras in duce summo— invenies?»— was the dust of Miltiades worth no more? it could scarcely have fetched less if sold by vjeiglit. PAPERS REFERRED TO BY NOTE 33. I. Before I say any thing about a city of which every body, traveller or not, lias thought it necessary to say something, I will request Miss Owenson, when she next borrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to have the goodness to marry her to somebody more of a gentleman than a «Disdar Aga» (who by the by is not an Aga), the most impolite of petty officers, the greatest patron of larceny Athens ever saw (except Lord E.), and the unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a handsome annual stipend of 100 piastres (eight pounds sterling), out of which he has only to pay his garrison, the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regulated Otto- man Empire. 1 speak it tenderly, seeing I was once the cause of the husband of « Ida of Athens » nearly suffering the bastinado; and because the said « Disdar» is a turbulent husband, and beats his wife, so that I exhort and beseech Miss Owenson to sue for a separate maintenance in behalf of « Ida.» Having premised thus much, on a matter of such import to the readers of romances, I may now leave Ida, to mention her birth- place. Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those associations which it would be pedantic and super- fluous to recapitulate, the very situation of Athens would render it the favourite of all who have eyes for art or nature. The climate, to me at least, appeared a perpetual spring ; during eight months I never passed a clay without being as many hours on horseback; rain is extremely rare, snow never lies in the plains, and a cloudy day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, Portugal, and every part of the east which I visited, except Ionia and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of climate to our own; and at Constantinople, where I passed May, June, and part of July (iSto), you might « damn the climate, and complain of spleen, » five days out of seven. The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but the moment you pass the isthmus in the direction of Megara, the change is strikingly perceptible. But I fear Hesiod will still be found correct in his description of a Boeotian winter. We fouud at Livadia an « esprit fort » in a Greek bishop, of all free-thinkers! This worthy hypocrite rallied his own religion with great intrepidity (but not j before his flock), and talked of a mass as a « coglio- I neria.» It was impossible to think belter of him for this: but, for a Boeotian, he was brisk with all his ab- surdity. This phenomenon (with the exception indeed of Thebes, the remains of Chaeronea, the plain of Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of Trophonius), was the only remarkable tiling we saw before we passed Mount Cithreron. The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least, my com- panion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly and clas- sical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of Dirce, and any body who thinks it worth while may contradict him. At Castri we drank of half a dozen streamlets, some not of the purest, before we decided to our satisfaction which was the true Castalian, and even that had a villanous twang, probably from the snow, though it did not throw us into an epic fever like poor Dr Chandler. From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still exist, the plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymettus, the jEgean, and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once ; in my opinion, a more glorious prospect than even Cintra or Istambol. Not the view from the Troad, with Ida, the Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can equal it, though so superior in extent. I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but, except- ing the view from the monastery of Megaspelion (which is inferior to Zitza in a command of country), and the descent from the mountains on the way from Tripolitza to Argos, Arcadia has little to recommend it beyond the name. u Sternitur, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos. » Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none but an Argive; and (with reverence be it spoken) it does not deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices of Sta- tius, « In mediis audit duo littora campis,» did actually hear both shores in crossing the isthmus of Corinth, he had better ears than have ever been worn in such a journey since. « Athens,» says a celebrated topographer, « is still the most polished city of Greece. » Perhaps it may of Greece, but not of the Greeks ; for Joanniua, in Epirus, is universally allowed, amongst themselves, to be supe- rior in the wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect of its inhabitants. The Athenians are remarkable for 9 2 BYRON'S WORKS. their cunning; and the lower orders are not impro- perly characterized in that proverb, which classes them ■with « the Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of the Negro. pont.» Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, etc., there was never a difference of opinion in their estimate of the Greek character, though on all other topics they dis- puted with great acrimony. M. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed thirty years principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an artist, and manners as a gentleman, none who have known him can refuse their testimony, has frequently declared in my hearing, that the Greeks do not deserve to be emancipated: reasoning on the grounds of their « national and individual depravity,» while he forgot that such depravity is to be attributed to causes which can only be removed by the measure he reprobates. M. Roque, a French merchant of respectability long settled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing gra- vity: «Sir, they are the same canaille that existed in the days of Tkemistocles!* an alarming remark to the « laudator temporis acti.» The ancients banished The- mistocles; the moderns cheat Monsieur Roque: thus great men have ever been treated ! In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, etc., of passage, came over by degrees to their opinion, on much the same grounds that a Turk in England would condemn the nation by wholesale, because he was wronged by his lacquey, and overcharged by his washerwoman. Certainly it was not a little staggering when the Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues of the day, who divide between them the power of Pericles, and the popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the poor Waywode with perpetual differences, agreed in the utter condemnation, w nulla virtute redemtum,» of the Greeks in general, and of the Athenians in par- ticular. For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it, knowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. no less than five tours of the first magnitude and of the most threatening aspect, all in typographical array, by per- sons of wit, and honour, and regular common-place books: but, if I may say this without offence, it seems to me rather hard to declare so positively and pertina- ciously, as almost every body has declared, that the Greeks, because they are very bad, will never be better. Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their pane- gyrics and projects; but, on the other hand, de Pauw and Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their demerits. The Greeks will never be independent; they will never be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid they ever should', but they maybe subjects without being slaves. Our colonies are not independent, but they are free and industrious, and such may Greece be here- after. At present, like the Catholics of Ireland, and the Jews throughout the world, and such other cudgelled and heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and physical ills that can afflict humanity. Their life is a struggle against truth; they are vicious in their own defence. They are so unused to kindness, that when they occasionally meet with it they look upon it with suspicion, as a dog often beaten snaps at your fingers if you attempt to caress him. « They are ungrateful, notoriously, abominably ungrateful! » — this is the ge- neral cry. Now, in the name of Nemesis! for what are they to be grateful ? Where is the human being that ever conferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks? They are to be grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and to the Franks for their broken promises and lying counsels. They are to be grateful to the artist who engraves their ruins, and to the antiquary who carries them away: to the traveller whose janissary flogs ihern, and to the scribbler whose journal abuses them? This is the amount of their obligations to foreigners. II. Franciscan Convent, Athens, January 23, 1811. Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of the earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which yet exist in different countries; whose inhabitants, however di- vided in religion and manners, almost all agree in op- pression. The English have at last compassionated their ne- groes, and under a less bigoted government, may pro- bably one day release their Catholic brethren: but the interposition of foreigners alone can emancipate the Greeks, who, otherwise, appear to have as small a chance of redemption from the Turks as the Jews have from mankind in general. Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough ; at least the younger men of Europe devote much of their time to the study of the Greek writers and history, which would be more usefully spent in mastering their own. Of the moderns we are perhaps more neglectful than they deserve; and while every man of any preten- sions to learning is tiring out his youth, and often his age, in the study of the language and of the harangues of the Athenian demagogues in favour of freedom; the real or supposed descendants of these sturdy repub- licans are left to the actual tyranny of their masters, although a very slight effort is required to strike off their chains. To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their rising again to their pristine superiority, would be ridiculous; as the rest of the world must resume its barbarism, after re-asserting the sovereignty of Greece : but there seems to be no very great obstacle, except in the apathy of the Franks, to their becoming a useful dependency, or even a free state with a proper guarantee;— under correction, however, be it spoken, for many and well-informed men doubt the practicability even of this. The Greeks have never lost their hope, though they are now more divided in opinion on the subject of their probable deliverers. Religion recommends the Russians ; but they have twice been deceived and abandoned by that power, and the dreadful lesson they received after the Muscovite desertion in the Morea has never been forgotten. The French they dislike : although the sub- jugation of the rest of Europe will probably be attended by the deliverance of continental Greece. The islanders look to the English for succour, as they have very lately possessed themselves of the Ionian republic, Corfu ex- cepted. But whoever appear with arms in their hands will be welcome; and when that day arrives, Heaven have mercy on the Ottomans; they cannot expect it from the Giaours. But instead of considering what they have been and CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 93 speculating on what they may be, let us look at them as they are. And here it is impossible to reconcile the contrariety of opinions: some, particularly the merchants, decrying the Greeks in the strongest language; others, generally travellers, turning periods iu their eulogy, and publish- ing very curious speculations grafted on their former state, which can have no more effect on their present lot, than the existence of the Incas on the future for- tunes of Peru. One very ingenious person terms them the « natural allies » of Englishmen; another, no less ingenious, ■will not allow them to be the allies of any body, and denies their very descent from the ancients; a third, more in- genious than either, builds a Greek empire on a Russian foundation, and realizes (en paper) all the chimeras of Catherine If. As to the question of their descent, what can it import whether the Mainotes are the lineal La- conians or not? or (he present Athenians as indigenous as the bees of Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to which they once likened themselves? What English- man cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or Trojan blood ? or who, except a Welchmau, is afflicted with a desire of being descended from Caractacus? The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good things of this world, as to render even their claims to antiquity an object of envy; it is very cruel then in Mr Thorutou, to disturb them in the possession of all that time has left them; viz. their pedigree, of which they are the more tenacious, as it is all they can call their own. It would be worth while to publish together, and compare, the works of Messrs Thornton and De Pauw, Eton and Sonnini; paradox on one side, and prejudice on the other. Mr Thornton conceives himself to have claims to public confidence from a fourteen years' resi- dence at Pera ; perhaps he may on the subject of the Turks, but this can give him no more insight into the real stale of Greece and her inhabitants, than as many years spent in >Yapping, into that of the Western High- lands. The Greeks of Constantinople live iu Fanal ; and if Mr Thornton did not ofteuer cross the Golden Horn than his brother merchants are accustomed to do, I should place no great reliance ou his information. I actually heard one of these gentlemen boast of their little general intercourse with the city, and assert of himself, with an air of triumph, that he had been but four times at Constantinople in as many years. As to Mr Thornton's voyages iu the Black Sea with Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece as a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of Johnny Grot's house. Upon what grounds then does he arro- gate the right of condemning by wholesale a body of men, of whom he can know little? It is rather a curious circumstance that Mr Thornton, who so lavishly dis- praises Pouqueville on every occasion of mentioning the Turks, has yet recourse to him as authority on the Greeks, and terms him an impartial observer. Now Dr Pouqueville is as little entitled to that appellation, as Mr Thornton to confer it on him. The fact is, we are deplorably in want of informa- tion on the subject of the Greeks, audio particular their literature; nor is ihere any probability of our being bet- ter acquainted, till our intercourse becomes more inti- mate or their independence confirmed : the relations of passing travellers are as little to be depended on as the invectives of angry factors; but till something more can be attained, we must be content with the little to be ac- quired from similar sources. 1 However defective these may be, they are preferable to the paradoxes of men who have read superficially of the ancients, and seen nothing of the moderns, such as De Pauw; who, when he asserts that the British breed of horses is ruined by Newmarket, and that the Spartans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal knowledge of English horses and Spartan men. His « philosophical observations" have a much better claim to the title of « poetical. » It could not be expected that he who so liberally condemns some of the most celebrated institutions of the ancient, should have mercy on the modern Greeks : and it fortunately hap- pens, that the absurdity of his hypothesis on their fore- fathers refutes his sentence on themselves. Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophecies of De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr Thornton, there is a reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, who, whatever may be the errors of their religiou and policy, have been amply punished by three centuries and a half of captivity. III. Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 17, 1S1 1. «I must have some talk with this learned Theban.» Some time after my return from Constantinople to this city I received the thirty-first number of the Edin- burgh Review as a great favour, and certaiuly at this distance an acceptable one, from the Captain of an English frigate off Salamis. In that number, Art. 3. containing the review of a French translation ofStrabo, there are introduced some remarks on the modern Greeks and their literature, with a short account of Coray, a co-translator in the French version. Ou those remarks I mean to ground a few observations, and the spot where I now write will, I hope, be sufficient excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree conuected with the subject. Coray, the most celebrated of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was born * A word, en passant, with Mr Thornton and Dr Pouqueville, who have been guilty between them of saJIv clipping the Sultan's Turkish. Br Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swallowed corrosive sublimate, in such quantities that he acquired the name of a Sule-jman Yeyen,* i. e.. quoth the doctor, ■ Suleyman, the eater of corrosive sublimate.* u Aha," thinks Mr Thornton (angry with the docior for the fiftieth time), a have I caught you '!* — Then, in a note twic the thickness of the doctor's anecdote, he questions the doc- tor's proficiency in th -Turkish tongue, and his veracity in his own. " For,» observes Mr Thornton (after inflicting on us the tough par- ticiple of a Turkish verb), ■ it means nothing more than Suleyman the eater,* and quite cashiers the supplementary * sublimate.* .Vow- both are right and both are wrong. If Mr Thornton, when he nest resides - fourteen years in the factory," will consult his Turkish dictionary, or ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, he will dis- cover that a Suleyma'u yeijen,* put together discreetly, mean the 1 Sit al'.ower of sublimate,* without any * Suleyman* in the case; " Suleyma* signifying « corrosive subl. mate,* and not being a pro- per name on this occasion, although it bean orthodo : name enough with the addition of ». After Mr Thornton's frequent hints of profound orientalism, he might ha\e found this out before he sang such paeans over Dr Pouqueville. After this, I think a Travellers versus Factors a shall be our motto, though the above Mr Thornton has condemned * hoc genus omne," for mistake and misrepresentation, a >"e Sutor ultra cre- pidami — a No merchant beyond his bales." X.B. for the benefit of Mr Thornton, » Sutor a is not a proper name. 94 BYRON'S WORKS. at Scio (in the Review Smyrna is stated, I have reason to think, incorrectly), and, besides the translation of Beccaria and other works mentioned by the reviewer, has published a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I may trust the assurance of some Danish travellers lately arrived from Paris ; but the latest we have seen here in French and Greek is that of Gregory Zaliko- glou. 1 Coray has recently been iuvolved in an unplea- sant controversy with M. Gail, 2 a Parisian commentator and editor of some translations from the Greek poets, in consequence of the Institute having awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates «Hap\ u*5«T&)v,» etc., to the disparagement, and consequently displeasure, of the said Gail. To his exertions literary and patriotic great praise is undoubtedly due, but a part of that praise ought not to be withheld from fhe two brothers Zosimas (merchants settled in Leghorn), who sent him to Paris, and maintained him, for the express purpose of elucidating the ancient, and adding to the modern researches of his countrymen. Coray, however, is not considered by his countrymen equal to some who lived in the two last centuries : more particularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks, that Meletius terms him, « MeTa tov Qov/.uSioriV xsd Eavopwvra oipLcros E^vwv.» (P. 224. Ecclesiastical History, vol. iv.) Panagiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and more particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in Joannina, are also in high repute among their literati. The last -mentioned has published in Romaic and Latin a work on « True Happiness, » dedicated to Catherine II. Rut Polyzois, who is stated by the reviewer to be the only modern except Coray who has distinguished him- self by a kuowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Polyzois Lampanitziotes of Yanina, who has published a num- ber of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor less than an itinerant vender of books; with the contents of which he had no concern beyond his name on the title-page, placed there to secure his property in the publication, and he was, moreover, a man utterly desti- tute of scholastic acquirements. As the name, however, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois may have edited the Epistles of Aristaenetus. It is to be regretted that the system of continental blockade has closed the few channels through which the Greeks received their publications, particularly Venice and Trieste. Even the common grammars for children are become too dear for the lower orders. Amongst their original works the Geography of Mele- tius, Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude of theo- logical quartos and poetical pamphlets, are to be met with : their grammars and lexicons of two, three, and four languages, are numerous and excellent. Their poe- try is in rhyme. The most singular piece I have lately • I have in my possession an excellent Lexicon « T/9ty)>W(7<70V, »■ which I received in exchange from S. G— , Esq., for a small gem: my antiquarian friends have never forgotten it, or forgiven me. 2 In Gail's pamphlet agaiust Coray, he talks of « throwing the insolent Helleniste out of the windows." On this a French critic exclaims, u Ah, my God 1 throw a Helleniste out of the window ! what sacrilege '.ji It certainly would he a serious husiness for those authors who dwell in the attics: but I have quoted the passage merely to prove the similarity of style among the controversialists of all polished countries; London or Edinburgh could hardly pa- rallel this Parisian ebullition. seen is a satire in dialogue between a Russian, English, and French traveller, and the Waywode of Wallachia (or Blackbey, as they term him), an archbishop, a merchant, and Cogia Bachi (or primate), in succession; to all of whom under the Turks the writer attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs are sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes generally unpleasing to the ear of a Frank : the best is the famous .< Asuts Trat<5esT&)V EiOi»jv&>v,» by the unfortunate Riga. But from a catalogue of more than sixty authors, now be- fore me, only fifteen can be found who have touched on any theme except theology. I am entrusted with a commission by a Greek of Athens, named Marmarotouri, to make arrangements, if possible, for printing in London a translation of Barthelemi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he has no other opportunity, unless he dispatches the MS. to Vienna by the Black Sea and Danube. The reviewer mentions a school established at Heca- tonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of Scbastiani ; he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali : a town on the continent where that institution, for a hundred students and three professors; still exists. It is true that this establishment was disturbed by the Porte, under the ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were con- structing a fortress instead of a college ; but on inves- tigation, and the payment of some purses to the Divan, it has been permitted to continue. The principal pro- fessor, named Veniamin (i. e. Benjamin), is stated to be a man of talent, but a free-thinker. He was born in Lesbos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, La- tin, and some Frank languages, besides a smattering of the sciences. Though it is not my intention to enter farther on this topic than may allude to the article in question, I cannot but observe that the reviewers lamentation over the fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he closes it with these words : « the change is to be attributed to their misfortunes rather than to any physical degrada- tion.* It may be true that the Greeks are not physi- cally degenerated, and that Constantinople contained, on the day when it changed masters, as many men of six feet and upwards as in the hour of prosperity ; but ancient history and modern politics instruct us that something more than physical perfection is necessary to preserve a state in vigour and independence ; and the Greeks, in particular, are a melancholy example of the near connexion between moral degradation and na- tional decay. The reviewer mentions a plan, « vje believe,* by Po- temkin , for the purification of the Romaic, and I have endeavoured in vain to procure any tidings or traces of its existence. There was an academy in St Petersburg for the Greeks; but it was suppressed by Paul, and has not been revived by his successor. There is a slip of the pen, and it can onlybe a slip of the pen, in p. 58, No. xxxi, of the Edinburgh Review, where these words occur : — «We are told that when the capi- tal of the East yielded to Solyman»— It may he pre- sumed that this last word will, in a future edition, be altered to Mahomet II. ' The « ladies of Constantinople,)) 1 In a former nurnber of the Edinburgh Review, 1808, it is ob- served, u Lord Byron passed some of his early years in Scotland, where he might have learned that pibroch does not mean a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle.* Query,— Was it in Scotland that the voting gentlemen of the Edinburgh Review learned that CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. it seems, at that period spoke a dialect, « which would not have disgraced the lips of an Athenian." I do not know how that might be, but am sorry to say the ladies in general, and the Athenians in particular, are much altered; being far from choice either in their dialect or expressions, as the whole Attic race are barbarous to a proverb : « £> AS-Tj-Jcx. npctiTvi y&pv. Tt yy.iay.povs rpifeis T AKPIBQ2 &T?lxi- ^ovaocv. In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the best Greek is spoken: in the latter there is a flourishing school under the direction of Psalida. There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida's, who is making a tour of observation through Greece : he is in- telligent, and better educated than a fellow-commoner of most colleges. I mention this as a proof that the spirit of inquiry is not dormant amongst the Greeks. The reviewer mentions Mr Wright, the author of the beautiful poem « Hora Ionicae,» as qualified to give de- tails of these nominal Romans and degenerate Greeks, and also of their language : but Mr Wright, though a good poet and an able man, has made a mistake where he states the Albanian dialect of the Romaic to approxi- mate nearest to the Hellenic : for the Albanians speak a Romaic as notoriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aber- deenshire, or the Italian of Naples. Yanina ( where, next to Fanal, the Greek is purest ), although the capital of Ali Pacha's dominions, is not in Albania but Epirus: and beyond Delvinachi in Albania Proper up to Argyrocastro and Tepaleen (beyond which I did not advance),. they speak worse Greek than even the Athe- nians. I was attended for a year and a half by two of these singular mountaineers, whose- mother tongue is Illyric, and I never heard them or their countrymen (whom I have seen, not only at home, but to the amount of twenty thousand in the army of Veli Pacha ) praised for their Greek, but often laughed at for their provin- cial barbarisms. I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, amongst which some from the Bey of Corinth, written to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others by the dragoman of the Caimacam of the Morea ( which last governs in Veli Pacha's absence) are said to be favour- Solyman means Mahomet II, any more than criticism means infalli- bility'!— -but thus it is, « Cedimus inque viceni prsbemus crura sagittis.* The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the pen (from the great similarity of the two words, and the total absence of error from the former pages of the literary leviathan), that I should have passed it over as in the test, had I not perceived in the Edinburgh Review much facetious exultation on all such detections, particularly a recent one, where words and syllables are subjects of disquisi- tion and transposition ; and the above-mentioned parallel passage in my own case irresistibly propelled me to hint how much easier it is to be critical than correct. The gentlemen, having enjoyed many a triumph on such victories, will hardly begrudge me a slight ovation for the present. able specimens of their epistolary style. I also received some at Constantinople from private persons, written in a most hyperbolical style, but in the true antique character. The reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on the tongue in its past and present state, to a paradox ( page 5g) on the great mischief the knowledge of his own language has done to Coray, who, it seems, is less likely to understand the ancient Greek, because he is perfect master of the modern ! This observation follows a pa- ragraph, recommending, in explicit terms, the study of the Romaic, as « a powerful auxiliary, » not only to the traveller and foreign merchant, but also to the classical scholar ; in short, to every body except the only person who can be thoroughly acquainted with its uses : and by a parity of reasoning, our old language is conjectured to be probably more attainable by « foreigners" than by ourselves ! Npw I am inclined to think, that a Dutch tyro in our tongue (albeit himself of Saxon blood) would be sadly perplexed with « Sir Tristrem," or any other given « Auchinleck MS.» with or without a gram- mar or glossary; and to most apprehensions it seems evident, that none but a native can acquire a competent, far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete idioms. We may give the critic credit for his ingenuity, but no more believe him than we do Smollett's Lismahago, who maintains that the purest English is spoken in Edin- burgh. That Coray may err is very possible; but if he does, the fault is in the man rather than in his mother tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of the greatest aid to the native student. — Here the reviewer proceeds to business on Strabo's translators, and here I close my remarks. Sir W. Drummond, Mr Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen, Dr Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr Gell, Mr Walpole, and many others now in England, have all the requisites to furnish details of this fallen people. The few observa- tions I have offered I should have left where I made them, had not the article in question, and, above ail, the spot where I read if, induced me to advert to those pages, which the advantage of my present situation en- abled me to clear, or at least to make the attempt. I have endeavoured to wave the personal feelings which rise in despite of me in touching upon any part of the Edinburgh Review; not from a wish to conciliate the favour of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance of a syllable I have formerly published, but simply from a sense of the impropriety of mixing up private resent- ments with a disquisition of the present kind, and more particularly at this distance of time and place. ADDITIONAL NOTE ON THE TURKS. The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been much exaggerated, or rather have considerably diminished of late years. The Mussulmans have been beaten into a kind of sullen civility, very comfortable to voyagers. It is hazardous to say much on the subject of Turks and Turkey ; since it is possible to live amongst them twenty years without acquiring information, at least from themselves. As far as my own slight experience carried me I have no complaint to make ; but am in- debted for many civilities (I might almost say for friendship), and much hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son Veli Pacha of the Morea, and several others of high rank in the provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor of BYRON'S WORKS. Athens, and now of Thebes, was a bon vivant, and as social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a table. During the carnival, when our English party were masquerading, both himself and his successor were more happy to « receive masks» than any dowager in G ros ven or-square. On one occasion of his supping at the convent, his friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was carried from table perfectly qualified for any club in Christendom, while the worthy Waywode himself triumphed in his fall. In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever found the strictest honour, the highest disinterestedness. In transacting business with them, there are none of those dirty peculations, under the name of interest, difference of exchange, commission, etc. etc., uniformly found in applying to a Greek consul to cash bills, even on the first houses in Pera. With regard to presents, an established custom in the East, you will rarely find yourself a loser; as one worth acceptance is generally returned by another of similar value — a horse or a shawl. In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers are formed in the same school with those of Christia- nity; but there does not exist a more honourable, friendly, and high-spirited character than the true Turk- ish provincial Aga, or Moslem country gentleman. It is not meant here to designate the governors of towns, but those Agas who, by a kind of feudal tenure, pos- sess lands and houses, of more or less extent, in Greece and Asia Minor. The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as the rabble in countries with greater pretensions to civilization. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our country towns, would be more incommoded in Eng- land than a Frank in a similar situation in Turkey. Regimentals are the best travelling dress. The best accounts of the religion, and different sects of Islamism, may be found in D'Olisson's French; of their manners, etc., perhaps in Thornton's English. The Ottomans, with all their defects, are not a people to be despised. Equal, at least, to the Spaniards, they are supe- rior to the Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce what they are, we can at least say what they are not .- they are nor treacherous, they are not cowardly, they do not burn heretics, they are not assassins, nor has an enemy advanced to their capital. They are faithful to their sultan till he becomes unfit to govern, and devout to their God without an inquisition. Were they driven from St Sophia to-morrow, and the French or Russians enthroned in their stead, it would become a question, whether Europe would gain by the exchange. England would certainly be the loser. With regard to that ignorance of which they are so generally, and sometimes justly, accused, it may be doubted, always excepting France and England, in what useful points of knowledge they are excelled by other nations. Is it in the common arts of life? In their manufactures? Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a Toledo ? or is a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed and taught, than a Spaniard? Are their Pachas worse edu- cated than a Grandee ? or an Effendi than a Knight of St Jago? I think not. I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, asking whether my fellow-traveller and myself were in the upper or lower House of Parliament. Now this question from a boy of ten years old proved that his education had not been neglected. It may be doubted if an English boy at that age knows the difference of the Divan from a College of Dervises; but I am very sure a Spaniard does not. How little Mahmout, sur- rounded, as he had been, entirely by his Turkish tutors, had learned that there was such a thing as a parlia- ment it were useless to conjecture, unless we suppose that his instructors did not confine his studies to the Koran. In all the mosques there are schools established, which are very regularly attended; and the poor are taught without the church of Turkey being put into peril. 1 believe the system is not yet printed (though there is such a thing as a Turkish press, and books printed on the late military institution of the Nizam Gedidd) ; nor have 1 heard whether the Mufti and the Mollas have subscribed, or the Caimacam and the Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenuous youth of the turban should be taught not to « pray to God their way.» The Greeks, also — a kind of Eastern Irish papists — have a college of their own at Maynooth — no, at Haivali; where the heterodox receive much the same kind of countenance from the Ottoman as the Catholic college from the English legislature. Who shall then affirm, that the Turks are ignorant bigots, when they thus evince the exact proportion of Chris- tian charity which is tolerated in the most prosperous and orthodox of all possible kingdoms? But, though they allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to participate in their privileges : no, let them fight their battles, and pay their haratch (taxes), be drubbed in this world, and damned in the next. And shall we then emancipate our Irish Helots? Mahomet forbid! We should then be bad Mussulmans, and worse Chris- tians; at present we unite the best of both — Jesuitical faith, and something not much inferior to Turkish toleration. APPENDIX. Amongst an enslaved people, obliged to have recourse to foreign presses even for their books of religion, it is less to be wondered at that we find so few publications on general subjects than that we find any at all. The whole number of the Greeks, scattered up and down the Turkish empire and elsewhere, may amount, at most, to three millions; and yet, for so scanty a num- ber, it is impossible to discover any nation with so great a proportion of books and their authors, as the Greeks of the present century. « Ay,» but say the generous advocates of oppression, who, while they as- sert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent them from dispelling it, « ay, but these are mostly, if not all, ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good for no- things) Well ! and pray what else can they write about? It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, parti- cularly an Englishman, who may abuse the govern- ment of his own country; or a Frenchman, who may abuse every government except his own, and who may range at will over every philosophical, religious, scien- tific, sceptical, or moral subject, sneering at the Greek legends. A Greek must not write on politics, and can- not touch on science for want of instruction; if he GHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 97 doubts, he is excommunicated and damned ; therefore his countrymen are not poisoned -with modern philo- sophy ; and as to morals, thanks to the Turks ! there are no such things. What then is left him, if he has a turn for scribbling? Religion and holy biography: and it is natural enough that those who have so little in this life should look to the next. It is no great -wonder then that in a catalogue now before me of fifty-five Greek writers, many of whom were lately living, not above fifteen should have touched on any thing but religion. The catalogue alluded to is contained in the twenty-sixth chapter of the fourth volume of Meletius's Ecclesiastical History. From this I subjoin an extract of those who have written on general subjects; which will be followed by some specimens of the Romaic. LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS. 1 Neophitus, Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, has published an extensive grammar, and also some poli- tical regulations, which last were left unfinished at his death. Prokopius, of Moscopolis (a town in Epirus), has writ- ten and published a catalogue of the learned Greeks. Seraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many works in the Turkish language, but Greek character; for the Christians of Garamania who do not speak Romaic, but read the character. Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, made the tour of England for the purpose of study [yy.ptv f/.!/.6^Gsoii ) : but though his name is enumerated, it is not stated that he has written any thing. Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople ; many poems of his are extant, and also prose tracts, and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last taking of Constantinople. Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the royal academy of Warsaw. A church biographer. Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolite, has written many works, particularly « A Commentary on Hesiod's Shield of Hercules, » and two hundred tales (of what, is not specified), and has published his correspondence with the celebrated George of Trebizond, his contem- porary. Meletius, a celebrated geographer ; and author of the book from whence these notices are taken. Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philosopher : his Hellenic works are in great repute, and he is esteemed by the moderns (I quote the words of Meletius) pszoc tov 0<5uxudic?y;v xai Esvopwvra ocpttj-ro? E^V/jvojv. I add further, on the authority of a well-informed Greek, that he was so famous amongst his countrymen, that they were accustomed to say, if Thucydides and Xenophon were wanting, he was capable of repairing the loss. Marinus Count Tharboures, of Cephalonia, professor of chemistry in the academy of Padua, and member of that academy, and those of Stockholm and Upsal. He has published, at Venice, an account of some marine animal, and a treatise on the properties of iron. Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics. 1 It is to be observed that the names given are not in chronolo- gical order, but consist of some selected at a venture from amongst those who flourished from the taking of Constantinople to the time of Meletius. He removed to St Petersburg the immense rock on which the statue of Peter the Great was fixed in 1769. See the dissertation which he published in Paris, 1777. George Constantine has published a four-tongued lexicon. George Ventote; a lexicon in French, Italian, and Romaic. There exist several other dictionaries in Latin and Romaic, French, etc. besides grammars, in every modern language, except English. Amongst the living authors the following are most celebrated : l — Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetoric in Hellenic. Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has published, in Vienna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. Panagiotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic trans- lator of Fontenelle's « Plurality of AVorlds» (a favourite work amongst the Greeks), is stated to be a teacher of the Hellenic and Arabic languages in Paris, in both of which he is an adept. Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on rhe- toric. Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has written, « s i$ to [xz<70ojvwv, /.at/505 T>fc 00%-k vp.0cv. A? pavS/ASV v.%iol iy.zhuv Ttov py.$ d*oj!7av tt;v dpyv]-j. Ag 7raTv;(7&j ( ucV y.vo'pciojg tov ^uyb-j tvJj rupavvido*;. E/.&X7JTW//2V TTaryot'Jbs xuds ovzidoi cdaypov. Ta otiIoc as ly.Sup.vJ' Tratd"^ EMvjvojv, ciyupz-j. Uoza.p.r,>$bv lyOp&v to cx.ip.cx. «5 T/Osfyj U7TO TTOo'wv. 2. 08sV sJgOc tojv EMvjv&jv xexxa^a avo^stw/z-sva ; nveup.xTcc hxop-itjp.evx, rtipot "ky.Szts Trvovjv ; '2 tv?v jjwvyjv tvjs cc/.l-iyyos p.00 cuvecyd^rs o\y. op.ou. TyjV £-T«>OpOV £v}T£iTS, xai vtxaTs Tzpb 7tavTOu. Tx 07T>,a cig ).a§w//.sv , etc. 1 These nrfmes are not taken from any publication. 2 A translation of this song will be found at page 524. i3 98 BYRON'S WORKS. iTZotpTU, Znv.prcc, Tt xot//.asat torvov IrjOxpyov, jSadvv; %i>Ttvr,oo-J, xpo£s. Aflvjvag, avpuccyov 7ravTOT£tvvjv. EvQup-JGOV Aeowldou fyowog T6U '|axouir"Oy, too avc^og lj:a.vj*p.i\>ou, (poospoxj xou zpop-spov. T« orr).« ag 16.Qoip.e-J , etc. 4- Orrou dg Tag &spp.oT:i)lAog xa//.vovT£s tvjv 7:epiY)y/}Giv rrji EAAaJbg, xat /sA£7rovT£g tvjv a#Atav tvjv xara- (j-ao-tv, ipoiirpow xxvupyus sva F/oatxov jjt/s'AAvjva c?ta va p.6.dow tvjv atTtav, //st' auTcv eva p.r,rpo- TroAtV/jv, £tra sva /sAa^uTTcyjv , STrstra sva Ttpxypx- TiUTvjv xat eva -poezTOizcc. Eini //.ag, w jPtAe'AAvjva, 7rwg yepeis tvjv axAa&'av xai t-/jv &Ttap7iydpriT0v twv TeO^xeov ri/pwiav, Ti&ij -ralj Sfy/tats xai. ii§pivp.ovs X*i oiSr,po§-ap.lxi> — at'dwv, rra/sfls'vwv, yuvatxcov av/jxouaTOv fdopsiav. Akv st'afl' caslg v.nbyovoi sxstvwv twv EAAyjveov twv gkeudipav xat cropwv xat twv fikoizarfASoiv ; xat Tiwg £xstvot aTTs'^vyjffxov ; yta tvjv eXsudipix-j. xai Tw^sa £jc?aTS tvjv owts£vvjv EAAacTa ; /2a£a! wg sva axekeBpov, wj cxoTstvvjv Aa/^TTac^av. Opilsi, 5?t"ATaT£ Tpxixi, elite p.ag tvjv atTtav, p.Yj xpimzYis TtTTOTcj, yj//wv Au£ tvjv o\izo pixv . 6 q>IAE'AAHNA2. PwaT-ayyAo-yaAAot, EAAag, xat o;/t a'AAot, ^tov, cog Aers , Toaov psycklr). vuv !?s uBllx, xat ava£ta ap' ou y.pyisvj vj dp.xOix. 6 s Yip.no povsxv va tvjv Iuttvougu tout' £^ s - to ^sljcov TVJV GOr,yTJ7TtcJ-:£ oVt xepSt^et ebpevi sxeivo ttoj tv'jv vloyi^tt. Ma ocTtg TO^uvj^fij va t-ENE2. TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GOLDONI BY SI'IRIDON VLANTI. ZKHNH KE'. TIAATZIAA sl$ tvjv Ttdprccv too yuviou, xat ot «VW0SV. IIAA. Q 0££'! u~b to ixapocOvpi p.ou epavvj va dxovuoj tvjv jjwvjjv to j «v^a,u.tvto>, av bp.us a£sv bvopx. AEA. Na £vj vj y.cCkv, tu^vj tou xup Evysviou. [Lit- vwvTag. ] OAOl. Na C>7, v«^. IIAA. Autos £tvat o avc^aj p.ov yvpU a'AAo. Kotlk czvOpuTts , xup.e p.ou t/jv y^xptv va p.k auvrpo- ' Vlackbey, Prince of Wallachia. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 99 osucy;, dnavca els sojtovs zovg tkf£VTT5v tv;,-. ] [Atto t« -y.cy.Qjpy. twv ovtkO^v fxhovzxi 'old, bnou Gr,-/.6v'j)VTCti y.nb zb zpy.~z%i tsuyyisps- VOl , ££ va tv;v cjovsi/'T*].] EYT. 6'^i, ffTK^TS. MAP. Myjv y.yp.'Jszz... AEA. 2vjxgj, pu'/s dbr' i&i. IIAA. Bov;y's£a, (Zorfizix. [4>sir/S£ arro zy,j sx«/\ocv b Azxvopog S;s'/s£ vaT^v '}:/.o\ouQr,Tr\ u.z zb o-adi, y.x\ 6 Euy. tov [iy.Gzx. ] [TPA. Ms eva ~ixzo p.z fxyi el-; p.lx-j —zz&zx rzrfix jv ©tajJsvTsiffCd w; stj to vzzzpov yXpjy.. AEA. 2ou /.y.ij.voi op-/.o-j ttw; S-s'/st to //.zzyvoiojor^. [Ku-jrrjy. tov E-jyZ'Jiov p.'z zb a-y.9i.] EYT. Asv as poGovp.ca. [Kyzazpiy-t rbv Azx-jcpov, xai tov /3ta£sc v« cupO-Tj 6-iooi zogo-j, b~o\j sjploy.oi-j- zxi d-Jor/.zbv zb c-vjtc t^; yopziizpixi , zp.Sxijzi sii ccjzq , xai acivsTsa. ] TRANSLATION. Platzida from the Door of the Hotel, and the Others. Pla. Oh God ! from the window it seemed that I heard my husband's voice. If he is here, I have arrived in time to make him ashamed. [A Servant enters from the Shop.) Boy, tell me, pray, who are in those cham- bers? Serv. Three Gentlemen : one Signor Eugenio ; the other Signor Martio, the Neapolitan ; and the third, my Lord, the Count Leander Ardenti. Pla. Flaminio is not amongst these, unless he has changed his name. 1 Koyoi ~kct.zcJiy.biy b~ou Srzlzi va zi~^' yzvyz zoug tsvyyicsi. Leander [Within, drinking]. Long live the good fortune of Si;;nor Eugenio. [ The ivhole Company]. Long live, etc. (Literally, Na £yj, va Zo, May he live.) Pla. Without doubt that is my husband. [ To the Seru.] My good man, do me the favour to accompany me above to those gentlemen : I have some Business. Serv. At your, commands. [Aside.] The old office of us waiters. [He goes out of the Gaming-House.] Ridolpho. [To Victoria on another part of the stage.] Courage, courage, be of good cheer, it is nothing. Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Leaning on him as if fainting.] [From the windows above all within are seen rising from the table in confusion : Leander starts at the sight of Platzida, and appears by his gestures to tlireaten her life.] Eugenio. No, stop Martio. Don't attempt Leander. Away, fly from hence ! Pla. Help! help! [Flies down the stairs: Leander at- tempting to follow with Ids sword, Eugenio hinders him.] [Trappola with a plate of meat leaps over the balcony from the window, and runs into the Coffee-house.] [Platzida runs out of the Gaming-house, and takes shelter in the Hotel.] [Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-house, and goes off exclaiming, "Rumores fuge.» The Servants from the Gaming-house enter the Hotel, and shut the door.] [Victoria remains in the Coffee-house, assisted by Ridolpho.] [Leander, sword in hand, opposite Eugenio, exclaims, Give way — I will enter that hotel.] Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a scoun- drel to your wife, and I will defend her to the last drop of my blood. Leander. I will give you cause to repent this. [Me- nacing with his sword.] Eugenio. I fear you not. [He attacks Leander and makes him give back so much that, finding the door of the dancing-girl's house open, Leander escapes through, and so finishes.] > AIAAOTOI OIKTAKOI. FAMILIAR DIALOGUES. hiy.vy.^rft-i^oi'vjyr^puyiJ.y. To ask for any thing. Hi -zpyy.ylO) , oogzzz p.s I pray you, give me if you y.-j bpiZizz. please. Qzpzzi fas. Bring me. Aavst7STs'//.s. Lend me. H-oyx'i-JZ-z va C/;t^<7Sts. Go to seek. 1 2c6vSTa£ — "finishes" — awkwardly enough, but it is the li- teral translation of the Romaic. The original of this comedy of Goldoni's I never read, but it does not appear one of his best. « II Bugiardo » is one of the most lively ; but I do not think it has been translated into Romaic: it is much more amusing than our own «Liar» by Foote. The character of Lelio is better drawn than Young Wilding. Goldoni's comedies amount to fifty ; some perhaps the best in Europe, and others the worst. His life is also one of the best specimens of autobiography, and, as Gibbon has observed, « more dramatic than any of his plays." The above scene was selected as containing some of the most familiar Romaic idioms, not for any wit which it displays, since there is more done than said, the greater part consisting of stage directions. The original is one of the few comedies by Goldoni which is without the buf- foonery of the speaking Harlequin. 00 BYRON'S WORKS. Tupa. suflug. £2 dbtpiSi /j.ov Yd) pis, x«/*s- ts /as aOr/jv t?;v ~/?-P VJ - Eydi aa; Tiapccjialdi. Eyco aa; Ifo/MtiCyH. Eycb 5cyis, va xa/AYj; TtsptTtoir,Ges, xat p^xsa; (JsiftWs;. Eyw 5. Eyco S-jXco to xc,w. n/507xyv-/j(7£TS ix /as'^ou; /aou t6v v.pyovTot. , ri tov XU/5£0V. BsSatOJffiTc' tov ~w; TOV sv6op.odp.oa. BsSatojTSTe tov 7rw; tov Now directly. My dear Sir, do me this favour. I entreat you. I conjure you. I ask it of you as a favour. Oblige me so much. Affectionate Expressions. My life. My dear soul. My dear. My heart. My love. 7b thank, pay compli- ments, and testify re- gard. I thank you. I return you thanks. I am much obliged to you. I will do it with pleasure. With all my heart. Most cordially. I am obliged to you. 1 am wholly yours. I am your servant. Yonr most humble servant. You are too obliging. You take too much trouble. I have a pleasure in ser- ving you. You are obliging and kind. That is right. What is your pleasure? What are your commands? I beg you will treat m freely. Without ceremony. I love you with all my heart. And I the same. Honour me with your commands. Have you any commands for me? Command your servant. I wait your commands. You do me great honour. Not so much ceremony, I beg. Present my respects to the gentleman, or his lord- ship. Assure him of my remem- brance. Assure him of my friend- ship. Asv Sslu IsLMst va tou to S^TTW. UpOGyVVYjp.XrU P-M £ k T^V dpyovrLccccv. IIvjyatvsTs sp.7ipoodd x«i c5; «xo)ou0w. H % svpu /.cddrb xpiosp.ov. h£su/jw to stvat /aou. Ms xa/AV£TS va svr pinup-cit /as Toa; Towa; ftlofpo- ci/vuis 7a;. 0s')i£T£ Xo£7tov va xa//.w Au'av dxpsiOTYizee; Tizdyw sp-izpOadd /j- 0s£av. 6'vtw;, st^t) s2va£. tlo'fo; dp-'fLSdllei; Asv s£va£7Toaw; dp.a /3a>vj arix^p-cc o, ri S-s>sts cftaToyro. M/j Ty/vj xat asTSf'^sff^s ( >;w/:aTsysTS ) ; Op.tlstTs /as t5 6'Xa era; ; Eyw a5; 6/a£Xw /as Ta o),a /Aoy, xat era; >,eyw t/jv a>yi0s£av. Eyw <:5; to /3s6a£wv«. I will not fail to tell him of it. My compliments to her ladyship. Go before and I will fol- low you. I well know my duty. I know my situation. You confound me with so much civility. Would you have me then be guilty of an incivility? I go before to obey you. To comply with your com- mand. I do not like so much ce- remony. I am not at all ceremo- nious. This is better. So much the better. You are in the right. To affirm, deny, consent, etc. It is true, it is very true. To tell you the truth. Really it is so. Who doubts it ? There is no doubt. I believe it, I do not be- lieve it. I say yes. I say no. I wager it is. I wager it is not so. Yes, by my faith. In conscience. By my life. Yes, I swear it to you. I swear to you as an ho- nest man. I swear to you on my ho- nour. Believe me. I can assure you of it. I would lay what bet you please on this. You jest by chance? Do you speak seriously? I speak seriously to you, and tell you the truth. assure you of it. CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. or To i-npoftfrevaere. To i-izciiyjZi. Hpinst va axg T:c77zi>|v "kayeg, b \6yog- xai b Aoyog^TOv xai 6 \6yog v\v ~pbg tov pjsxat ®zOv~ xai Qabg yftov Qsbv, xai sytvs xav£va etzi eyive. 4. Et; au-TOV Jffev £&»§■ Xai V) ^CJV-y 7J70V TO JJ»S TWV XvOptATTOiV. 5. Rat to pws s?s t/;v ffXGTtav oiyysi, xai vj axo- Tta ts 7roTS7rXou<7Zoj- Ta.T-/]xai hyupuzxTr,, izpozspov y.xaoj pz-j-t\ BotcoTJxat A(?^va£, s?s tvjv 6-ocav -^tov 6 Na6s twv XactTWv, sts TOV OuO'tOV £-),V7^&)VOV T£')>7} Ot Qr,?X~LOl, OUTtVOg TO zex'jog Avsaxufdr) ~oxk bizb twv AcTraiayxeay. Erravy;- yiipi^ov sig xjzr^ t/jv ttoXiv TzXajir^ict, toO btzoiou dy&vog evpov z-iypx-pxg iv cr^Axig evSov zo t j y.-ri- aSevzog vxou £-' dvopxrt Tvjj ©sotoxou , urro tow TZpWZOG-.xdxpiO'J AsOVTO,-, £77 1 TWV SsCffl^SCdV Baj£- Xst'ou, As'ovtos, xat RwvoTavTtvou, iyoitoxg ojtws" ev /xkv 7-^ //.ta X.3CVWJ. « OiVa ivtxwv tov aywva twv XaatTvjatwv. 2a).-£5T^5. Mvjvts A-o/>wvtoy Lvzioyzbg x~b Mxixvopov. ErjpvZ. Z'jYO.og Zaitkov Tixoiog. P'aiwooj. Nou//yjv£05 Nou/xvjvtou \.0r t vx~iog. TLoir-^g eTTWV. kpr t -/ix.g \r,p.o/.lsojg Qr,Sx1og. A^/vjT^g. AttoX/oo'otOs A-o».oo l oToy K^VJ?. Ay)>wcTic. Poo^-rro; Poo£7r-0'j kpysiog. Kida.pi(JTYJg. Qx-nxg A-ol'koSoTO'j tov^xvioj klo\zi>g x~b \s.vp.r t g, KidxpcoSog. yr,'/:r-ciog Hxppz'JiG/.oj Kx^yrpo-Jiog. TpxyuSog. i.~~o/.pcy--/)g kpisTop.i-JO'jg PoSiog. Kwy.wSig. Kx~X\iG7px7og E^axiarou ©rfixlog. Tloir-vjg 2x.-zi)por;. kp-Yfjixg Ay)uox/£OUs ©^oalos. TrroxcfT^;. Aoipddsog Atopodiou Tctpocvrivos. IIotvjTyjs Tpaynduav. 2o^ox).v5s SojJOxXsousA'flvjvatos. T-ox^tTr;,. KxSLciyog QzoScopov ®r,§x~iog. IIOtvjT^s Kwy.wc?£wv. kkiixvSpog &piaroiv.og Advpcuog. Y~0/.piTr,g. AttoXos Attk^ou kdrpcuog. 02 BYRON'S WORKS. Oios iviy.uv tov v^pr^ov dywva twv o/xod^wwv. naidaj a^r)(7To:j. AfOxX/fc Ka»£//.r;dbu Qrfixloq. Hxivcc? tysp.6vxq. 2T/5aTivo, Etfvt'xou &r 4 §cuog. A£OX>yfc Ra>>£//y;d"bu Q-/]§x~iog. Avopxs v\yspbvx$. Pdd£7r7TOs PodmTTOi; ApyslOi. Tpxyoidbs. lTtitox.pxTr t $ AptGTOpsvovs p'cc?£o$. Rw//.w£vos *£>ev« ABdvsioq. Kapovq". Eipuixg Zw.pxTiog &si§stos. nostras. Mv'jGTCop Mr,aropoi *wxa£suc. P'a'i'Eud'og. R/5KTWV R>£WVOg 0i£Oc£(5j. A0^££T«5. Il£^£y£V££5 H' pxy.lsioxo Koy^fxvjvo J. Av)ia£uc?05. Aa/jivjV£TOs P>auxw Apyiog. KldxpiGTKS. Yup.oc.Tpos A//a/ww At5>£0j a7:o Mou/jf'vag. T^ayasuods. Aoxlumodojpos UouBsxo TxpxvTivbg. Ktopy.svdos. NfxdaT^aTOj •tuXocT/caTW ®si6sio$. To: imvUstx Km pu.su 0*6$. 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Olov to G\jyypapp.x Selei ysvsi slg ropoug JcoOexa xaTa p.ip:r,GLv tvjs lTa/tx/^j £xoic7iWj. H Ttw./j 6)iou tou Guyyp£:p.p.cLzos s'ivcll fiopivioL ozxclsc,-/] t% Btevy>js c?£« TVJV 7T/3O70VJXYJV TWV yZOiypCL'flXOiV 7T£vaXWV . O ^Ao'/iV/J^ ouv GUvSpopsriT-fiS Tzpinzi vol Tzl-ripwG-/) zls x&OzTopov fiopivt eva xai KupavrcLvioL slxogl rrjg Btsvvvjg, xat touto x.oi[M xcLp.p.iav TzpodoGLV, clll' suOus otzou Szlzt tw T.cLpoLdodri b rbpos ru~up.zvog xai dspzvog. Eppcop-zvoi xai zuSxipovzs SccLoLUiOirs^ll^vcovTzcLl^ss. Tvjs upsr specs uyocTZ-fis zZypTYipsvoi, iwavvvjs Mccppccporoupvis. Ayprirpios Bsvtsp-ris- IrzupiSoiv HpzSirog. Ev TptzGrico , tv? tt/owtv; Oxtw6/2£OU, 1799. THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. ft II ATE PA //.aj 07T5ti stuaf s£g touj oupavous, &S LKylCLGd-Tj TO OVOpOL GOU . Ag £/9-/) 7) fiCLGllzLX GOU . A £ ys'y/j to Srsl-ripxk gou, xadcos sf's tov oupcevbv, stJJtj xai ££s t/;v yvjv. To dicopi p.ccs to xccQ-f]p.zpivb-J, Sos p-CLS TO a-/)p.spov. Kai Guyx'^pr,GZ p.us re/. xp^'O P-xg, xccB&g /.oll ep.z1g GUyxojpoupsv roug xpsofsilsrccs p.0Lg. Kai //yjv /^gs pe'yos ££> TZsipa.Gp.bVj ckllck elzuQipuGS pecg utzq TOV TZOVYjpOV. On £0V./) COU ££va£ VJ fioLGClzioL C?£, 7] Cuvccp.Lg, xcll vj t?d|"a, ££, touj al&vccg. A//vjv. IN GHEEK. IIATEP v]//wv, iv toIj oupcLvolg, ckyiXGOriroi to OVOpOL GOU. E/0£TW V) jZcLGllzlCC GOU' yZVr,df)T(>> TO S"S- /•^oca (jou, wg sv oupoLv&, xcll irzl tvj, //jg. Tov ccprov rj/xwv tov sTZLOUGiov dbg r,p~iv o-r t p.zpov. Kai apes vj/uv Ta bfsikrip.cLTy. -np-w, cog xai vjy.££; dfispev rolg bpsi- IsrcLLg vjwwv. Rat ( tf.vj efosvsyxvjc; /jyctg ££5 TzsipccGpbv, a/^a puGCLi r,p.y.s v.tzo rou nov^pou. Ot£ cou £7Tiv xj ficLzCksicc, xcll v) ouvccp.is, xoCi vj t?o£a, £?s Toug afwvag. CAINTO III. Note 1. Stanza xviii. In u pride of place* here last the eagle flew. « Pride of place» is a term of falconry, and means the highest pitch of flight. — See Macbeth, etc. An eagle tcwering in his pride of place. Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. Note 2. Stanza xx. Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. See the famous Song on Harmodius and Aristogiton. — The best English translation is in Bland's Anthology, by Mr Denman : « With myrtle my sword will I wreathe, » etc. Note 3. Stanza xxi. And all went merry as a marriage-bell. On the night previous to the action, it is said that a ball was given at Brussels. Notes 4 and 5. Stanza xxvi. And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears. Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the « gentle Lochiel» of the « forty-five. » Note 6. Stanza xxvii. And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the « forest of Ardennes, » famous in Boiardo's Orlando, and immortal in Shakspeare's « As you like it.» It is also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of successful defence by the Germans against the Roman encroach- io4 BYRON'S WORKS. ments. — I have ventured to adopt the name connected with nohler associations than those of mere slaughter. Note 7. Stanza xxx. I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. My guide from Mont St Jean over the field seemed intelligent and accurate. The place where Major Howard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees (there was a third cut down, or shivered in the hattle) which stand a few yards from each other at a pathway's side. — Beneath these he died and was huried. The hody has since been removed to England. A small hollow for the present marks where it lay, but will probably soon be effaced ; the plough has been upon it, and the grain is. After pointing out the different spots where Picton and other gallant men had perished, the guide said, « Here Major Howard lay; I was near him when wound- ed. » I told him my relationship, and he seemed then still more anxious to point out the particular spot and circumstances. The place is one of the most marked in the field from the peculiarity of the two trees above- mentioned. I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing it with my recollection of similar scenes. As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some great action, though this may be mere imagination : I have viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Chaeronea, and Marathon ; and the field around Mont St Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little but a better cause, and that indefinable but impressive halo which the lapse of ages throws around a celebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or all of these, except perhaps the last mentioned. Note 8. Stanza xxxiv. Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore. The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes were said to be fair without, and within ashes. — Vide Tacitus, Histor. 1. v, 7. Note 9. Stanza xli. For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. The great error of Napoleon, « if we have writ our annals true,» was a continued obtrusion on mankind of his want of all community of feeling for or with them ; perhaps more offensive to human vanity than the active cruelty of more trembling and suspicious tyranny. Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well as individuals : and the single expression which he is said to have used on returning to Paris after the Russian winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over a fire, « This is pleasanter than Moscow, » would pro- bably alienate more favour from his cause than the destruction and reverses which led to the remark. Note 10. Stanza xlviii. What want these outlaws conquerors should have ? u What wants that knave That a king should have?» was King James's question on meeting Johnny Arm- strong and his followers in full accoutrements. — See the Ballad. Note 11. Song, stanza i. The castled crag of Drachenfels. The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest sum- mit of « the Seven Mountains,^) over the Rhine banks ; it is in ruins, and connected with some singular tradi- tions : it is the first in view on the road from Bonn, but on the opposite side of the river; on this bank, nearly facing it, are the remains of another called the Jew's Castle, and a large cross commemorative of the murder of a chief by his brother. The number of castles and cities along the course of the Rhine on both sides is very great, and their situations remarkably beautiful. Note 12. Stanza lvii. The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept. The monument of the young and lamented General Marceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen, on the last day of the fourth year of the French republic) still remains as described. The inscriptions on his monument are rather too long, and not required: his name was enough ; France adored., and her enemies admired : both wept over him. — His funeral was attended by the generals and detachments from both armies. In the same grave General Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in every sense of tlfe word; but though he distinguished himself greatly in battle, he had not the good fortune to die there; his death was attended by suspicions of poison. A separate monument (not over his body, which is buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near Andernach, opposite to which one of his most memorable exploits was performed, in throwing a bridge to an island on the Rhine. The shape and style are different from that of Marceau's, and the inscription more simple and pleas- ing : « The Army of the Sambre and Jteuse to its Commander-in-chief, HOCHE.,. This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed among the first of France's earlier generals before Buonaparte monopolized her triumphs. — He was the destined commander of the invading army of Ireland. Note 1 3. Stanza lyiii. Here Ehrenbreiistein, with her shatter'd wall. Ehrenbreitstein, i. e. « the broad Stone of Honour, » one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dis- mantled and blown up by the French at the truce of Leoben. — It had been and could only be reduced by fa- mine or treachery. It yielded to the former, aided by surprise. After having seen the fortifications of Gibral- tar and Malta, it did not much strike by comparison but the situation is commanding. General Marceau be- sieged it in vain for some time ; and I slept in a room where I was shown a window at which he is said to have been standing observing the progress of the siege by moonlight, when a ball struck immediately below it. Note 14. Stanza Ixiii. Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering ghost. The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones di- minished to a small number by the Burgundian legion in the service of France, who anxiously effaced this record of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A few still remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by the Burgun- dians for ages (all who passed that way removing a bone to their own country), and the less justifiable larcenies of the Swiss postilions, who carried them off to sell for knife-handles, a purpose for which the whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of years had rendered them in great re- quest. Of these relics I ventured to bring away as much CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 105 as may have made the quarter of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer-by might have perverted them to worse uses than the careful pre- servation which I intend for them. Note 1 5. Stanza lxv. Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capital of Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. Note 16. Stanza Ixvi. And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon after a vain endeavour to save her father, condemned to death as a traitor by Aulus Caecina. Her epitaph was discovered many years ago; — it is thus— - Julia Alpinula Hiojaceo, Infelicis patris infelix proles, Deae Aventia; sacerdos. Exorare patris necem non potui : Male niori in fatis ille erat. Vixi Annos XXIII. I know of no human composition so affecting as this, nor a history of deeper interest. These are the names and actions which ought not to perish, and to which we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs at length with all the nausea conse- quent on such intoxication. Note 1 7. Stanza Ixvii. In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow. This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3d, 1816), •which even at this distance dazzles mine. (July 20th.) I this day observed for some time the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiere in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my boat; the distance of these mountains from their mir- ror is sixty miles. Note 18. Stanza Ixxi. ' By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt Or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. Note 19. Stanza Ixxix. Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. This refers to the account in his «Confessions» 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 saluta- tion of French acquaintance. — Rousseau's description of his feelings on this occasion may be considered as the most passionate, yet not impure description and expression of love, that ever kindled into words; which after all must be felt, from their very force, to be ina- dequate to the delineation : a painting can give no suf- ficient idea of the ocean. Note p.o. Stanza xci. Of earth o'er-gazing mountains. It is to be recollected that the most beautiful and impressive doctrines of the divine founder of Chris- tianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the Mount. To wave the question of devotion, and turn to human eloquence, the most effectual and splendid specimens were not pronounced within walls. Demosthenes ad- dressed the public and popular assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect on the mind of both orator and hearers, may be conceived from the difference between what we read of the emo- tions then and there produced, and those we ourselves experience in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing to read the Iliad at Sigaeum and on the tumuli, or by the springs with Mount Ida above, and the plain and rivers and Archipelago around you; and another to trim your taper over it in a snug library — this I know. Were the early and rapid progress of what is called Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines (the truth or error of which I presume neither to can- vass nor to question), I should venture to ascribe it to the practice of preaching in the fields, and the unstu- died and extemporaneous ei fusions of its teachers. The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore im- pressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed orisons and prayers wherever they may beat the stated hours — of course frequently in the open air, kneeling upon a light mat (which they carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion as required) ; the ceremony lasts some minutes, during which they are totally absorbed, and only living in their supplication; nothing can disturb them. On me the simple and entire sincerity of these men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and upon them, made a far greater impression than any general rite which was ever performed in places of wor- ship, of which I have seen those of almost every per- suasion under the sun: including most of our own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the Armenian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan. Many of the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of their belief and its rites; some of these I had a distant view of at Patras, and from what I could make out of them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, and not very agreeable to a spectator. Note 21. Stanza xcii. The sky is changed!— and such a change! Oh night. The thunder-storms to which these lines refer oc- curred on the 1 3th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari several more terrible, but none more beautiful. Note 22. Stanza xcix. And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought. Rousseau's Heloise. Letter 17, part 4. note. — «Ces montagnes sont si hautes, qu'une demi-heure apres le soleil couche, leurs sommets sont encore eclaires de ses rayons; dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches une belle couleur de rose qu'on apercoit de fort loin.» This applies more particularly to the heights over Meillerie. « J'allai aVevayloger a la Clef, et pendant deux jours que j'y restai sans voir personne, je pris pour cette ville un amour qui m'a suivi dans tous mes voyages, et qui m'y a fait etablir enfin les heros de mon roman. Je dirois volontiers a ceux qui ont du gout et qui sont sensibles: Allez a Vevay — visitez le pays, examinez les sites, promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une '4 o6 BYRON'S WORKS. Claire, et pour un Saint-Preux; mais ne les y cherchez pas.» Les Confessions, livre iv. page 3o6. Lyon, 1796. In July 1816, I made a voyage round the lake of Geneva; and as far as my own observations have led me in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his « He- loise,» I can safely say, that in this there is no exagge- ration. It would be diflicult to see Clarens (with the scenes around it, Yevay, Chillon, Boveret, St Gingo, Meillerie, Evian, and the entrances of the Rhone), with- out being forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to the persons and events with which it has been peo- pled. But this is not all; the feeling with which all around Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is invested, is of a still higher and more comprehensive order than the mere sympathy with individual passion; it is a sense of the existence of love in its most extended and sublime capacity, and of our own participation of its good and of its glory : it is the great principle of the universe, which is there more condensed, but not less manifested; and of which, though knowing ourselves a part, we lose our individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the whole. If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same associations would not less have belonged to such scenes. He has added to the interest of his works by their adoption ; he has shown his sense of their beauty by the selection ; but they have done that for him which no human being could do for them. I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to sail from Meillerie (where we landed for some time) to St Gingo during a lake-storm, which added to the magni- ficence of all around, although occasionally accompa- nied by danger to the boat, which was small and over- loaded. It was over this very part of the lake that Rousseau has driven the boat of St Preux and Madame Wolmar to Meillerie for shelter during a tempest. On gaining the shore at St Gingo, I found that the wind had been sufficiently stroug to blow down some line old chesnut trees on the lower part of the moun- tains. On the opposite height is a seat called the Cha- teau de Clarens. The hills are covered with vineyards, and interspersed with some small but beautiful woods; one of these was named the « Bosquet de Julie, » and it is remarkable that, though long ago cut down by the brutal selfishness of the monks of St Bernard (to whom the land appertained), that the ground might be inclosed into a vineyard for the miserable drones of an execra- ble superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still point out the spot where its trees stood, calling it by the name which consecrated and survived them. Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in the preservation of the « local habitations » he has given to «airy nothings." The prior of Great St Bernard has cut down some of his woods for the sake of a few casks of wine, and Buonaparte has levelled part of the rocks of Meillerie in improving the road to the Simplon. The road is an excellent one, but I cannot quite agree with a remark which I heard made, that « La route vaut mieux que les souvenirs." Note 23. Stanza cv. Lausanne and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes. Voltaire and Gibbon. Note 24. Stanza cxiii. Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. « if it be thus, For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind." Macbeth. Note 25. Stanza cxiv. O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve. It is said by Rochefoucault that « there is always something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not displeasing to them.» CANTO IV. Note 1. Stanza i. I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand. The communication between the Ducal palace and the prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered gal- lery, high above the water, and divided by a stone wall into a passage and a cell. The state dungeons, called « pozzi,» or wells, were sunk in the thick walls of the palace; and the prisoner, when taken out to die, was conducted across the gallery to the other side, and being then led back into the other compartment or celi, upon the bridge, was there strangled. The low portal through which the criminal was taken into this cell is now walled up; but the passage is still open, and is still known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are under the flooring of the chamber at the foot of the bridge. They were formerly twelve, but on the first arrival of the French, the Venetians hastily blocked or broke up the deeper of these dungeons. You may still, however, descend by a trap-door, and crawl down through holes, half choked by rubbish, to the depth of two storeys below the first range. If you are in want of consola- tion for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps you may find it there ; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into the narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the places of confinement themselves are totally dark. A small hole in the wall admitted the damp air of the passages, and served for the introduction of the prisoner's food. A wooden pallet, raised a foot from the ground, was the only furniture. The conductors tell you that a light was not allowed. The cells are about five paces in length, two and a half in width, and seven feet in height. They are directly beneath one another, and respiration is somewhat difficult in the lower holes. Only one prisoner was found when the republicans descended into these hideous recesses, and he is said to have been confined sixteen years. But the inmates of the dungeons beneath had left traces of their repentance, or of their despair, which are still visible, and may perhaps owe something to recent ingenuity. Some of the detained appear to have offended against, and others to have belonged to, the sacred body, not only from their signatures, but from the churches and belfries which they have scratched upon the walls. The reader may not object to see a specimen of the records prompted by so terrific a soli- tude. As nearly as they could be copied by more than one pencil, three of them are as follows: WON TI FIDAR d' ALCUNO, PENSA e TACI SE FUGGIR VUOI DI SPIONI INSID1E e LACCI CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 10 IL PENTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA MA E BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 1607. ADI 2. GENARO. FUI RE- TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA P' AVER DATO DA MANZAR A UN MORTO IACOMO. GRITTI. SCRISSE. 2. UN PARLAR POCO et NEGARE PRONTO et UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA A NOI ALTRI MESCHINI i6o5. EGO IOHN BAPTISTA AD ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 3. DI CHI MI FIDO GUARDAM1 DIO DI CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDERO IO LA C H . RlfA The copyist has followed, not corrected the solecisms; some of which are, however, not quite so decided, since the letters were evidently scratched in the dark. It only need be observed, that Bestemmia and Mangiar may be read in the first inscription, which was probably written by a prisoner confined for some act of impiety committed at a funeral: that Cortellarius is the name of a parish on terra firma, near the sea: and that the last initials evidently are put for Viva la Santa Chiesa Kattolica Romana. Note 2. Stanza ii. She looks a sea Cybele fresh from ocean, Rising with her liara of proud towers. An old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, has made use of the above image, which would not be poetical were it not true : « Quo Jit ut qui superne nrbem contempletur, turri- tam telluris, imaginem medio oceanojiguratam se putet inspicere.» l Note 3. Stanza iii. In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alternate stanzas, from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with the inde- pendence of Venice. Editions of the poem, with the original on one column, and the Venetian variations on the other, assungby the boatmen, were once common, and are still to be found. The following extract will serve to show the difference between the Tuscan epic and the «Canta alia Barcariola.» ORIGINAL. Canto 1' arnii pietose, e 'I capitano Che '1 gran sepolcro libero di Crista. Molto egli opro col senno, e con la mano, Molto soffri nel glorioso acquisto ; E in van 1' Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vano S' armo d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto, Che il Ciel gli die favore, e sotto a i santi Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. VENETIAN. L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, E de Goffredo la immortal braura, Che al fin 1' ha libera co slrassia, e dogia Del nostro buon Gesu la sepoltura ; De me/o mondo unito, e de quel Bogia Missier Pluton no 1' ha bu mai paura ; Dio 1' ha agiuta, e i compagni sparpagnal Tutti '1 gh' i ha messi insieme i di del Dai. 1 Marci Antonii Sabelli, de Venetae Urbis situ, narratio, edit. Taurin. 1627, lib. 1. fol. 202. Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up and continue a stanza of their once familiar bard. On the 71I1 of last January, the author of Childe Harold, and another Englishman, the writer of this no- tice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one of whom was a carpenter, and the other a gondolier. The former placed himself at the prow, the latter at the stern of the boat. A little after leaving the quay of the Piazetta, they began to sing, and continued their exercise until we arrived at the island. They gave us, amongst other essays, the death of Clorinda,and the palace of Armida; and did not sing the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. The carpenter, however, who was the cleverer of the two, and was frequently obliged to prompt his compa- nion, told us that he could translate the original, He added, that he could sing almost three hundred stanzas, but had not spirits (niorbin was the word he used) to learn anymore, or to singwhathe already knew: a man must have idle time on his hands to acquire or to repeat, and, said the poor fellow, « look at my clothes and at me; I am starving.)) This speech was more affecting than his performance, which habit alone can make at- tractive. The reck stive was shrill, screaming, and mo- notonous; and the gondolier behind assisted his voice by holding his hand to one side of his mouth. The carpenter used a quiet action, which he evidently en- deavoured to restrain, but was too much interested in his subject altogether to repress. From these men we learnt that singing is not confined lo the gondoliers, and that, although the chaunt is seldom, if ever, vo- luntary, there are still several amongst the lower classes who are acquainted with a few stanzas. It does not appear that it is usual for the performers to row and sing at the same time. Although the verses of the Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is yet much music upon the Venetian canals; and upon holi- days, those strangers who are not near or informed enough todistinguish ihewords, may fancy that mauyof the gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. The writer of some remarks which appeared in the Curio- sities of Literature must excuse his being twice quoted; for, with the exception of some phrases a little too am- bitious and extravagant, he has furnished a very exact, as well as agreeable description. «In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long pas- sages from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chaunt them with a peculiar melody. But this talent seems at present on the decline : — at least, after taking some pains, I could find no more than two persons who delivered to me in this way a passage from Tasso. I must add, that the late Mr Berry once chaunted to me a passage in Tasso in the manner, as he assured me, of the gondoliers. « There are always two concerned, who alternately sing the strophes. We know the melody eventually by Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed ; it has properly no melodious movement, and is a sort of medium between the canto fermo and the canto ligurato; it approaches to the former by recitativical declamation, and to the latter by passages and course, by which one syllable is detained and embellished. « I entered a gondola by moonlight; one singer placed himself forwards, and the other aft, and thus proceeded to St Georgio. One began the song : when he had ended his~strophe, the other look up the lay, and so continued the song alternately. Throughout the whole of it, the same notes invariably returned, but according to the io8 BYRON'S WORKS. subject matter of the strophe, they laid a greater or a smaller stress, sometimes on one, and sometimes on another note, and indeed changed the enunciation of the whole strophe as the object of the poem altered. « On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse and screaming: they seemed, in the manner of all rude un- civilized men, to make the excelleucy of their singing in the force of their voice: one seemed desirous of con- quering the other by the strength of his lungs; and so far from receiving delight from this scene (shut up as I was in the box of the gondola), I found myself in a very unpleasant situation. s< My companion, to whom I communicated this cir- cumstance, being very desirous to keep up the credit of his countrymen, assured me that this singing was very delightful when heard at a distance. Accordingly we got out upon the shore, leaving one of the singers in the gondola, while the other went to the distance of some hundred paces. They now began to sing against one another, and I kept walking up and down between them both, so as always to leave him who was to begin his part. I frequently stood still and hearkened to the one and to the other. « Here the scene was properly introduced. The strong, declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, met the ear from far, and called forth the attention; the quickly succeeding transitions, which necessarily required to be sung in a lower tone, seemed like plaintive strains suc- ceeding the vociferation of emotion or of pain. The other, who listened attentively, immediately began where the former left off, answering him in milder or more vehement notes, according as the purport of the strophe required. The sleepy canals, the lofty buildings, the splendour of the moon, the deep shadows of the few gondolas, that moved like spirits hither and thither, in- creased the striking peculiarity of the scene; and, amidst all these circumstances, it was easy to confess the cha« racter of this wonderful harmony. k It suits perfectly well with an idle solitary mariner, lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these ca- nals, waiting for his company or for a fare, the tire- someness of which situation is somewhat alleviated by the songs and poetical stories he has in memory. He often raises his voice as loud as he can, which extends itself to a vast distance over the tranquil mirror; and, as all is still around, he is, as it were, in a solitude in the midst of a large and populous town. Here is no rat- tling of carriages, no noise of foot-passengers : a silent gondola glides nowand then by him, of which the splash- ing of the oars is scarcely to be heard. « At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly un- known to him. Melody and verse immediately attach the two strangers ; he becomes the responsive echo to the for- mer, and exerts himself to be heard as he had heard the other. Byatacitconventionthey alternate verse for verse; though the song should last the whole night through, they entertain themselves without fatigue; the hearers, who are passing between the two, take part in the amusement. «This vocal performance sounds best at a great dis- tance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only fulfils its design in the sentiment of remoteness. It is plaintive, but not dismal in its sound, and at times it is scarcely possible to refrain from tears. My companion, who otherwise was not a very delicately organised person, said quite unexpectedly: 'e singolare come quel canto intenerisce, e molto piu quando lo cantano meglio.' « I was told that the women of Libo, the long row of islands that divides the Adriatic from the Lagouns,' particularly the women of the extreme districts of Ma- lamocca and Palestrina, sing in like manner the works of Tasso, to these and similar tunes. «They have the custom, when their husbands are fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the evenings and vociferate these songs, and continue to do so with great violence, till each of them can distinguish the responses of her own husband at a distance." 2 The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all classes of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of Italy. The city itself can occasionally furnish respectable au- diences for two and even three opera-houses at a time; and there are few events in private life that do not call forth a printed and circulated sonnet. Does a physician or a lawyer take his degree, or a clergyman preach his maiden sermon, has a surgeon performed an operation, would a harlequin announce his departure or his benefit, are you to be congratulated on a marriage or a birth, or a law-suit, the Muses are iuvoked to furnish the same number of syllables, and the individual triumphs blaze abroad in virgin white or party-coloured placards on half the corners of the capital. The last curtsey of a favourite «primadonna» brings down a shower of these poetical tributes from those upper regions, from which, in our theatres, nothing but cupids and snow-storms are accustomed to descend. There is a poetry in the very life of a Venetian, which, in its common course, is va- ried with those surprises and changes so recommendable in fiction, but so different from the sober monotony of northern existence ; amusements are raised into duties, duties are softened into amusements, and every object being considered as equally making a part of the bu- siness of life, is announced and performed with the same earnest indifference and gay assiduity. The Ve- netian gazette constantly closes its columns with the following triple advertisement; Charade. Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the Church of St =— Theatres. St Moses, opera. St Benedict, a comedy of characters. St Luke, repose. When it is recollected what the Catholics believe their consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think it worthy of a more respectable niche than between poetry and the playhouse. Note 4- Stanza x. Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the stran- gers who praised the memory of her son. Note 5. Stanza xi. St Mark yet sees his lion where he stood Stand. ~ The lion has lost nothing by his journey to the In- valides, but the gospel which supported the paw that is now on a level with the other foot. The horses, also, are returned to the ill-chosen spot whence they set out, and are, as before, half hidden under the porch win- dow of St Mark's Church. 1 The writer meant Lido, which is no', a long row of islands, but a long island — lit'us, the shore. 2 Curiosities of Literature, vol. ii. p, i56, edit. 1807 ; and Appen- dix xxix. 10 Black's Life of Tasso. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 109 Their history, after a deperate struggle, has been sa- tisfactorily explored. The decisions and doubts of Erizzo and Zanetti, and lastly, of the Count Leopold Ci- cognara, would have given them a Roman extraction, and a pedigree not more ancient than the reign of Nero. But M. de Schlegel stepped in to teach the Venetians the value of their own treasures, and a Greek vindicated, at last and for ever, the pretension of his countrymen to this noble production. ' Mr Mustoxidi has not been left without a reply,- but, as yet, he has received no an- swer. It should seem that the horses are irrevocably Chian, and were transferred to Constantinople by The- odosius. Lapidary writing is a favourite play of the Italians, and has conferred reputation on more than one of their literary characters. One of the best speci- mens of Bodoni's typography is a respectable volume of inscriptions, all written by his friend Pacciaudi. Seve- ral were prepared for the recovered horses. It is to be hoped the best was not selected, when the following words were ranged in gold letters above the cathedral porch : QUATUOR . EQUORUM . SIGNA . A . VENETIS . BYZANTIO . CAPTA . AD . TEMP . D . MAR . A . R . S . MCCIV . POSITA . QVM, . HOSTILIS . CUPIDITAS . A . MDCCCIII . ABSTULERAT . FRANC . I . IMP . PACIS . ORBI . DXTM . TROPH^UM . A . MDCCCXV . VICTOR . REDUXIT. Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be per- mitted to observe, that the injustice of the Venetians in transporting the horses from Constantinople was at least equal to that of the French in carrying them to Paris, and that it would have been more prudent to have avoid- ed all allusions to either robbery. An apostolic prince should, perhaps, have objected to affixing, over the principal entrance of a metropolitan church, an in- scription having a reference to any other triumphs than those of religion. Nothing less than the pacification of the world can excuse such a solecism. Note 6. Stanza xii. Tbe Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — An emperor tramples where an emperor knelt. After many vain efforts on the part of the Ita-lians entirely to throw off the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, and as fruitless attempts of the emperor to make him- self absolute master throughout the whole of his Cisal- pine dominions, the bloody struggles of four-and-twenty years were happily brought to a close in the city of Ve- nice. The articles of a treaty had been previously agreed upon between Pope Alexander III and Barba- rossa, and the former, having received a safe-conduct, had already arrived at Venice from Ferrara, in com- pany with the ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the consuls of the Lombard league. There still remained, however, many points to adjust, and for several days the peace was believed to be impracticable. At this juncture it was suddenly reported that the emperor had arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the ca- pital. The Venetians rose tumultuously, and insisted upon immediately conducting him to the city. The Lombards took the alarm, and departed towards Treviso. The Pope himself was apprehensive of some disaster if Frederic should suddenly advance upon him, but was re- assured by the prudence and address of Sebastian Ziani, the Doge. Several embassies passed between Chioza 1 Sui quattro cavalli della Basilica di S. Marco in Venezia. Lettera diAndrea Mustoxidi Gorcirese. Padora, perBettoni e compagni, 1816. and the capital, until, at last, the emperor relaxing somewhat of his pretensions, "laid aside his leonine fe- rocity, and put on the mildness of the lamb.» * On Saturday the 2 3d of July, in the year 11 77, six Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great pomp, from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile from Venice. Early the next morning the Pope, accompanied by the Sicilian ambassadors, and by the envoys of Lombardy, whom he had recalled from the main land, together with a great concourse of people, repaired from the pa- triarchal palace to Saint Mark's Church, and solemnly absolved the emperor and his partisans from the ex- communication pronounced against him. The chan- cellor of the empire, on the part of his master, re- nounced the anti-popes and their schismatic adherents. Immediately the doge, with a great suite both of the clergy and laity, got on board the galleys, and waiting on Frederic, rowed him in mighty state from the Lido to the capital. The emperor descended from the galley at the quay of the Piazzetta. The doge, the patriarch, his bishops and clergy, and the people of Venice, with their crosses and their standards, marched in solemn procession before him to the church of Saint Mark. Alexander was seated before the vestibule of the basi- lica, attended by his bishops and cardinals, by the pa- triarch of Aquileja, by the archbishops and bishops of Lombardy, all of them in state, and clothed in their church robes. Frederic approached — « moved by the Holy Spirit, venerating the Almighty in the person of Alexander, laying aside his imperial dignity, and throw- ing off his mantle, he prostrated himself at full length at the feet of the Pope. Alexander, with tears in his eyes, raised him benignantly from the ground, kissed him, blessed him; and immediately the Germans of the train sang, with a loud voice, 'We praise thee, O Lord.' The emperor then taking the Pope by the right hand, led him to the church, and, having received his bene- diction, returned to the ducal palace. » 2 The ceremony of humiliation was repeated the next day. The Pope himself, at the request of Frederic, said mass at Saint Mark's. The emperor again laid aside his imperial mantle, and, taking a wand in his hand, officiated as verger, driving the laity from the choir, and preceding the pontiff to the altar. Alexander, after reciting the gospel, preached to the people. The emperor put him- self close to the pulpit in the attitude of listening; and the pontiff, touched by this mark of his attention, for he knew that Frederic did not understand a word he said, commanded the patriarch of Aquileja to translate the Latin discourse into the German tongue. The creed was then chauuted. Frederic made his oblation, and kissed the Pope's feet, and, mass being over, led him by the hand to his white horse. He held the stirrup, and would have led the horse's rein to the water side, had not the Pope accepted of the inclination for the per- formance, and affectionately dismissed him with his benediction. Such is the substance of the account left by the archbishop of Salerno, who was present at the ceremony, and whose story is confirmed by every sub- sequent narration. It would be not worth so minute a record, were it not the triumph of liberty as well as. ' o Ouibus a«ditus, imperator, operante eo, qui corda principum sicutvultet quando Tult humiliter inclinat, leonina feritate de- posita, ovinam mansuetudinem induit.* Bomualdi Salernitani, Cbronicon. apud Script. Rer. Ital. torn. VII. p. 229. 2 Ibid. p. 23 1. I IO BYRON'S WORKS. of superstition. The states of Lombardy owed to it the confirmation of their privileges; and Alexander had reason to thank the Almighty, who had enabled an in- firm, unarmed old man to subdue a terrible and potent sovereign. • Note 7. Stanza xii. Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo! Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. The reader will recollect the exclamation of the high- lander, Oh, for one hour of Dundee ! Henry Dandolo, when elected doge, in 1 192, was eighty-five years of age. When he commanded the Venetians at the taking of Constantinople he was consequently ninety-seven years old. At this age he annexed the fourth and a half of the whole empire of Romania, 2 for so the Roman em- pire was then called, to the title and to the territories of the Venetian Doge. The three-eighths of this empire were preserved in the diplomas until the dukedom of Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of the above desig- nation in the year 1 357. 3 Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person: two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied toge- ther, and a drawbridge or ladder let down from their higher yards to the walls. The doge was one of the first to rush into the city. Then was completed, said the Venetians, the prophecy of the Erythraean sybil : «A gathering together of the powerful shall be made amidst the waves of the Adriatic, under a blind leader : they shall beset the goat — they shall profane Ryzan- tium — they shall blacken her buildings — her spoils shall be dispersed ; a new goat shall bleat until they have measured out and run over fifty-four feet, nine inches, and a half.»4 Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, having reigned thirteen years, six months, and five days, and was buried in the church of St Sophia, at Constantino- ple. Strangely enough it must sound, that the name of the rebel apothecary who received the doge's sword, and annihilated the ancient government in 1796-7, was Dandolo. Note 8. Stanza xiii. But is not Doria's menace come to pass 1 Are they not bridled? After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking of Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united armament of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, 1 See the above-cited Bomuald of Salerno. In a second sermon which Alexander preached, on the first day of August, before the emperor, he compared Frederic to the prodigal son, and himself to the forgiving father. 2 Mr Gibbon has omitted the important fe, and has written Bomani instead of BornamV : — Decline and Fall, chap. lxi. note 9. But the title acquired by Dandolo runs thus in the chronicle of his namesake, the Doge Andrew Dandolo : — Ducali tilulo addidit, « Quarlce partis ct dimidice totius imperii Romanics.* And. Dand. Chronicon. cap. iii, pars xxxvii. ap. Script. Ber. Ital. torn. xii. page 33i . And the Bo- manice is observed in the subsequent acts of the doges. Indeed the continental possessions of the Greek empire in Europe were then generally known by the uame of Romania, and that appellation is still seen in the maps of Turkey as applied to Thrace. 3 See the continuation of Dandolo's Chronicle, ibid. p. 498. Mr Gibbon appears not to include Dolfino, following Sanudo, who says, uil qual titolo si uso fin al Doge Giovanni Dolfino. » See Vite de' Duchi de Venezia, ap. Script. Rer. Ital. torn. xxii. 53o, 641. 4 « Fiet potentium in aquis Adriaticis congregatio, oaeco praeduce, Hircum ambigent, Byzantium prophanabunt, aedificia denigrabunt ; I spolia dispergentur, Hircus novus balabit usque dum liv pedes et ix pollices et semis, praimensuratl discurrant.» Chronicon. ibid, pari; xxxiv. Signor of Padua, the Venetians were reduced to the ut- most despair. An embassy was sent to the conquerors with a blank sheet of paper, praying them to prescribe what terms they pleased, and leave to Venice oniy her independence. The Prince of Padua was inclined to listen to these proposals, but the Genoese, who, after the victory at Pola, had shouted, « to Venice, to Venice, and long live St George, » determined to annihilate their rival, and Peter Doria, their commander in chief, re- turned this answer to the suppliants: «On God's faith, gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no peace from the Signor of Padua, nor from our commune of Genoa, until we have first put a rein upon those unbridled horses of yours, that are upon the porch of your evangelist St Mark. When we have bridled them, we shall keep you quiet. And this is the pleasure of us and of our com- mune. As for these my brothers of Genoa, that you have brought with you to give up to us, I will not have them: take them back; for, in a few days hence, I shall come and let them out of prison myself, both these and all the others. » ' In fact, the Genoese did advance as far as Malamocco, within five miles of the capital; but their own danger and the pride of their enemies gave courage to the Venetians, who made pro- digious efforts, and many individual sacrifices, all of them carefully recorded by their historians. Vettor Pisani was put at the head of thirty -four galleys. The Genoese broke up from Malamocco, and retired to Chioza in October; but they again threatened Venice, which was reduced to extremities. At this time, the 1 st of January, i38o, arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been cruising on the Genoese coast with fourteen galleys. The Venetians were now strong enough to besiege the Genoese. Doria was killed on the 2 2d of January by a stone bullet a hundred and ninety-five pounds weight, discharged from a bombard called the Trevisan. Chioza was then closely invested; five thousand auxiliaries, amongst whom were some English Condottieri, com- manded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the Venetians. The Genoese, in their turn, prayed for conditions, but none were granted until, at last, they surrendered at discretion; and, on the 24th of June, i38o, the Doge Contarini made his triumphal entry into Chioza. Four thousand prisoners, nineteen galleys, many smaller vessels and barks, with all the ammunition and arms, and outfit of the expedition, fell into the hands of the conquerors, who, had it not been for the inexorable an- swer of Doria, would have gladly reduced their domi- nion to the city of Venice. An account of these trans- actions is found in a work called the War of Chioza, written by Daniel Chinazzo, who was in Venice at the time. 2 Note 9. Stanza xiv. The u Planter of the Lion.» Plant the Lion — that is, the Lion of St Mark, the 1 u Alia fe de Dio, Signori Veneziani, non averete mai pace dal Signore di Padoua, ne dal nostro comuue di Genova, se primiera- mente non mettemo le briglie a quelli vostri cavalli sfrenati, che sono su la Bezadel Vostro Evangelista S. Marco. Infrenati che gli avremo, vi faremo stare in buona pace. E questa e la intenzione nostra, e del nostro comuue. Questi miei fratelli Genovesi, che avete menali con voi per donarci, non li voglio; rimanetegli in dietro perche io intendo da qui a pochi giorni venirgli a riscuoter dalle vostre prigioni, e loro e gli altri.n 2 « Chronica della guerra di Chioza, » etc., Script. Rer. Ital. torn, xv, pp. 690, to 804. CHJLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. l i i standard of the republic, which is the origin of the word Pantaloon — Pianta-leone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. Note 10. Stanza xv. Thin streets and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. The population of Venice at the end of the seventeenth century amounted to nearly two hundred thousand souls. At the last census, taken two years ago, it was no more than about one hundred and three thousand, and it diminishes daily. The commerce and the official employments, which were to be the unexhausted source of Venetian grandeur, have both expired. 1 Most of the patrician mansions are deserted, and would gradually disappear, had not the government, alarmed by the de- molition of seventy-two, during the last two years, ex- pressly forbidden this sad resource of poverty. Many remnants of the Venetian nobility are now scattered and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the banks of the Brenta, whose palladian palaces have sunk, or are sinking, in the general decay. Of the « gentil uomo Veneto,» the name is still known, and that is all. He is but the shadow of his former self, but he is polite and kind. It surely may be pardoned to him if he is que- rulous. Whatever may have been the vices of the re- public, and although the natural term of its existence may be thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due course of mortality, only one sentiment can be expected from the Venetians themselves. At no time were the subjects of the republic so unanimous in their resolution to rally round the standard of St Mark, as when it was for the last time unfurled ; and the cowardice and the treachery of the few patricians who recommended the fatal neutrality, were confined to the persons of the traitors themselves. The present race cannot be thought to regret the loss of their aristocratical forms, and too despotic go- vernment; they think only on their vanished independ- ence. They pine away at the remembrance, and on this subject suspend for a moment their gay good-hu- mour. Venice may be said, in the words of the scrip- ture, « to die daily;» and so general and so apparent is the decline, as to become painful to a stranger, not reconciled to the sight of a whole nation expiring, as it were, before his eyes. So artificial a creation, having lost that principle which called it into life and sup- ported its existence, must fall to pieces at once, and sink more rapidly than it rose. The abhorrence of slavery, which drove the Venetians to the sea, has, since their disaster, forced them to the land, where they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd of dependants, and not present the humiliating spec- tacle of a whole nation loaded with recent chains. Their liveliness, their affability, and that happy indifference which constitution alone can give, for philosophy aspires to it in vain, have not sunk under circumstances; but many peculiarities of costume and manner have by degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a pride com- mon to all Italians who have been masters, have not been persuaded to parade their insignificance. That splendour which was a proof and a portion of their power, they would not degrade into the trappings 1 « Nonnullorum e nobilitate immensae sunt opes, adeo ut vix a?stimari possint : id quod tribus e rebus oritur, parsimonia, com- mercio, atque iis emolumentis, quae e Repub. percipiunt, quae hauc ob causam diuturna fore creditur.i— See De Principatibus Italia; Tractatus, edit. i63i. of their subjection. They retired from the space which they had occupied in the eyes of their fellow- citizens; their continuance in which would have been a symptom of acquiescence, and an insult to those who suffered by the common misfortune. Those who remained in the degraded capital might be said rather to haunt the scenes of their departed power, than to live in them. The reflection, « who and what enthrals,. > will hardly bear a comment from one who is, na- tionally, the friend and the ally of the conqueror. It may, however, be allowed to say thus much, that, to those who wish to recover their independence, any masters must be an object of detestation; and it may be safely foretold that this unprofitable aversion will not have been corrected before Venice shall have sunk into the slime of her choked canals. Note ii. Stanza xvi. Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse. The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. Note 12. Stanza xviii. And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art. Venice Preserved; Mysteries of Udoipho ; the Ghost- seer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice; Othello. Note 1 3. Stanza xx. But from their nature will the tannen grow Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks. Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir pecu- liar 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. Note i/f- Stanza xxviii. A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er hal-f the lovely heaven. The above description may seem fantastical or exag- gerated to those who 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 contemplated in one of many rides along the banks of the Brenta near La Mira. Note 1 5. Stanza xxx. Watering the tree which bears his lady's name With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, we now know as little of Laura as ever. * The discoveries of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his sneers, can no longer instruct or amuse. 2 We must not, however, think that these memoirs are as much a romance as Belisarius or the Incas, although we are told so by Dr Beattie, a great name, but a little authority. 3 His "la- bours has not been in vain, notwithstanding his « love» has, like most other passions, made him ridiculous, i The hypothesis which overpowered the struggling Ita- * See An historical and critical Essay on the Life and Character of Petrarch ; and a Dissertation on an Historical Hypothesis of the Abbe de Sade: the first appeared about the year 1784 ; the other is inserted in the fourth volume of the Transactions of the Royal So- ciety of Edinburgh, and both have been incorporated into a work, published, under the first title, by Ballantyne in 1810. 2 Memoires pour la Vie de Petrarque. 3 Life of Beattie, by Sir W. Forbes, t. ii. p. 106. 4 Mr Gibbon called his Memoirs u a labour of love,-* (see Decline and Fall, cap. Ixs, note 1.) and followed him with confidence and delight. The compiler of a very voluminous work must take much criticism upon trust ; Mr Gibbon has done so, though not so readily as some other authors. I 12 BYRON'S WORKS. Hans, and carried along less interested critics in its current, is run out. We have another proof that we can never he sure that the paradox, the most singular, and therefore having the most agreeable and authentic air, will not give place to the re-established ancient pre- judice. It seems then, first, that Laura was born, lived, died, and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the country. The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cabrieres, may resume their pretensions, and the exploded de la Bastie again be heard with complacency. The hypo- thesis of the Abbe had no stronger props than the parchment sonnet and medal found on the skeleton of the wife of Hugo de Sade, and the manuscript note to the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Ambrosian library. If these proofs were both incontestable, the poetry was written, the medal composed, cast, and deposited, with- in the space of twelve hours; and these deliberate du- ties were performed round the carcase of one who died of the plague, and was hurried to the grave on the day of her death. These documents, therefore, are too de- cisive : they prove, not the fact, but the forgery. Either the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a falsification. The Abbe cites both as incontestably true; the conse- quent deduction is inevitable — they are both evidently false, * Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a haughty virgin rather than that tender and prudent wife who honoured Avignon by making that town the theatre of an honest French passion, and played off for one-and- lwenty years her little machinery of alternate favours and refusals 2 upon the first poet of the age. It was, indeed, rather too unfair that a female should be made responsible for eleven children upon the faith of a mis- interpreted abbreviation, and the decision of a librarian. 3 It is, however, satisfactory to think that the love of Petrarch was uot platonic. The happiness which he prayed to possess but once and for a moment was surely not of the mind,4 and something so very real as a mar- riage project, with one who has been idly called a shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected in at least six places of his own sonnets. 5 The love of Petrarch was neither platonic nor poetical ; and, if in one passage of his works he calls it « amore veemeuteissimo ma 1 The sonnet had before awakened the suspicions of Mr Horace Walpole. See his letter to Wharton in 1763. 2 u Par ce petit manege, cette alternative de faveurs et de rigueurs bien menagee, une femme tendre et sage amuse, pendant vingt-un uns, le plus grand poete de son siecle, sans faire la moindre breche a son honneur.D Mem. pour la Vie de Petrarque, Preface aux Fran- cais. The Italian editor of the London edition of Petrarch, who has translated Lord Woodbouselee, renders the " femme tendre et sage," « raffinata civella.» Riflessioni intorno a Madonna Laura, p. 234, vol. iii. ed. 1811. 3 In a dialogue with St Augustin, Petrarch has described Laura as having a body exhausted with repeated ptubs. The old editors read and printed perturbationibus ; but M. Capperonier, librarian to the French King, in 1762, who saw the MS. in the Paris library, made an attestation that u on lit et qu'on doit lire, partibus exhaus- tum.n De Sade joined the names of Messrs Boudot and Bejot with M. Capperonier, and in the whole discussion on this ptubs, showed himself a downright literary rogue. See Riflessioni, etc., p. 267. Thomas Aquinas is called in to settle whether Petrarch's mistress was a chaste maid or a continent wife. 4 a Pignialion, quanto lodarti dei Dell' immagine tua, se mille volte N' avesti quel ch' i' sol uua vorrei.n Sonetto 58, Quando giunse a Simon I' alto concetto. Le Rime, etc. par. i, pag. 189. edit Ven. 1756. 5 See Riflessioni, etc. p. 291. unico ed onesto,» he confesses, in a letter to a friend, that it was guilty and perverse, that it absorbed him quite, and mastered his heart. > In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed for the culpability of his wishes; for the Abbe de Sade himself, who certainly would not have been scrupu- lously delicate, if he could have proved his descent from Petrarch as well as Laura, is forced into a stout defence of his virtuous grandmother. As far as relates to the poet, we have no security for the innocence, except perhaps in the constancy of his pursuit. He assures us, in his epistle to posterity, that, when arrived at his fortieth year, he not only had in horror, but had lost all recollection and image of any « irregularity. » 2 But the birth of his natural daughter cannot be assigned earlier that his thirty-ninth year; and either the me- mory or the morality of the poet must have failed him, when he forget or was guilty of this slip. 3 The weakest argument for the purity of this love has been drawn from the permanence of effects, which survived the object of his passion. The reflection of M. de la Bastie, that virtue alone is capable of making impressions which death cannot efface, is one of those which every body applauds, and every body finds not to be true, the mo- ment he examines his own breast or the records of human feeling. 4 Such apophthegms can do nothing for Petrarch or for the cause of morality, except with the very weak and the very young. He that has made even a little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage, cannot be edified with any thing but truth. What is called vindicating the honour of an individual or a nation, is the most futile, tedious, and uninstructive of all writing; although it will always meet with more applause than that sober criticism, which is attributed to the malicious desire of reducing a great man to the common standard of humanity. It is, after all, not unlikely, that our historian was right in retaining his favourite hypothetic salvo, which secures the author, although it scarcely saves the honour of the still unknown mistress of Petrarch. 5 Note 16. Stanza xxxi. They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died. Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his return from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V at Borne, in the year' 1370, and, with the exception of his cele- brated visit to Venice in company with Francesco No- vello da Carrara, he appears to have passed the four last years of his life between that charming solitude and Padua. For four months previous to his death he was in a state of continual languor, and in the morning of July the 19th, in the year 1374, was fouud dead in his library chair with his head resting upon a book. The chair is still shown amongst the precious relics of Arqua, which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has been attached to every thing relative to this great man, from 1 u Quella rea e perversa passione che solo tutto mi occupava e mi regnava nel cuore.n 2 Azion disonesta, are his words. 3 " A questa confessione cost sincera diede forse occasione una nuovacaduta ch : ei fece.» Tiraboschi, Storia, etc., 10m. v. lib. iv. par. ii. pag. 492. 4 u II n y a que la vertu seule qui soil capable de faire dcs impres- sions que la mort n efface pas. » M. de Bimard, Baron de la Bastie, in the Memoires de l'Academie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres for 1740 and 1761. See also Riflessioni, etc., p. 295. 5 « And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was inexorable, he enjoyed, and might boast of enjoying the nymph of poetry, n Decline and Fall, cap. lxx. p. 327. vol. xii. oct. Perhaps the if is here meant for although. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. the moment of his death to the present hour, have, it may be hoped, a better chance of authenticity than the Shakspeariau memorials of Stratford upon Avon. Arqua ( for the last syllable is accented in, pronun- ciation, although the analogy of the English language has been observed in the verse), is twelve miles from Padua, and about three miles on the right of the high road to Rovigo, in the bosom of the Euganean hills. After a walk of twenty minutes, across a flat well-wooded meadow, you come to a little blue lake, clear but fathom- less, and to the foot of a succession of acclivities and hills, clothed with vineyards and orchards, rich with fir and pomegranate trees, and every sunny fruit-shrub. From the banks of the lake the road winds into the hills, and the church of Arqua is soon seen between a cleft where two ridges slope towards each other, and nearly inclose the village. The houses are scattered at intervals on the steep sides of these summits; and that of the poet is on the edge of a little knoll overlooking two descents, and commanding a view not only of the glowing gar- dens in the dales immediately beneath, but of the wide plains, above whose low woods of mulberry and willow, thickened into a dark mass by festoons of vines, tall single cypresses, and the spires of towns are seen in the distance, which stretches to the mouths of the Po and the shores of the Adriatic. The climate of these volcanic hills is warmer, and the vintage begins a week sooner than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he cannot be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus of red marble, raised on four pilasters on an elevated base, and preserved from an association with meaner tombs. It stands conspicuously alone, but will be soon over- shadowed by four lately-planted laurels. Petrarch's fountain, for here every thing is Petrarch's, springs and expands itself beneath an artificial arch, a little below the church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest season, with that soft water which was the ancient wealth of the Euganean hills. It would be more attractive, were it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets and wasps. No other coincidence could assimilate the tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. The revolutions of centuries have spared these sequestered valleys, and the only vio- lence which has been offered to the ashes of Petrarch was prompted, not by hate, but veneration. An attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus of its treasure, and one of the arms was stolen by a Florentine through a rent which is still visible. The injury is not forgotten, but has served to identify the poet with the country where he was born, but where he would not live. A peasant boy of Arqua being asked who Petrarch was, replied, « that the people of the parsonage knew all about him, but that he only knew that he was a Floren- tine." Mr Forsyth « was not quite correct in saying, that Petrarch never returned to Tuscany after he had once quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass through Florence on his way from Parma to Piome, and on his return in the year 1 35o, and remained there loug enough to form some acquaintance with its most distinguished inhabitants. A Florentine gentleman, ashamed of the aversion of the poet for his native country, was eager to point out this trivial error in our accomplished traveller, whom he knew and respected for an extraordinary capacity, extensive erudition, and refined taste, joined 1 Remarks, etc., on Italy, p. o5. note, 2nd edit. to that engaging simplicity of manners which has been so frequently recognized as the surest, though it is certainly not an indispensable, trait of superior genius. Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously traced and recorded. The house in which he lodged is shown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in order to decide the ancient controversy between their city and the neighbouring Ancisa, where Petrarch was carried when seven months old, and remained until his seventh year, have designated by a long inscription the spot where their great fellow-citizen was born. A tablet has been raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St Agatha, at the cathedral, 1 because he was archdeacon of that society, and was only snatched from his intended sepul- ture in their church by a foreign death. Another ta- blet with a bust has been erected to him at Pavia, on account of his having passed the autumn of i368 in that city, with his son-in-law Brossano. The political condition which has for ages precluded the Italians from the criticism of the living, has concentrated their attention to the illustration of the dead. Note 17. Stanza xxxiv. Or, it may be, with demons. The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demons as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilder- ness for the temptation of Our Saviour. And our un- sullied John Locke preferred the presence of a child to complete solitude. Note 18. Stanza xxxviii. In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire ; And Boileau, whose rash envy, etc. Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates Tasso may serve as well as any other specimen to justify the opinion given of the harmony of French ve:se. A Malherbe, a Racan, preferer Theopbile, Et le clinquant du Tasse a tout lor de Yirgile. Sat. ix, verse 176. The biographer Serassi, 2 out of tenderness to the repu- tation either of the Italian or the French poet, is eager to observe that the satirist recanted or explained away this censure, and subsequently allowed the author of the Jerusalem to be a « genius sublime, vast, and happily born for the higher flights of poetry.» To this we will add, that the recantation is far from satisfactory, when 1 D. 0. M. Francisco Petrarch® Parmensi Archidiacono. Parentibus praeclaris genere perantiquo Ethices Christiana- scriptori exiuiio Romanae lingua rcstiiutori Etruscae principi Africa? ob carmen hac in uibe peractum regibus acoito S. P. O. R. laurea donate Tanti Viri Jirvenilium juvenis senilium senex Studiosissimus Comes >"icolaus Canonicus Cicof;narus Marmorea proxima ara excitata. Ibique condito Diva; Janr.ariae cruento corpore n. m. p. Suffectum Sed infra meritum Francisci sepulchro Summa hac in ade efferri mandantis Si Parma? occumberet Extera morte heu nobis erepti. 2 La vita del Tasso, lib. iii, p. 2S4. torn. edit. Bergamo, 15 "4 BYRON'S WORKS. we examine the whole anecdote as reported by Olivet." The sentence pronounced against him by Bohours 2 is recorded only to the confusion of the critic, whose pa- linodia the Italian makes no effort to discover, and would not perhaps accept. As to the opposition which the Jerusalem encountered from the Cruscan academy, who degraded Tasso from all competition with Ariosto, below Bojardo and Pulci, the disgrace of such opposition must also in some measure be laid to the charge of Alphonso, and the court of Ferrara. For Leonard Sal- viati, the principal and nearly the sole origin of this attack, was, there can be no doubt, 3 influenced by a hope to acquire the favour of the House of Este : an object which he thought attainable by exalting the repu- tation of a native poet at the expense of a rival, then a ■prisoner of state. The hopes and efforts of Salviati must serve to show the contemporary opinion as to the nature of the poet's imprisonment;, and will fill up the measure of our indignation at the tyrant jailor. 4 In fact, the antagonist of Tasso was not disappointed in the reception given to his criticism; he was called to the court of Ferrara, where, having endeavoured to heighten his claims to favour, by panegyrics on the family of his sovereign, 5 he was in his turn abandoned, and expired in neglected poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans was brought to a close in six years after the commence- I mentofthe controversy; and if the academy owed its first renown to having almost opened with such a para- { dox, G it is probable that, on the other hand, the care I of his reputation alleviated rather than aggravated the I imprisonment of the injured poet. The defence of his j father and of himself, for both were involved in the censure of Salviati, found employment for many of his solitary hours, and the captive could have been but little embarrassed to reply to accusations, where, amongst other delinquencies, he was charged with invidiously omitting, in his comparison between France and Italy, to make any mention of the cupola of St Maria del Fiore at Florence. 7 The late biographer of Ariosto seems as if willing to renew the controversy by doubting the interpretation of Tasso's self-estimation, 8 related in Serassi's life of the poet. But Tiraboschi had before 1 Histoire dc l'Academie Franchise, depuis i65?_ jusqu'a 1700, par l'abbe d'Olivet, p. 181, edit. Amsterdam, 1780. << Mais, ensuite, venant a l'usage qu'il a fait de ses talens, j'aurais montre que le bon sens n'est pas toujours ce qui domine chez lui,» p. 182. Boi- leau said he had not changed his opinion : « J'en ai si pea change, dit-il,» etc., p. 181 . 2 La maniere de bien penser dans les ouvrages de l'esprit, sec. dial. p. 89. edit. 1692. Pbilantb.es is for Tasso, and says, in the outset, « de tous les beaux esprits que l'ltalie a portes, le Tasse est peut-eire celui qui pense le plus noblement.n But Bohours seems to speak in Eudoxus, who closes with the absurd comparison : « Faites valoir le Tasse tant qu'il tous plaira, je m'en tiens pour inoi a Virgile,» etc., ib. p. 102. 3 La Vita, etc. lib. iii, p. 90, torn. ii. The English reader may see an account of the opposition of the Crusca to Tasso, in Br Black, Life, etc. cap. xvii. vol. ii. 4 For further, and, it is hoped, decisive proof, that Tasso was neither more nor less than a prisoner oj slate, the reader is referred to « HisTOr.iCAL Illustrations of tiie IVth Canto of Cuilbis Harold, » p. 5, and following. 5 Orazioni funebri. . . .Belle lodi di Bon Luigi Cardinal d'Este. . . . Belle lodi di Bonno Alfonso d'Este. See La Vita, lib. iii, pag. 117. It was founded in 1682, and the Cruscan answer to Pellegrinol's Carp/fa or epica poesia was published in 1 5S4- ' u Cotanto pote sempre in lui il veleno della sua pessima volonta contro alia uazion Fiorentina.n La Vita, lib. iii, pp. 96, 98. torn. ii. 8 La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, scritta dall' Abate Girolamo Baruffaldi giuniore, etc., Ferrara, 1807. lib. iii, page 262. See Historical Illus- trations, etc. p. 26. laid that rivalry at rest,' by showing, that between Ariosto and Tasso it is not a question of comparison, but of preference. Note 19. Stanza xli. The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves. Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from the Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his bust, which surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, and a crown of iron laurels melted away. The event has been recorded by a writer of the last century. 2 The transfer of these sacred ashes on the 6th of June, 1801, was one of the most brilliant spectacles of the short- lived Italian Republic, and to consecrate the memory of the ceremony, the once famous fallen Intrepidi were revived and re-formed in the Ariostean academy. The large public place through which the procession paraded was then for the first time called Ariosto Square. The author of the Orlando is jealously claimed as the Homer, not of Italy, but Ferrara. 3 The mother of Ariosto was of Reggio, and the house in which he was born is carefully distinguished by a tablet with these words : « Qui nacque Ludovico Ariosto il giorno 8 di Seltembre dell' anno i474-" But the Ferrarese make light of the accident by which their poet was born abroad, and claim him exclusively for their own. They possess his bones, they show his arm-chair, and his ink- stand, and his autographs. nc ulius arma, Hie currus fuit. The house where he lived, the room where he died, are designated by his own replaced memorial, 4 and by a recent inscription. The Ferrarese are more jealous of their claims since the animosity of Denina, arising from a cause which their apologists mysteriously hint is not unknown to them, ventured to degrade their soil and climate to a Boeotian incapacity for all spiritual produc- tions. A quarto volume has been called forth by the detraction, and this supplement to Baretti's Memoirs of the illustrious Ferrarese has been considered a trium- phant repiy to the « Ouadro Storico Statistico dell' Alta Italia. » Note 20. Stanza xli. For the true laurel-wreath which glory weaves Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. The eagle, the sea-calf, the laurel, 5 and the white vine, 6 were amongst the most approved preservatives against lightning : Jupiter chose the first, Augustus Cae- sar the second, 7 and Tiberius never failed to wear a wreath of the third when the sky threatened a thunder- storm. 8 These superstitions may be received without a 1 Storia della Lett., etc. lib. iii, torn, vii, par. iii, p. 1220, sect. /f. 2 u Mi raccontarono que' monaci, ch' essendo caduto 1111 fulmine nella loro cbiesa schianto esso dalle tempie la corona di lauro a quell' immortale poeta." Op. di Bianconi, vol. iii, p. 176. ed. Milano, 1802; lettera al Signer Guido Savini Arciiisiocritico, sull' indole di un fulmine caduto in Bresda 1' anno '75g. 3 « Appassionato ammiratore ed inviito apologisla dell' Omero Ferrarese." The title was first given by Tasso, and is quoted to the confusion of the Tassisti, lib. iii, pp. 262, 265. La Vita di M. L. Ari- osto, etc. 4 u Parva, seJ apta mihi, sed nnlli obnoxia, sed non Sordidn, parta meo sed tamen a?re domus." 5 Aquila, vitu'lus marinus, et laurus, fulmine non feriuntur. Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. ii, cap.lv. 6 Columella, lib. x. ' Sueton, in Vit. August, cap. xc. 8 Id. in Vit. Tiberii, cap. Ixix. CFIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. Il5 sneer in a country where the magical properties of the hazel twig have not lost all their credit ; and perhaps the reader may not be much surprised to find that a com- mentator on Suetonius has taken upon himself gravely to disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of Tibe- rius, by mentioning that, a few years before he wrote, a laurel was actually struck by lightning at Rome. « Note 21. Stanza xli. Know that the lightning sanctifies below. The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the Forum, having been touched by lightning, were held sacred, and the memory of the accident was preserved by a pitteal, or altar, resembling the mouth of a well, with a little chapel covering the cavity supposed, to be made by the thunderbolt. Bodies scathed and persons struck dead were thought to be incorruptible ; 2 and a stroke not fatal conferred perpetual dignity upon the man so distinguished by Heaven. 3 Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a white garment, and buried where they fell. The superstition was not confined to the worshippers of Jupiter : the Lombards believed in the omens furnished by lightning, and a Christian priest confesses that by a diabolical skill in interpreting thunder, a seer foretold to Agilulf, duke of Turin, an event which came to pass, and gave him a queen and a crown. 4 There was, however, something equivocal in this sign, which the ancient inhabitants of Rome did not always consider propitious; and as the fears are likely to last longer than the consolations of superstition, it is not strange that the Romans of the age of Leo X should have been so much terrified at some misinterpreted storms as to require the exhortations of a scholar, who arrayed all the learning on thunder and lightning to prove the omen favourable : beginning with the flash which struck the walls of Velitra and includ- ing that which played upon a gate at Florence, and foretold the pontificate of one of its citizens. 5 Note 22. Stanza xlii. Italia, oh Italia, etc. The two stanzas, XLH and XLIII, are, with the ex- ception of a line or two, a translation of the famous sonnet of Filicaja : u Italia, Italia, O tu cui feo la sorte." Note 2 3. Stanza xliv. Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind. The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero, on the death of his daughter, describes as it then was, and now is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both by sea and land, in different journeys and voyages. « On my return from Asia, as I was sailing from jEgina towards 3Iegara; I began to contemplate the prospect of the countries around me : -Lgina was behind, Megara before me; Piraeus on the right, Corinth on the left; all which towns, once famous and flourishing, now lie overturned and buried in their ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but think presently within myself, 1 >'ote 2. p. 4°9- edit. Lugd.-Bat. 1667. 2 Vid. J. C. Bullenger, de Terra? motu et Fulminibus, lib. t. cap. si. 3 OueMg -/.zpy.vvbiS-ls or~Ly.o$ eari, o&sv y.y.i wg S-iis Tt'/KTCW. Plut. Sympos., vid. J. C. Bulleng. ut sup. 4 Pauli Diaconi, de gestis Langobard. lib. iii, cap. sir, fo. xv, edit. Taurin. 1 J2-. 5 I. P. Valeriani, de fulminum significaiionibus declamatio, ap. Craw. Aniiq. Rom. torn. v. p. 5().>. The declamation is addressed to Julian of Jledicis. Alas ! how do we poor mortals fret and vex ourselves if any of our friends happen to die or be killed, whose life is yet so short, when the carcases of so many noble cities lie here exposed before me in one view.» ' Note 24. Stanza xlvi. 1 Br Middletoa — History of the Life of 31. Tullius Cicero, sect, vii, pag. 871, vol. ii. 2 Be fortunes varietate urbis Romas et de minis ejusdenides-VipLo. ap. Sallengre, Thesaur. torn, i, pag. 5oi. 3 See Jlonim. Ant. ined. par. i, cap. xvii, a. xlii, pag. 5<> ; and Storia delle arti, etc. lib. xi, cap. 1. torn, ii, p. 3 1 -i, not. B. 4 >"omina gentesque Anliqua? Italise, p. 204, edit. oct. and we pass The skeleton of her Titanic form. It is Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline hill j upon ruined Fiome, breaks forth into the exclamation, « Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, iustar gigantei cadaveris corrupti atque undique exesi.» 2 Note 2 5. Stanza xlix. There, too, the goddess loves in stone. The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests the lines in the Seasons; and the comparison of the ob- ject with the description proves, not only the correct- ness of the portrait, but the peculiar turn of thought, and, if the term may be used, the sexual imagination of j the descriptive poet. The same conclusion may be de- duced from another hint in the same episode of JMusi- clora ; for Thomson's notion of the privileges of favoured love must have been either very primitive, or rather deficient in delicacy, when he made his grateful nymph inform her discreet Damon that in some happier mo- ment he might perhaps be the companion of her bath : u The time may come you need not fly." The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the life of Dr. Johnson. We will not leave the Florentine gallery without a word on the JVhetter. It seems strange that the character of that disputed statue should not be entirely decided, at least in the mind of any one who has seen a sarcophagus in the vestibule of the Basilica of St Paul without the walls, at Tiome, where the whole group of the fable of Marsyas is seen in tolerable pre- servation ; and the Scythian slave whett'ng the knife is represented exactly in the same position as this celebrated masterpiece. The slave is not naked : but it is easier to get rid of this difficulty than to suppose the knife in the hand of the Florentine statue an in- strument for shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi supposes, the man is no other than the barber of Ju- lius Caesar. 'Winkelmann, illustrating a bas-relief of the same subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agos- tiui, and his authority might have been thought con- clusive, even if the resemblance did not strike the most careless observer. 3 Amongst the bronzes of the same princely collection, is still to be seen the inscribed tablet copied and com- mented upon by 31r Gibbon. 4 Our historian found some difficulties, but did not desist from his illustra- tion : he might be vexed to hear that his criticism has been thrown away on an inscription now generally re- cognized to be a forgery. Note 26. Stanza li. his eyes to thee upturn, Feeding on thy sweet cheek. >. . . . Atque oculos paseat uterque suos.i — Ovid. Amor. Hi. ii. BYRON'S WORKS. Note 27. Stanza liv. In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie. This name will recal the memory, not only of those whose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into the centre of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of her whose eloquence was poured over the illustrious ashes, and whose voice is now as mute as those she sung. Corinna is no more; and with her should expire the fear, the flattery, and the envy, which threw too daz- zling or too dark a cloud round the march .of genius, and forbad the steady gaze of disinterested criticism. We have her picture embellished or distorted, as friend- ship or detraction has held the pencil: the impartial portrait was hardly to be expected from a contempo- rary. The immediate voice of her survivors will, it is probable, be far from affording a just estimate of her singular capacity. The gallantry, the love of wonder, and the hope of associated fame, which blunted the edge of censure, must cease to exist. — The dead have no sex; they can surprise by no new miracles; they can confer no privilege : Corinna has ceased to be a woman — she is only an author: and it may be foreseen that many will repay themselves for former complai- sance, by a severity to which the extravagance of pre- vious praises may perhaps give the colour of truth. The latest posterity, for to the latest posterity they will assuredly descend, will have to pronounce upon her various productions ; and the longer the vista through which they are seen, the more accurately minute "will be the object, the more certain the justice of the deci- sion. She will enter into that existence in which the great writers of all ages and nations are, as it were, associated in a world of their own, and from that su- perior sphere shed their eternal influence for the con- trol and consolation of mankind. But the individual will gradually disappear as the author is more dis- tinctly seen : some one, therefore, of all those whom the cliarms of involuntary wit, and of easy hospitality, attracted within the friendly circles of Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those virtues which, although they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, more fre- quently chilled than excited by the domestic cares of private life. Some one should be found to portray the unaffected graces with which she adorned those dearer relationships, the performance of whose duties is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets, than seen in the outward management, of family inter- course; and which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of genuine affection to qualify for the eye of an indiffe- rent spectator. Some one should be found, not to celebrate, but to describe, the amiable mistress of an open mansion, the centre of a society, ever varied, and always pleased, the creator of which, divested of the ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone forth only to give fresh animation to those around her. The mo- ther tenderly affectionate and tenderly beloved, the friend unboundedly generous, but still esteemed, the charitable patroness of all distress, cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, protected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned the most where she was known the best; and, to the sorrows of very many friends and more dependants, may be offered the disinterested re- gret of a stranger, who, amidst the sublimer scenes of the Leman lake, received his chief satisfaction from contemplating the engaging qualities of the incompa- rable Corinna. Note 28. Stanza liv. here repose Angelo's, Alfieri's bones. Allien is the great name of this age. The Italians, without waiting for the hundred years, consider him as «a poet good in law.» — His memory is the more dear to them because he is the bard of freedom; and be- cause, as such, his tragedies can receive no countenance from any of their sovereigns. They are but very seldom, and but very few of them, allowed to be acted. It was observed by Cicero, that no where were the true opi- nions and feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at the theatre. 1 In the autumn of 18 16, a celebrated im- provvisatore exhibited his talents at the Opera-house of Milan. The reading of the theses handed in for the sub- jects of his poetry was received by a very numerous au- dience, for the most part in silence, or with laughter ,- but when the assistant, unfolding one of the papers, exclaimed, « The apotheosis of Fictor Alfieri,* the whole theatre burst into a shout, and the applause was continued for some moments. The lot did not fall on Alfieri; and the Signor Sgricci had to pour forth his extemporary common-places on the bombardment of Algiers. The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite so much as might be thought from a first view of the ceremony; and the police not only takes care to look at the papers beforehand, but in case of any prudential after-thought, steps in to correct the blindness of chance. The proposal for deifying Alfieri was received with immediate enthusiasm, the rather because it was conjectured there would be no opportunity of carrying it into effect. Note 29. Stanza liv. Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose. The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscrip- tions, which so often leaves us uncertain whether the structure before us is an actual depository, or a ceno- taph, or a simple memorial not of death but life, lias given to the tomb of Machiavelli no information as to the place or time of the birth or death, the age or pa- rentage, of the historian. TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM NICCOLAVS MACHIAVELLI. There seems at least no reason why the name should not have been put above the sentence which alludes to it. It will readily be imagined that the prejudices which have passed the name of Machiavelli into an epithet proverbial of iniquity, exist no longer at Florence. His memory was persecuted as his life had been, for an at- tachment to liberty, incompatible with the new system of despotism, which succeeded the fall of the free go- vernments of Italy. He was put to the torture for being a « libertine,* that is for wishing to restore the re- public of Florence ; and such are the undying efforts 1 The free expression of their honest sentiments survived their liberties. Titius, the friend of Antony, presented them with games in the theatre of Pompey. They did not suffer the brilliancy of the spec- tacle to efface from their memory that the man who furnished them with the entertainment had murdered the son of Pompey. They drove him from the theatre with curses. The moral sense of a populace, spontaneously expressed, is never wrong. Even the soldiers of the triumvirs joined in the execration of the citizens, by shouting round the chariots of Lepidus and Plancus, who had proscribed their bro- thers, De Cermanis non de Gallis duo triumphant Consules; a saying worth a reeord, were it nothing but a good pun. C. Vell.Paterculi Hist, lib. ii, cap. lxxix, pag. 78, edit. Elzevir. 1639. Ibid. lib. ii, cap. lxxvii. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. of those who are interested in the perversion not only of the nature of actions, hut the meaning of words, that what was once patriotism, has hy degrees come to signify debauch. We have ourselves outlived the old meaning of « liberality," which is now another word for treason in one country and for infatuation in all. It seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse the au- thor of the Prince, as being a pander to tyranny; and to think that the inquisition would condemn his work for such a delinquency. The fact is, that Machiavelli, as is usual with those against whom no crime can be proved, was suspected of and charged with atheism ; and the first and last most violent opposers of the Prince were both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the inqui- sition « benche fosse tardo,» to prohibit the treatise, and the other qualified the secretary of the Florentine republic as no better than a fool. The father Possevin was proved never to have read the book, and the father Lucchesini not to have understood it. It is clear, how- ever, that such critics must have objected not to the slavery of the doctrines, but to the supposed tendency of a lesson which shows how distinct are the interests of a monarch from the happiness of mankind. The Jesuits are re-established in Italy, and the last chapter of the Prince may again call forth a particular refuta- tion, from those who are employed once more in moulding the minds of the rising generation, so as to receive the impressions of despotism. The chapter bears for title, « Esortazione a liberare la Italia dai Bar- baric and concludes with a libertine excitement to the future redemption of Italy. « Non si deve adunque lasciar passare questa occasione, acciocche la Italia vegga dopo tanto tempo apparire un sno redentore. Ne posso esprimere con qual amove eifusse ricevuto in tutte quelle provincie, cite hanno patito per queste U- luvioni esterne, con qual sete di vendetta, con che os- tinata fede, con che lacrime. Quali porte se li serre- rebbeno ? Quali popoli li negherebbeno la obbedienza 1 Quale Italiano li ?ieglierebbe V ossequio? AD ognuno PUZZA QUESTO BARBARO DOMINIO.W » Note 3o. Stanza Ivii. Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar. Dante was born in Florence in the year 1261. He fought in two battles, was fourteen times ambassador, and once prior of the republic. When the party of Charles of Anjou triumphed over the Bianchi, he was absent on an embassy to Pope Boniface VIII, and was condemned to two years' banishment, and to a fine of eight thousand lire; on the non-payment of which he was further punished by the sequestration of all his property. The republic, however, was not content with this satisfaction, for in 1772 was discovered in the archives at Florence a sentence in which Dante is the eleventh of a list of fifteen condemned in i3oa to be burnt alive; Talis perveniens ignc comburatur sic quod moriatur. The pretext for this judgment was a proof of unfair barter, extortions, and illicit gains : Baracte- riarum iniquarum, extorsionum, et illicitorum lucro- rum, 2 and with such an accusation it is not strange that Dante should have always protested his. innocence, and 1 II Principe di Niccolo Machiavelli, etc., con la prefazione e le note istoriche e politicbe di M. Amelot de la Houssaye, e 1" esame e confutazione dell' opera. . . Cosmopoli, 1769. 2 Storia della Lett. Ital. torn, v, lib. iii, par. 2, p. 448. Tira- boschl is incorrect : tbe dates of the three decrees against Dante are A. D. i3o2, j3i4, and i3i6. the injustice of his fellow-citizens. His appeal to Flo- rence was accompanied by another to the Emperor Henry; and the death of that sovereign, in i3i3, was the signal for a sentence of irrevocable banishment. He had before lingered near Tuscany, with hopes of recal, then travelled into the north of Italy, where Verona had to boast of his longest residence, and he finally settled at Ravenna, which was his ordinary but not constant abode until his death. The refusal of the Ve- netians to grant him a public audience, on the part of Guido Novello da Polenta, his protector, is said to have been the principal cause of this event, which happened in io2i. He was buried (« in sacra minorum a?de),» at Ravenna, in a handsome tomb, which was erected by Guido, restored by Bernardo Bembo in 1483, pretor for that republic which had refused to hear him, again restored by Cardinal Corsi in 1692, and replaced by a more magnificent sepulchre, constructed in 1780 at the expense of the Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The offence or misfortune of Dante was an attachment to a defeated party, and, as his least favourable biographers allege against him, too great a freedom of speech and haughtiness of manner. But the next age paid honours almost divine to the exile. The Florentines, having in vain and frequently attempted to recover his body, crowned his image in a church, ' and his picture is still one of the idols of their cathedral. They struck medals, they raised statues to him. The cities of Italy, not being able to dispute about his own birth, contended for that of his great poem, and the Florentines thought it for their honour to prove that he had finished the seventh Canto, before they drove him from his native city. Fifty-one years after his death, they endowed a professorial chair for tbe expounding of his verses, and Boccaccio was appointed to this patriotic employment. The example was imitated hy Bologna and Pisa, and the commentators, if they performed but little service to literature, augmented the veneration which beheld a sacred or moral allegory in all the images of his mystic muse. His birth and his infancy were discovered to have been distinguished above those of ordinary men; the author of the Decameron, his earliest biographer, relates that his mother was warned in a dream of the importance of her pregnancy; and it was found, by others, that at ten years of age he had manifested his precocious passion for that wisdom or theology which, under the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a substantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy had been recognized as a mere mortal production, and at the distance of two centuries, when criticism and com- petition had sobered the judgment of Italians, Dante "vas seriously declared superior to Homer, - and though I he preference appeared to some casuists « an heretical blasphemy worthy of the flames," the contest was vi- gorously maintained for nearly fifty years. In later times it was made a question which of the Lords of Verona could boast of having patronized him, 3 and the jealous scepticism of one writer would not allow Ra- venna the undoubted possession of his bones. Even the critical Tirahoschi was inclined to believe that the poet had foreseen and foretold one of the discoveries of ' So relates Ficino, but some think his coronation only an alle- gory. See Storia, etc., ut sup. p. 4^3. 2 By Varchi in his Ercolano. The controversy continued from 1570 to 1616. See Storia, etc., torn, vii, lib. iii, par. iii, p. 1280. 3 Gio. Jacopo Dionisi canonico di Verona. Serie di Aoeddotti, n. 2. See Storia, etc., torn, v, lib. i, par. i, p. 24. I 1 BYRON'S WORKS. Galileo. Like the great originals of other nations, his popularity has not always maintained the same level. The last age seemed inclined to undervalue him as a model and a study; and Dettinelli one day rebuked his pupil Monti, for poring over the harsh and obsolete- extravagances of the Commedia. The present genera- tion, having recovered from the Gallic idolatries of Cesarotti, has returned to the ancient worship, and the Dantcggiare of the northern Italians is thought even indiscreet by the more moderate Tuscans. There is still much curious information relative to the life and writings of this great poet, which has not as yet been collected even by the Italians ; but the cele- brated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this defect; and it is not to be regretted that this national work has been reserved for one so devoted to his country and the cause of truth. Note 3 1. Stanza lvii. Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore: Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, Proscribed, etc. The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb, if he was not buried, at Liternum, whither he had retired to volun- tary banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, and the story of an inscription upon it, Ingraia Patria, having given a name to a modern tower, is, if not true, an agreeable fiction. If he was not buried, he certainly lived there. 1 In cosi angusta e solitaria villa Era '1 grand' uomo che d'Africa s'appella Perche prima col ferro al vivo apprilla. 2 Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar to republics; and it seems to be forgotten, that, for one instance of popular inconstancy, we have a hundred examples of the fall of courtly favourites. Besides, a people have often repented — a monarch seldom or never. Leaving apart many familiar proofs of this fact, a short story may show the difference between even an aristocracy and the multitude. Vettor Pisaui, having been defeated in 1 3 54 at Porto- longo, and many years afterwards in the more decisive action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by the Venetian government, and thrown into chains. The Avvogadori proposed to behead him, but the supreme tribunal was content with the sentence of imprison- ment. Whilst Pisaui was suffering this unmerited dis- grace, Chioza, in the vicinity of the capital, 3 was, by the assistance of the Signor of Padua, delivered into the hands of Pietro Doria. At the intelligence of that disaster, the great bell of St Mark's tower tolled to arms, and the people and the soldiery of the galleys were summoned to the repulse of the approaching enemy; but they protested they would not move a step, unless Pisani were liberated, and placed at their head. The great council was instantly assembled : the prisoner was called before them, and the Doge, Andrea Contarini, informed him of the demands of the people and the necessities of the state, whose only hope of safety was reposed on his efforts, and who implored him to forget the indignities he had endured in her service. « I have submitted, » replied the magnanimous 1 Vitam Literni egit sine desiderio urbis. See T. Liv. Hist. lib. xsxyiii. Livy reports that some said he was buried at Liternum. others at Rome. lb. cap. lv. 2 Trionfo della Castita. 3 Sje note to Stanza XIII. republican, «I have submitted to your deliberations without complaint; I have supported patiently the pains of imprisonment, for they were inflicted at your com- mand: this is no lime to inquire whether I deserved them — the good of the republic may have seemed to require it, and that which the republic resolves is always resolved wisely. Behold me ready -to lay down my life for the preservation of my country.)) Pisani was appointed generalissimo, and, by his exertions, in conjunction with those of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon recovered the ascendancy over their maritime rivals. The Italian communities were no less unjust to their citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, both with the one and the other, seems to have been a national, not an individual object : and, notwithstanding the boast- ed equality before the laws, which an ancient Greek writer « considered the great distinctive mark between his countrymen and the barbarians, the mutual rights of fellow-citizens seem never to have been the principal scope of the old democracies. The world may have not yet seen an essay by the author of the Italian Republics, in which the distinction between the liberty of former states, and the signification attached to that word by the happier constitution of England, is ingeniously deve- loped. The Italians, however, when they had ceased to be free, still looked back with a sigh upon those times of turbulence, when every citizen might rise to a share of sovereign power, and have never been taught fully to appreciate the repose of a monarchy. Sperone Speroni, when Francis Maria II, Duke of Rovero, proposed the question, « which was preferable, the republic or the principality — the perfect and not durable, or the less perfect and not so liable to change, » replied, « that our happiness is to be measured by its quality, not by its duration; and that he preferred to live for one day like a man, than for a hundred years like a brute, a stock, or a stone. » This was thought, and called a mag- nificent answer, down to the last days of Italian ser- vitude. 2 Note 32. Stanza lvii. and the crown Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. The Florentines did not take the opportunity of Pe- trarch's short visit to their city, in i35o, to revoke the decree which confiscated the property of his father, who had been banished shortly after the exile of Dante. His crown did not dazzle them ; but when, in the next year, they were in want of his assistance in the formation of their university, they repented of their injustice, and Boccaccio was sent to Padua to intreat the laureat to conclude his wanderings in the bosom of his native country, where he might finish his immortal Africa, and enjoy, with his recovered possessions, the esteem of all classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him the op- tion of the book and the science he might condescend to expound : they called him the glory of his country, who was dear, and would be dearer to them; and they added, that if there was any thing unpleasing in their letter, he ought to return amongst them, were it only to ' The Greek boasted that he was l(jOVO/J.OX.—See the last chap- ter of the first book of Dionysius of Halicarnassus. 2 o E intorno alia magnified risposta," etc. Serassi, Vila del Tasso, lib. iii, pag. 149, torn, ii, edit. 2, Bergamo. GHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. JI 9 correct their style. 1 Petrarch seemed at first to listen to the flattery and to the intrcaties of his friend, hut he did not return to Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to the tomb of Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. Note 33. Stanza lviii. Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd His dust. Coccaccio -was buried iu the church of St Michael and St James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Valdelsa, which was by some supposed the place of his birth. There he passed the latter part of his life in a course of laborious study, which shortened his existence; and there might his ashes have been secure, if not of honour, at least of repose. But the « hyaena brgots» of Certaldo tore up the tomb-stone of Boccaccio, and ejected it from the holy precincts of St Michael and St James. The oc- casion, and, it may be hoped, the excuse of this eject- ment, was the making of a new floor for the church: but the fact is, that the tomb-stone was taken up and thrown aside at the bottom of the building. Ignorance may share the sin with bigotry. It would be painful to relate such an exception to the devotion of the Italians for their great names, could it not be accompanied by a trait more honourably conformable to the general cha- racter of the nation. The principal person of the district, the last branch of the house of Medicis, afforded that protection to the memory of the insulted dead which her best ancestors had dispensed upon all contemporary merit. The Marchioness Lenzoni rescued the tomb-stone of Boccaccio from the neglect in which it had some time •lain, and found for it an honourable elevation in her own mansion. She has done more: the house in which the poet lived has been as little respected as his tomb, and is falling to ruin over the head of one indifferent to the name of its former tenant. It consists of two or three little chambers, and a low tower, on which Cosmo II affixed an inscription. This house she has taken mea- sures to purchase, and proposes to devote to it that care and consideration which are attached to the cradle and to the roof of genius. This is not the place to undertake the defence of Boc- caccio; but the man who exhausted his little patrimony in the acquirement of learning, who was amongst the first, if not the first, to allure the science and the poetry of Greece to the bosom of Italy ; — who not only invented a new style, but founded, or certainly fixed, a new lan- guage; who, besides the esteem of every polite court of Europe, was thought worthy of employment by the pre- dominant republic of his own country, and, what is more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who lived the life of a philosopher and a freeman, and who died in the pursuit of knowledge, — such a man might have found more consideration than he has met with from the priest of Certaldo, and from a late English traveller, who strikes off his portrait as an odious, contemptible, li- centious writer, whose impure remains should be suf- fered to rot without a record. z That English traveller, 1 « Accingiti innoltre, se ci e lecito ancor 1' esorlarti, a compire 1' immortal tua Africa. . . Se ti avviene d'incor.trare nel nostro stile cosa che ti dispiaccia, cio debb' essere un altro motivo ad esaudire i desiderj della tua patria.n StoriadellaLett. Ital. torn, v, par. i, lib. i, p. 76. 2 Classical Tour, cap. is, vol. ii, p. 355, edit. 3d. » Of Boccaccio, the modem Petronius, we say nothing ; the abuse of genius is more odious and more contemptible than its absence; and it imports little where the impure remains of a licentious author are consigned to their kindred dust. For the same reason the traveller may pass unnoticed the torn!) of the malignant Aretino.n This dubious phrase is hardly enough to save the tourist from the unfortunately for those who have to deplore the loss of a very amiable person, is beyond all criticism; but the mortality which did not protect Boccaccio from Mr Eustace, must not defend Mr Eustace from the impar- tial judgment of his successors. Death may canonize his virtues, not his errors ; and it may be modestly pro- nounced that he transgressed, not only as an author, but as a man, when he evoked the shade of Boccaccio in company with that of Aretino, amidst the sepulchres of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it with indignity. As far as respects « II flagello de' Principi, II divin Pietro Aretino." it is of little import what censure is passed upon a cox- comb who owes his present existence to the above bur- lesque character given to him by the poet whose amber has preserved «nany other grubs and worms : but to classify Boccaccio with such a person, and to excom- municate his very ashes, must of itself make us doubt of the qualification of the classical tourist for writing upon Italian, or, indeed, upon any oilier literature; for ignorance on one point may incapacitate an author merely for that particular topic, but subjection to a pro- fessional prejudice must render him an unsafe director on all occasions. Any perversion and injustice may be made what is vulgarly called « a case of conscience, » and this poor excuse is all that can be offered for the priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classical Tour. It would have answered the purpose to confine the cen- sure to the novels of Boccaccio ; and gratitude to that source which supplied the muse of Dryden with her last and most harmonious numbers, might perhaps have re- stricted that censure to the objectionable qualities of the hundred tales. At any rate, the repentance of Boc- caccio might have arrested his exhumation, and it should have been recollected and told, that in his old age he wrote a letter inlreating his friend to discourage the reading of the Decameron, for the sake of modesty, and for the sake of the author, who would not have an apolo- gist always at hand to state in his excuse that he wrote it when young, and at the command of his superiors. 1 It is neither the licentiousness of the writer, nor the evil propensities of the reader, which have given to the De- cameron alone, of all the works of Boccaccio, a perpe- | tual popularity. The establishment of anew and delight- ful dialect conferred an immortality on the works in which it was first fixed. The sonnets of Petrarch were, for the same reason, fated to survive his self-admired Africa, the « favourite of kings. » The invariable traits of nature and feeling, with which the novels, as well as the verses, abound, have, doubtless, been the chief source of the foreign celebrity of both authors ; but Boccaccio, as a man, is no more to be estimated by that work, than Petrarch is to be regarded in no other light than as the suspicion of another blunder respecting the burial-place of Aretino, whose tomb was in the church of St Luke at Venice, and gave rise to the famous controversy of which some notice is taken in Bayle. A'ow the words of Mr Eustace would lead us to think the tomb was at Florence, or at least was to be somewhere recognized. \Yhetherthe inscription so much disputed was ever written on ;he tomb cannot now be decided, for all memorial of this author has disappeared from the church of St Luke, which is now changed into a lamp-wareh juse. 1 u Non enim ubique est, qui in escusationem meam consuvgens dicat, juvenis scripsit, et majoris coactus irnperio.» The letter was addressed to Maghinard of Cavalcanti, marshal of the kingdom of Sicily. See Tiraboschi, Storia, etc. torn, v, par. ii, lib. ill, p. 525. ed. Ven. 120 BYRON'S WORKS. lover of Laura. Even, however, had the father of the Tuscan prose been known only as the author of the De- cameron, a considerate writer would have been cautious to pronounce a sentence irreconcileable with the un- erring voice of many ages and nations. An irrevocable value has never been stamped upon any work solely re- commended by impurity. The truesourceofthe outcry against Boccaccio', which began at a very early period, was the choice of his scan- dalous personages in the cloisters as well as the courts; but the princes only laughed at the gallant adventures so unjustly charged upon Queen Theodelinda, whilst the priesthood cried shame upon the debauches drawn from the convent and the hermitage ; and, most probably, for the opposite reason, namely, that the picture was faithful to the life. Two of the novels are allowed to be facts, usefully turned into tales, to deride the canonization of rogues and laymen. Ser Ciappelletto and Marcellinus are cited with applause even by the decent Muratori. 1 The great Arnaud, as he is quoted in Bayle, states, that a new edition of the novels was proposed, of which the expurgation consisted in omitting the words « monk » .and « nun,» and tacking the immoralities to other names. The literary history of Italy particularizes no such edition ; but it was not long before the whole of Europe had but one opinion of the Decameron ; and the absolution of the author seems to have been a point set- tled at least a hundred years ago : « On se ferait siffler si Ton pretendait convaincre Boccace de n avoir pas ete honuete homme, puisqu'il a fait le Decameron. » So said one of the best men, and perhaps the best critic, that ever lived — the very martyr to impartiality. 2 But as this information, that in the beginning of the last century one would have been hooted at for pretending that Boc- caccio was not a good man, may seem to come from one of those enemies who are to be suspected, even when they make us a present of truth, a more accept- able contrast with the proscription of the body, soul, and muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few words from the virtuous, the patriotic contemporary, who thought one of the tales of this impure writer worthy a Latin version from his own pen. « / have remarked elsewhere,* says Petrarch, writing to Boccaccio, « that the hook itself has been worried by certain dogs, but stoutly defended by your staff and voice. Nor was I astonished, for I have had -proof of the vigour of your mind, and I know you have fallen on that unaccom- modating incapable race of mortaU who, whatever they either like not, or know not, or cannot do, are sure to reprehend in others, and on those occasio7is only put on a show of learning atid eloquence, but otherwise are entirely dumb.n^ It is satisfactory to find that ail the priesthood do not resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them who did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. 1 Dissertazioni sopra le antickita Italiane. Diss, lviii, p. 253. torn, iii, edit. Milan, 1751. 2 Eclaircissement, etc. etc. p. 638. edit. Basle, 1741, in the Sup- plement to Bayle's Dictionary. 3 k Anioiadverli alicubi librnm ipsum canum dentibus lacessitum, tuo tamen baculo egregie tuaque voce defensum. ~Sec miratus sum : nam et vires ingenii tui novi, et scio eipertus esses hominum genus insolens et ignavum, qui, quicquid ipsi vel nolunt, vel nes:iunt, vel non possunt, in aliis reprehendunt ; ad hoc uniini docti et arguti, sed elingues ad reliqua.n Epist. Joan. Boccatio, opp, torn, i, p. 540. edit. Basil. Bevius, canon of Padua, at the beginning of the 16th century, erected at Arqua, opposite to the tomb of the laureat, a tablet, in which he associated Boccaccio to the equal honours of Dante and of Petrarch. Note 34. Stanza lx. What is her pyramid of precious stones T Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo, and expires with his grandson; that stream is pure only at the source ; and it is in search of some memorial of the virtuous republicans of the family, that we visit the church of St Lorenzo at Florence. The tawdry, glaring, unfinished chapel in that church, designed for the mau- soleum of the Dukes of Tuscany, set round with crowns and coffins, gives birth to no emotions but those of con- tempt for the lavish vanity of a race of despots, whilst the pavement slab, simply inscribed to the Father of his Country, reconciles us to the name of Medici. * It was very natural for Corinna 2 to suppose that the statue raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella de depositi was intended for his great namesake ; but the magni- ficent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a coffin half hidden in a niche of the sacristy. The decay of Tuscany dates from the sovereignty of the Medici. Of the sepulchral peace which succeeded to the establishment of the reign- ing families in Italy, our own Sidney has given us a glowing, but a faithful picture. « Notwithstanding all the seditions of Florence, and other cities of Tuscany, the horrid factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and Bianchi, nobles and commons, they continued populous, strong, and exceeding rich ; but in the space of less than a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable reign of the Medices is thought to have destroyed nine parts in ten of the people of that province. Amongst other things it is remarkable, that when Philip the Second of Spain gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, his ambassador then at Rome sent him word, that he had given away more than 65o,ooo subjects; and it is not believed there are now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and terri- tory. Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and other towns, that were then good and populous, are in the like pro- portion diminished, and Florence more than any. When that city had been long troubled with seditions, tumults, and wars, for the most part unprosperous, they still retained such strength, that when Charles VIII of France, being admitted as a friend with his whole army, which soon after conquered the kingdom of Naples, thought to master them, the people taking arms struck such a terror into him, that he was glad to de- part upon such conditions as they thought fit to impose. Machiavel reports, that, in that time, Florence alone, with the Val d'Arno, a small territory belonging to that city, could, in a few hours, by the sound of a bell, bring together i35,ooo well-armed men; whereas now that city, with all the others in that province, are brought to such despicable weakness, emptiness, poverty, and base- ness, that they can neither resist the oppressions of their own prince, nor defend him or themselves if they were assaulted by a foreign enemy. The people are dispersed or destroyed, and the best families sent to seek habita- tions in Venice, Genoa, Bome, Naples, and Lucca. This is not the effect of war or pestilence; they enjoy a perfect peace, and suffer no other plague than the government 1 Cosmus Medi:es, Dccreto Publico, Pater Parri;e. 2 Co.inne, liv. xviii, cap. iii, vol. iii, page 248. CJ.IILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 12 l they are under.' From the usurper Cosmo down to the imbecile Gaston, we lookin vain forany of those unmix- ed qualities which should raise a patriot to the com- mand of his fellow-citizens. The Grand Dukes, and particularly the third Cosmo, had operated so entire a change in the Tuscan character, that the candid Floren- tines, in excuse for some imperfections in the philan- thropic system of Leopold, arc obliged to confess that the sovereign was the only liberal man in his dominions, Yet that excellent prince himself had no other notion of a national assembly, than of a body to represent the wants and wishes, not the will of the people. Note 35. Stanza lxiii. An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! « And such was their mutual animosity, so intent were they upon the battle, that tlie earthquake, which overthrew in great part many of the cities of Italy, which turned the course of rapid streams, poured back the sea upon the rivers, and tore down the very moun- tains, was not felt by one of the combatants. » 2 Such is the description of Livy. It may he doubted whether modern tactics would admit of such an abstraction. The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be mis- taken. The traveller from the village under Cortona to Casa di Piano, the next stage on the way to Rome, has, for the first two or three miles, around him, but more particularly to the right, that flat land which Hannibal laid waste in order to induce the Consul Flaminius to move from Arezzo. On his left, and in front of him, is a ridge of hills, bending down towards the lake of Thrasi- mene, called by Livy « monies Cortonenses,» and now named the Gualandra. These hills lie approaches atOs- saja, a village which the itineraries pretend to have been so denominated from the bones found there: but there have been no bones found there, and the battle was fought on the other side of the hill. From Ossaja the road begins to rise a little, but does not pass into the roots of the mountains until the sixty-seventh mile-stone from Flo- rence. The ascent thence is not steep but perpetual, and continues for twenty minutes. The lake is soon seen below on the right, with Borghetto, a round tower close upon the water ; and the undulating hills partially cover- ed with wood amongst which the road winds, sink by de- grees into the marshes near to this tower. Lower than the road, down to the right amidst these woody hillocks, Hannibal placed his horse, 3 in the jaws of or rather above the pass, which was between the lake and the present road, and most probably close to Borghetto, just under the lowest of the « tumuli. »4 On a summit to the left, above the road, is an old circular ruin which the peasants call « the Tower of Hannibal the Carthaginian.» Arrived at the highest point of the road, the traveller has a partial view of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon him as he descends the Gualandra. He soon finds himself in a vale inclosed to the left and in front and behind him by the Gualandra hills, bending round in a segment larger than :ct. xxvi, page 208. edit. i-5i md Hoadley, one of Mr Hume' 1 On Government, chap, ii, Sidney is, together with Locke « despicable * writers. 2 u Tantusque fuit ardor animorum, ad.o intentus pugna? animus, ut eum terra; motum qui multarum urLium Italia; mannas paries prostravit, avertitqne eursu ra ; ido amines, mare fluminibus invexit, monies lapsu ingenti proruit, nemo pugnantium senserit n Tit. Liv. lib. xxii, cap. xii. 3 « Equites ad ipsas fauces saltus, tumulis apte tegentibus, !ocat.» T;t. Liv. lib. xxii, cap. iv. 4 « Uui maxims monies Cortonenses Tbxasimeaus subu." Ibid. a semicircle, and running down at each end to the lake. which obliques to the right, and forms the chord of this mountain arc. The position cannot be guessed at from the plains of Cortona, nor appears to be so completely inclosed unless to one who is fairly within the bills. It then, indeed, appears « a place made as it were on pur- pose for a snare, » « locus insidiis natus.» Borghetto is then found to stand in a narrow marshy passclose to the hill and to the lake, whilst there is no other outlet at the opposite turn of the mountains than through the little town of Pasignano, which is pushed into the water by the foot of a high rocky acclivity. 1 There is a woody emi- nence branching down from the mountains into the up- per end of the plain nearer to the side of Passignano, and on this stands a white village called Torre. Polybius seems to allude to Lhis eminence as the one on which Hannibal encamped and drew out his heavy-armed Africans and Spaniards in a conspicuous position. 2 From this spot he dispatched his Balearic and light-armed troops round through the Gualandra heights to the right, so as to arrive unseen, and form an ambush amongst the broken accli- vities which the road now passes, and to be ready to act upon the left flank and above the enemy, whilst the horse shut up the pass behind. Flaminius came to the lake near Borghetto at sunset ; and, without sending any spies before him, marched through the pass the next morning before the day had quite broken, so that he perceived nothing of the horse and light troops above and about him, and saw only the heavy-armed Carthaginians in front on the hill of Torre. 3 The Consul began to draw out his army in the flat, and in the meantime the horse in ambush occupied the pass behind him at Borghetto. Thus the Romans Were completely inclosed, having the lake on the right, the main army on the hill of Torre in front, the Gualandra hills filled with the light-armed on I their left flank, and being prevented from receding by 1 the cavalry, who, the farther tliev advanced, stopped up all the outlet; in the rear. A fog rising from the lake j now spread itself over the army of the Consul, but the high lands were in the sunshine, and all the different corps in ambush looked towards the hill of Torre for the order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and moved down from his post on the height. At the same moment all his troops on the eminences behind and in the flank of Flaminius, rushed forward as it were with one ac- cord into the plain. The Romans, who were forming their array in the mist, suddenly heard the shouts cf the enemy amongst them, on every side ; and, before they could fall into their ranks, or draw their swords, or see by whom they were attacked, felt at once that they were surrounded and lost. There are two little rivulets which run from the Gua- landra into the lake. The traveller crosses the first of these at about a mile after he comes into the plain, and this divides the Tuscan from the Papal territories. The second, about a quarter of a mile further on, is called « the bloody rivulet ;» and the peasants point out an open spot to the left between the « Sanguinetto » and 1 u Inde colles assurgunt.^ Tit. Liv. lib. xxii. cap. iv. 2 Tav u.vj v.y-y. npoacoTiov tvjs izopeias loaov ocjtos xare^aScTO, xatToOs AiSuag tax tous l6r,px$ e'^mv t~.' CCUTOU xaT£7T py.TOT.ioVj'jZ. Hist. lib. iii, cap. S3. The account in Polybius is not so easily reconcileable with present appearances as that in Livy; he talks of hills to the right and left of the pass and val- ley : but when Flaminius entered he had the lake at the right of both. 3 >A tergo et super caput decepere insidiae." Tit. Liv., etc. 10' 122 BYRON'S WORKS. the bills, which, they say, was the principal scene of slaughter. The other part of the plain is covered with thick-set olive trees in corn-grounds, and is no where qiite level except near the edge of the lake. It is, indeed, most probable that the battle was fought near this end of the valley, for the six thousand Romans who, at the beginning of the action, broke through the enemy, escaped to the summit of an eminence which must have been in this quarter, otherwise they would have had to traverse the whole plain, and to pierce through the main army of Hannibal. The Romans fought desperately for three hours, but the death of Flaminius was the signal for a general dis- persion. The Carthaginian horse then burst in upon the fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about Borghetto, but chiefly the plain of the Sauguinetto and the passes of the Gualandra, v\ ere strewed with dead. Near some old walls on a bleak ridge to the left above the rivulet many human bones have been repeatedly found, and this has J confirmed the pretensions and the name of the « stream I of blood.» Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north some j painter is the usual genius of the place, and the foreign Julio Romano more than divides Mantua with her native Virgil. 1 To the south we hear of Roman names. Near Thrasimene tradition is still faithful to the fame of an enemy, and Hannibal the Carthaginian is the only an- cient name remembered on the banks of the Perugian lake. Flaminius is unknown ; but the postilions on that road have been taught to show the very spot where il Console Romano was slain. Of all who fought and fell in the battle of Thrasimene, the historian himself has, besides the generals and Alaharbal, preserved indeed only a single name. You overtake the Carthaginian again on the same road to Rome. The antiquary, that is, the hostler of the post-house at Spoleto, tells you that his town repulsed the victorious enemy, and shows you the gate still called Porta di Annibale. It is hardly worth while to remark that a French travel-writer, well known by the name of the President Dupatv, saw Thrasimene in the lake of Bolsena, which lay conveniently on his way from Sienna to Piome. Note 36. Stanza lxvi. But thou, Clitumnus '. No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the temple of the Clitumnus, between Folignoand Spoleto ; and no site, or scenery, even in Italy, is more worthy a description. For an account of the dilapidation of this temple, the reader is referred to Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. Note 37. Stanza lxxi. Charming the eye with dread,— a matchless cataract. 1 saw the « Cascata del marmore » of Terni twice, at different periods; once from the summit of the preci- pice, and again from the valley below. The lower view is 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 Switz- erland put together ; — the Staubach, Reichenbach, Pisse Vache, fall of Arpenaz, etc., are rills in compara- ' About the middle of the Xllth century, the coins of Mantua bore on one side the image and figure of Virgil. Zecca d' Italia, pi. xvii. i, 6. . . Voyage dans le Milanais, etc., par A. Z. Millin, torn, ii, p. 294. Paris, 1S17. tive appearance. Of the fall of Schaffhausen I cannot speak, not yet having seen it. Note 38. Stanza Ixxii. An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge. Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of Iris, the reader may have seen a short account in a note to Manfred. The fall looks so much like « the hell of waters." that Addison believed the descent to be the gulph by which Alecto plunged into the in- fernal regions. It is singular enough that two of the finest cascades in Europe 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 Pie di Lup. The Rea- tine territory was the Italian Tempe, 1 and the ancient naturalist, amongst other beautiful varieties, remark- ed the daily rainbows of the lake Velinus. 2 A scholar of great name has devoted a treatise to this district alone. 3 Note 3g. Stanza Ixxiii. The thundering lauwine. In the greater part of Switzerland the avalanches are known by the name of lauwine. Note 40. Stanza lxxv. 1 I abhorr'd Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word. These stanzas may probably remind the reader of Ensign Northerton's remarks — «D — n Homo,» etc., but the reasons for our dislike are not exactly the same. I wish to express, that we become tired of the task before we can comprehend the beauty; that we learn by rote before we can get by heart; that the freshness is worn away, and the future pleasure and advantage deadened and destroyed, by the didactic anticipation, at an age when we can neither feel nor understand the power of compositions which it requires an ac- quaintance with life, as well as Latin and Greek, to relish or to reason upon. For the same reason we never can be aware of the fulness of some of the finest passages of Shakspeare (« To be or not to be,» for in- stance), from the habit of having them hammered in- to us at eight years old, as an exercise, not of mind but of memory : so that when we are old enough to en- joy them, the taste is gone, and the appetite palled. — In some parts of the continent, young persons are taught from more common authors, and do not read the best classics till their maturity. I certainly do not speak on' this point from any pique or aversion to- wards the place of my education. I was not a slow, though an idle boy; and I 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 (theR.ev. Dr Joseph Drury) was the best and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have remem- bered but too well, though too late — when I have erred, and whose counsels I have but followed when I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect 1 uReatini me ad sua Tempe duxerunt.* Cicer. Epist. ad Attic. xv. lib. it. 2 u In eodem Iacu nullo non die apparere arcus.» Plin. Hist. Hat. lib. ii, cap. lxii. 3 Aid. Manut. de Reatina urbe agroque, ap. Sallengre Thesaur. torn, i, p. 778. CI1ILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 123 record of my feelings towards 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 boastof having been his pupil, if, by more closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any honour upon his instructor. Note 41 • Stanza Ixxix. The Seipios' tomb contains no ashes now. For a comment on this and the two following stan- zas, the reader may consult Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. Note 42. Stanza lxxxii. The trebly hundred triumphs: Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the num- ber of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius : and Panvinius by Mr Gibbon and the modern writers. Note 43- Stanza Ixxxiii. Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on fortune's wheel, etc. Certainly, were it not for these two traits in the life of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should regard him as a monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. The atonement of his voluntary resignation of empire may perhaps be accepted by us, as it seems to have sa- tisfied the Piomans, who if they had not respected must have destroyed him. .There could be no mean, no di- vision of opinion; they must have all thought, like Eucrates, that what had appeared ambition was a love of glory, and that w^hat had been mistaken for pride was a real grandeur of soul.' Note 44- Stanza lxxxvi. And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. On the third of September, Cromwell gained the vic- tory of Dunbar; a year afterwards he obtained « his crowning mercy» of Worcester; and a few years after, on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the most fortunate for him, died. Note 45. Stanza Ixxxvii. And thou, dread statue ! still existent in The austerest form of naked majesty. The projected division of the Spada Pompey has already been recorded by the historian of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr Gibbon found it in the Memorials of Flaminius Vacca, 2 and it may be added to his mention of it that Pope Julius III gave the contending owners five hundred crowns for the statue: and presented it to Cardinal Capo di Ferro, who had prevented the judgment of Solomon from being executed upon the image. In a more civilized age this statue was exposed to an actual operation: for the French, who acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the Coliseum, resolved that their Caesar should fall at the base of that Pompey, which was supposed to have been sprinkled with the blood of the original dictator. The nine foot hero was therefore removed to the arena of the amphitheatre, and to facilitate its transport suf- fered the temporary amputation of its right arm. The republican tragedians had to plead that the arm was a restoration; but their accusers do not believe that the integrity of the statue would have protected it. The 1 « Seigneur, vous changez toutes mes idees de la facon dont je vous vois agir. Je croyais que vous aviez de lambition, mais aucun amour pour la gloire : je voyais bien que votie ame etait haute ; mais je ne soupronnais pas qu'elle flit grande.* — Dialorjuede Sylla et d'Encmte. 2 Memorie, num. Ivii, pag. 9. ap. Jlontfaucon, Diarinm Italicum. love of finding every coincidence has discovered the true Cesarean ichor in a staiu near the right knee; but colder criticism has rejected not only the blood but the portrait, and assigned the globe of power ra- ther to the first of the emperors than to the last of the republican masters of Rome. Winkelmann ' is loth to allow an heroic statue of a Roman citizen, but the Grimani Agrippa, a contemporary almost, is heroic ; and naked Pioman figures were only very rare, not abso- I lutely forbidden. The face accords much better with the « hominem integrum et castum et gravem,» 2 than with any of the busts of Augustus, and is too stern for him who was beautiful, says Suetonius, at all periods of his life. The pretended likeness to Alexander the Great cannot be discerned, but the traits resemble the medal of Pompey. 3 The objectionable globe may not have been an ill-applied flattery to him who found Asia Minor the boundary, and left it the centre of the Roman empire. It seems that Vinkelmann has made a mistake in thinking that no proof of the identity of this statue with that which received the bloody sacri- fice can be derived from the spot where it was disco- vered.4 Flaminius Vacca says sotto una cantina, and this cantina is known to have been in the Vicolo de Leutari near the Cancellaria, a position corresponding exactly to that of the Janus before^ the basilica of Pompey's theatre, to which Augustus transferred the j statue after the curia was either burnt or taken down. 5 | Part of the Pompeian shade, G the portico, existed in the beginning of the XVth century, and the atrium was still called Satrum. So says Clondus.7 At all events, so imposing is the stern majesty of the statue, aud so memorable is the story, that the play of the imagination leaves no room for the exercise of the judgment, and the fiction, if a fiction it is, operates on the spectator with an effect not less powerful than truth. Note 46. Stanza lxxxviii. Aud thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! Ancient Tiome, like modern Sienna, abounded most probably with images of the foster-mother of her founder; but there were two she-wolves of whom history makes particular mention. One of these, of brass in ancient work, was seen by Dionysius s at the temple of Romulus under the Palatine, and is uni- versally believed to be that mentioned by the Latin historian, as having been made from the money col- lected by a fine on usurers, and as standing under the Piuminal fig-tree. 9 The other was that which Cicero <° has celebrated both in prose and verse, and which the 1 Storia delle arti, etc., lib. ix, cap. i, pp. 32i, 322, tom. ii. 2 Cicer. epist. ad Atticum, xi, 6. 3 Published by Causeus in his Museum Romanum. 4 Storia delle arti, etc., ibid. 5 Sueton. in vit. August, cap. 3i, and in vit. C. J. Caesar, cap. S3. Appian says it was burnt down. See a note of Pitiscus to Suetonius, pag. 224. 6 » Tu modo Pompeia lenta spatiare sub umbra." Ovid. Ar. Aman. 7 Roma Ristaurata, lib. ii, fol. 3i. s Xa/./.iX ~oir t g S-avstv. Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poetoe Gnomici, p. 23 1. edit. 1784. Note 5 1. Stanza cvii. Behold the Imperial Mount! The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the side towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is formed of crumbled brick-work. Nothing has been told, nothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but a Roman antiquary. — See Historical Illustrations, page 206. Note 52. Stanza cviii. There is the moral of all human tales; 'T is but the same rehearsal of the past, First freedom, and then glory, etc. The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and his contemporary Romans, has the following eloquent pas- sage: « From their railleries of this kind, on the bar- barity and misery of our island, one cannot help re- flecting on the surprising fate and revolutions of king- doms, how Rome, once the mistress of the world, the seat 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 Piomans, 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 course which Rome it- self had run before 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 op- pressor, and, with the loss of liberty, losing every thing that is valuable, sinks gradually again into its original barbarism. » 2 1 Academ. 1. i3. 2 The History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, sect, vi, vol. ii, pag. 102. The contrast has been reversed in a late extraordinary in- stance. A gentleman was thrown into prison at Paris; efforts were Note 53. Stanza ex. and apostolic statues climb To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime. The column of Trajan is surmounted by St Peter, that of Aurelius by St Paul. See Historical Illustrations of the IVth Canto, etc. Note 54. Stanza cxi. Still we Trajan's name adore. Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman princes : < and it would be easier to find a sovereign uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than one possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to this em- peror. «\Vhen he mounted the throne, » says the histo- rian Dion, 2 « he was strong in body, he was vigorous in mind; age had impaired none of his faculties; he was altogether free from envy and from detraction ; he honoured all the good, and he advanced them ; and on this account they could not be the objects of his fear or of his hate; he never listened to informers; he gave not way to his anger; he abstained equally from unfair exactions and unjust punishments; he had rather be loved as a man than honoured as a sovereign ; he was affable with his people, respectful to the senate, and universally beloved by both; he inspired none with dread but the enemies of his country." Note 55. Stanza cxiv. Rienzi, last of Romans ! The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to the reader of Gibbon. Some details and inedited ma- nuscripts, relative to this unhappy hero, will be seen in the Illustrations of the IVth Canto. Note 56. Stanza cxv. Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast. The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would incline us to believe in the claims of the Egerian grotto. 3 He assures us that he saw an inscription in the pave- ment, stating that the fountain was that of Egeria dedi- made for his release. The French minister continued to detain him, under the pretext that he was not an Englishman, but only a Roman. See "Interesting facts relating to Joachim Murat,n pag. i3y. 1 'i Hujus tautum memoria; delalum est, ut, usque ad nostram aela- tem non aliter in Senatu principibus acclamatur, nisi, felicior. av- gvsto. melioe. trajako.i) Eulrop. Brev. Hist. Rom. lib. viii, cap. v. 2 Tw ts yup G&p.XTi i'ppoiro xxl tvj iV Toiv dXkOiTpLOiV LGX XXI fOVOiV TMV aeJty.wv d.izsiysTO : yCkoupevbg ts ouv stc' xuTolg p.6cllov 77 Tip.dip.svog syxips, xat T'W TS §Y]p.Oi JJ.ST' sntctxstaj GuvsyhsTO, xat ty\ yr,pouGix Gsp-vonpsTiCig oipiksr dyxr^rbg ftev tmgv foS-pbg ok p.r t $s'A, nl'/jv TZo\spio~ig WV. Hist. Rom. lib. Ixviii, cap. vi, vii ; torn, u, p. 1123, 1124. edit. Hamb. 1750. 3 u Poco lontano dal detto luogo si scende ad un casaletto, del quale ne sono Padroni li Gafarelli, che con questo nome e chiamato il luogo; vi e una fontana sotto una gran volta antica, che al pre- sente si gode, e li Romani vi vanno 1' estate a ricrearsi ; nel pa- vimento di essa fonte si legge in un epitaftio essere quella la fonte di Egeria, dedicata alle ninfe, e quesla, dice 1' epiiafrio, essere la medesima fonte in cui fu convertita.» Memorie, etc., ap. Pfardini, pag. i3. He does not give the description. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 12' cated to the nymphs. The inscription is not there at this day ; but Montfaucon quotes two lines > of Ovid from a stone in the Villa Giustiniani, which he seems to think had been brought from the same grotto. This grotto and valley were formerly frequented in summer, and particularly the first Sunday in May, by the modern Romans, who attached a salubrious quality to the fountain which trickles from an orifice at the bottom of the vault, and, overflowing the little pools, creeps down the matted grass into the brook below. The brook is the Ovidian Almo, whose name and qua- lities are loscin the modern Aquataccio. The valley itself is called Valle di Caffarelli, from the dukes of that name who made over their fountain to the Palla- vicini, with sixty rubbia of adjoining land. There can be little doubt that this long dell is the Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of Umbrieius, notwithstanding the generality of his com- mentators have supposed the descent of the satirist and his friend to have been into the Arician grove, where the nymph met Oippolitus, and where she was more peculiarly worshipped. The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, fifteen miles distant, would be too considerable, unless we were to believe in the wild conjecture of Vossius, who makes that gate travel from its present station, where he pretends it was during the reign of the Kings, as far as the Arician grove, and then makes it recede to its old site with the shrinking city. 2 The tufo, or pumice, which the poet prefers to marble, is the sub- stance composing the bank in which the grotto is sunk. The modern topographers 3 find in the grotto the statue of the nymph and nine niches for the Muses, and a late traveller* has discovered that the cave is restored to that simplicity which the poet regretted had been exchanged for injudicious ornament. But the headless statue is palpably rather a male than a nymph, and has none of the attributes ascribed to it at present visible. The nine Muses could hardly have stood in six niches ; and Juvenal certainly does not allude to any individual cave. 5 Nothing can be collected from the satirist but that somewhere near the Porta Capena was a spot in which it was supposed Numa held nightly consultations with his nymph, and where there was a grove and a sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated to the Muses ; and that from tiiis spot there was a descent into • u In villa Justiniana extat ingens lapis quadratus solidus in quo sculpta haec duo Ovidii carniina sunt yEgeria est qua? praebet aquas dea grata Camoenis. Ilia IN'umae coujux consiliumque fuit. Qui lapis videtur ex eodem Egeriae fonte, aut ejus vicinia istbuc comportatus." Diarium Italic, p. 1 53. 2 De magnit. Vet. Rom. ap. Gr»v. Ant. Rom. torn, iv, p. 1507. 3 Echinard. Descrizione di Roma e dell' agio Romano corretto dall' Abate Venuti in Roma, 1750. They believe in ihe grotto and nymph. u Simulacrodi questo fonte, essjndovi scolpitele acque a pie di esso.n 1 Classical Tour, chap, vi, p. 217. vol. ii. 5 u Substitit ad veteres arcus, madidamque Capenam, Hie ubi nocturnae Xuma conslituebat arnica?. Nunc sacri fontis nemus, et delubra locantur Judaeis quorum cophinum foenumque supellex. Omnis enim populo mercedem pendere jussa est Arbor, et ejectis mendicat sylva Camoenis. In vallem Egeriae descendimus, et speluncas Dissimiles veri.s : quanto praestantius esset Numen aquae, viridi si margine clauderet undas Herba, jiec ingenuum violarent marmora tophum. Sat. IN. the valley of Egeria, where were several artificial caves. It is clear that the statues of the Muses made no part of the decoration which the satirist thought misplaced in these caves ; for he expressly assigns other fanes (delubra) to these divinities above the valley, and more- over tells us, that they had been ejected to make room for the Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called that of Bacchus was formerly thought to belong to the Muses, and Nardini x places them in a poplar grove, which was in his time above the valley. It is probable, from the inscription and position, that the cave now shown may be one of the « artificial ca- verns,)) of which, indeed, there is another a little way higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder bushes : but a single grotto of Egeria is a mere modern invention, grafted upon the application of the epithet Egerian to these nymphea in general, and which might send us to look for the haunts of Numa upon the banks of the Thames. Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mistrans- lation by his acquaintance with Pope : he carefully pre- serves the correct plural — u Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view The Egerian grots; oh how unlike the true!» The valley abounds with springs, 2 and over these springs, which the Muses might haunt from their neigh- bouring groves, Egeria presided : hence she was said to supply them with water ; and she was the nymph of the grottos through which the fountains were taught to flow. The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the Egerian valley have received names at will, which have been changed at will. Venuti 3 owns he can see no traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, and Diana, which Nardini found, or hoped to find. The mutatorium of Caracalla's circus, the temple of Honour and Virtue, the temple of Bacchus, and, above all, the temple of the god B.edicu!us, are the antiquary's de- spair. The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of that emperor cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which the reverse shows a circus, supposed, however, by some to represent the Circus Maximus. !t gives a very good idea of that place of exercise. The soil has been but little raised, if we may judge from the small cellular structure at the end of the Spina, which was probably the chapel of the gcd Consus. This cell is half beneath the soil, as it must have been in the circus itself, for Dionysius * could not be persuaded to believe that this divinity was the Roman Neptune, because his altar was under ground. Note 57. Stanza exxvii. Yet let us ponder boldly. « At all events,» says the author of the Academical Questions, « I trust, whatever may be the fate of my own speculations, that philosophy will regain that esti- mation which it ought to possess. The free and phi- losophic spirit of our nation has been the theme of ad- miration to the world. This was the proud distinction of Englishmen, and the luminous source of all their glory. Shall we then forget the manly and dignified ' Lib. iii, cap. iii. - u Undique e solo aquae scaturiunt.* Nardini, lib. iii, cap. iii. 3 Echinard, etc. Cic. cit. pp. 297 — 298. 4 Antiq. Rom. lib. ii, cap. xxxi. a8 BYRON'S WORKS. sentiments of our ancestors, to prate in (he language of the mother or the nurse about our good old prejudices? This is not the way to defend the cause of truth. It was not thus that our fathers maintained it in the brilliant periods of our history. Prejudice may be trusted to guard the outworks for a short space of time while reason slumbers in the citadel : but if the latter sink into a lethargy, the former will quickly erect a standard for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, and liberty, support each other ; he who will not reason, is a bigot ; he who cannot, is a fool ; and he who dares not, is a slave." Preface, p. xiv, xv, vol. i. i8o5. Note 58. Stanza exxxii. great Nemesis! Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long. We read in Suetonius that Augustus, from a warning received in a dream, ' counterfeited once a-year the beggar, sitting before the gate of his palace, with his hand hollowed and stretched out for charily. A statue formerly in the Villa Borghese, and which should be now at Paris, represents the emperor in that posture of supplication. The object of this self-degradation was the appeasement of Nemesis, the perpetual attendant on good fortune, of whose power the Roman conquerors were also reminded by certain symbols attached to their cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip and the crotalo, which were discovered in the Nemesis of the Vatican. The attitude of beggary made the above statue pass for that of Belisarius : and until the criticism of Winkelmann 2 had rectified the mistake, one fiction was called in to support another. It was the same fear of the sudden termination of prosperity that made Amasis, king of Egypt, warn his friend Polycrates of Samos, that the gods loved those whose lives were chequered with good and evil fortunes. Nemesis was supposed to lie in wait particularly for the prudent : that is, for those whose caution rendered them accessible only to mere accidents; and her first altar was raised on the banks of the Phrygian vEsepus by Adrastus, probably the prince of that name who killed the son of Croesus by mistake. Hence the goddess was called Adrastea. 3 The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august; there was a temple to her in the Palatine under the name of Rhamnusia : 4 so great indeed was the propensity of the ancients to trust to the revolution of events, and to be- lieve in the divinity of fortune, that in the same Pala- tine there was a temple to the fortune of the day. 5 This is the last superstition which retains its hold over the human heart; and from concentrating in one ob- ject the credulity so natural to man, has always ap- peared strongest in those unembarrassed by other articles of belief. The antiquaries have supposed this 1 Sueton. in vit. Augusti, cap. 91. Casaubon, in the note, refers to Plutarch's Lives of Camillus and yEmilius Paulus, and also to his apophthegms, for the character of this deity. The hollowed hand was reckoned the last degree of degradation : and when the dead body of the prasfect Rufinus was borne about in triumph by the people, the indignity was increased by putting his hand in that position. 2 Storia delle arti, etc., lib. xii, cap. iii, torn, ii, p. 422. Visconti calls the statue, however, a Cybele. It is given in the Museo Pio- Clement, torn, i, par. 40. The Abate Fea (Spiegazione dei Rami. Storia, etc., torn, iii, p. 5 1 3) calls it a Ghrisippus. 3 Diet, de Bayle, article Adrastea. 4 It is enumerated by the regionary Victor." 5 uFortuuac hujusce diei.n Cicero mentions her, de legib. lib. ii. goddess to be synonymous with fortune and with fate: ' but it was in her vindictive quality that she was wor- shipped under the name of Nemesis. Note 69. Stanza cxl. I see before me the glaidiator lie. Whether the wonderful statue which suggested this image be a laquearian gladiator, which in spite of Winkelmnnn's criticism has been stoutly maintained, 7 - or whether it be a Greek herald, as that great anti- quary positively asserted, 3 or whether it is to be thought a Spartan or barbarian shield-bearer, accord- ing to the opinion of his Italian editor, $ it must as- suredly seem a copy of that master-piece of Ctesilaus which represented « a wounded man dying, who per- fectly expressed what there remained of life in him.» 5 Montfaucon G and Maffei 7 thought it the identical statue ; but that statue was of bronze. The gladiator was once in the villa Ludovizi, and was bought by Clement XII. The right arm is an entire restoration of Michael Angelo. 8 Note 60. Stanza cxli. he, their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday. Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and volun- tary; and were supplied from several conditions; from slaves sold for that purpose ; from culprits ; from bar- barian captives either taken in war, and, after being led in triumph, set apart for the games, or those seized and condemned as rebels; also from free citizens, some fighting for hire (auctorati), others from a depraved ambition : at last even knights and senators were exhi- bited, a disgrace of which the first tyrant was naturally the first inventor. 9 In the end, dwarfs, and even wo- men, fought ; an enormity prohibited by Severus. Of these the most to be pitied undoubtedly were the bar- barian captives ; and to this species a Christian writer 10 justly applies the epithet «iuuoccnt» to distinguish them 1 R-EAE NEMESI SIVE FORTVN;E . PISTORIVS RVGIANYS V. C. LEGAT. LEG. XIII. G. GORD. See Oucstioncs Romana?, etc., Ap. Graev. Antiq. Roman, torn, v, p. 942. See also Muratori, Nov. Thesaur. Inscript. Vet. torn. J, pp. S3, 89 ; where there arc three Latin and one Greek inscription to Nemesis, and others to Fate. 2 By the Abate Bracci, dissertazione sopra un clipeo-votivo, etc. Prefiice, p. 7, who accounts for the cord round the neck, but not for the horn, which it does not appear the gladiators themselves ever used. Note (A) Storia delle arti, torn, ii, p. 2o5. 3 Either Pol ifontes, herald of Laius, killed by OEdipus; or Ce- preas, herald of Euritheus, killed by the Athenians when he endea- voured to drag ihe Heraclidaa from the altar of mercy, and in whose honour they instituted annual games continued to the time of Hadrian ; or Anihemocritus, the Athenian herald, killed by the Megarenses, who never recovered the impiety. See Storia delle arti, etc., tom.-ii. pp. 2o3, 204, 2o5, 206, 207. lib. ix, cap. ii. 4 Storia, etc., torn. ii. p. 207. Not. (A.) 5 uVulneratum deficientem fecit in quo possit intelligi quantum restat animaj.n Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. xxxiv, cap. 8. 6 Antiq. torn. iii. par. 2. lab. i55. 7 Race. stat. tab. 64. 8 Mus. Capitol, torn, iii, p. i54. edit. 1755. 9 Julius Caesar, who rose by the fall of the aristocracy, brought Furius Leptinus and A. Calenus upon the arena. 10 Tertullian ; « certe quidem et innocentes gladiatores in ludum blicae hostia> riant. » Just. Lips. Saturn. veniunt, ut voluptatis pi Sermon, lib. ii, cap. iii. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 1 ?.q from the professional gladiators. A ureliau and Claudius supplied great numbers of these unfortunate victims, the one after his triumph, and the other on the pretext of a rebellion. 1 No -war, says Lipsius, 2 was ever so de- structive to the human race as these sports. In spite of the laws of Constantine and Gonstans, gladiatorial shows survived the old established religion more than seventy years; but they owed their final extinction to the courage of a Christian. In the year 4»4i ou tne ^ a " lends of January, they were exhibiting the shows in the Flavian amphitheatre before the usual immense con- course of people. Almachius or Telemachus, an eastern monk, who had travelled to Rome intent on his holy purpose, rushed into the midst of the area, and endea- voured to separate the combatants. The praetor Alypius, a person incredibly attached to these games, 3 gave instant orders to the gladiators to slay him: and Telemachus gained the crown of martyrdom, and the title of saint, which surely has never, either before or since, been awarded for a more noble exploit. Honorius imme- diately abolished the shows, which were never afterwards revived. The story is told by Theodoret^ and Cassiodo- rus, 5 and seems worthy of credit, notwithstanding its place in the Roman martyrology. 6 Besides the torrents of blood which flowed at the funerals, in the amphi- theatres, the circus, the forums, and other public places, gladiators were introduced at feasts, and tore each other to pieces amidst the supper tables, to the great delight and applause of the guests. Yet Lipsius permits himself to suppose the loss of courage, and the evident degene- racy of mankind, to be nearly connected with the aboli- tion of these bloody spectacles. 7 Note 61. Stanza cxlii. Eferc, where the Roman million's blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted « he has it,» « hoc habet,>-> or «habet.» The wounded combatant dropped his weapon, and, advancing to the edge of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had fought well, the people saved him; if otherwise, or as they happened to be inclined, they turned down their thumbs, and he was slain. They were occasionally so savage, that they were impatient if a combat lasted longer than ordinary without wounds or death. The emperor's presence generally saved the vanquished : and it is recorded as an instance of Garacalla's ferocity, that he sent those who supplicated him for life, in a spec- tacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people; in other words, handed them over to be slain. A similar ceremony is observed at the Spanish bull-fights. The magistrate 1 Vopiscus, in vit. Aurel. ; and, in vit. Claud, ibid. 2 «Credo, into scio, nullum bellum tantam cladern vastitiemque generi humano intulisse, quam hos ad yoluptatem ludos.n Just. Lips. ibid. lib. i, cap. xii. 3 Augustinus, (lib. vi, confess, cap. viii,) u Alypium sunm gla- diatorii spectaculi inhiatu incredibiliter abreptuni,» scribit. Ibid, lib. i, cap. xii. 4 Hist. Eccles. cap. xxvi, lib. v. 5 Cassiod. Tripartita, 1. x, c. xi. Saturn, ib. ib. 6 Baionius ad ann. et in notis ad Martyrol. Rom. 1. Jan. Sea Marangoni delle memorie sacre e profane dell' Amtiteatro Flavio, p. 25. edit. 1746. ; u Quod ? non tu Lipsi momentum aiiquod habuisse censes ad vir- tutem? Magnum. Tempora nostra, nosque ipsos videamus. Oppidum ecce unum alterumve captum, direptum est ; tumultus circa nos, non in nobis : et tamen concidimus et turbamur. Ubi robur, ubi tot per annos meditata sapientiaj studia? ubi ilie animus qui possit dicere, sifraclus illabalur orl/is?" etc. ibid., lib. ii, cap. xxv. The proto- type of Mr Windham's panegyric on bull-baiting. presides; and, after the horsemen and piccadores have I fought the bull, the matadore steps forward and bo-svs I to him for permission to kill the animal. If the bull has done his duty by killing two or three horses, or a man, which last is rare, the people interfere with shouts, the ladies wave their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. The wounds and death of the horses are accompanied with the loudest acclamations, and many gestures of delight, especially from the female portion of the audi- ence, including those of the gentlest blood. Every thing depends on habit. The author of ChiJde Harold, the writer of this note, and one or two other Englishmen, who have certainly in other days borne the sight of a J pitched battle, were, during the summer of 1809, m tne i governor's box at the great amphitheatre of Santa Ma- ! ria, opposite to Cadiz. The death of one or two horses I completely satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman pre- i sent, observing them shudder and look pale, noticed ! that unusual reception of so delightful a sport to some young ladies, who stared and smiled, and continued their applauses as another horse fell bleeding to the ground. One bull killed three horses off his oivn horns. He was saved by aeclamatious, which were redoubled when it was known he belonged to a priest. An Englishman, who can be much pleased with see- ing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot bear to look at a horse galloping round an arena with his \ bowels trailing on the ground, and turns from the spec- tacle and the spectators with horror and disgust. Note 62. Stanza cxliv. Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head. Suetonius informs us that Julius Caesar was particu- larly gratified by that decree of the senate, which en- abled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. ! He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror I 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. Note 63. Stanza cxlv. « While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand, » etc. This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Roman ; Empire : and a notice on the Coliseum may be seen in j the Historical Illustrations to the IVth Canto of Childe Harold. Note 64- Stanza cxlvi. spared and blest by time. « Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring 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 j monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as j this rotunda. It passed with little alteration from the 1 Pagan into the present worship ; and so convenient were its niches for the Christian altar, that Michael Angclo, j ever studious of ancient beauty, introduced their design : as a model in the Catholic church." Forsyth's Remarks, etc., on Italy, p. 137. see. edit. Note 65. Stanza cxlvii. And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them close. The Pantheon has 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 3o BYRON'S WORKS. ;i liuracrous assemblage of mortals, some one or Wo of v horn have been almost deified by the veneration of their countrymen. Note 66. Stanza cxlviii. There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light. This and the three next stanzas allude to the story of the Roman Daughter, which is recalled to the traveller, by the site or pretended site of that adventure now shown at the church of St Nicholas in carcere. The dif- ficulties attending the full belief of the tale are stated in Historical Illustrations, etc. Note 67. Stanza clii. Turn to the mole which Hadrian rear'd on hi^b. The castle of Saint Angelo. See Historical Illustra- tions. Note 68. Stanza cliii. But lo ! the dome— the vast and wondrous dome. This and the six next stanzas have a reference to the church of St Peter. For a measurement of tiie com- parative length of this basilica, and the other great churches of Europe, see the pavement of St Peter's, and the Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii page 125, et seq. chap. iv. Note 69. Stanza clxxi. the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns. Mary died on the scaffold; Elizabeth of a broken heart; Charles Y a hermit; Louis XIV a bankrupt in means and glory; Cromwell of anxiety; and, — « the greatest is behind, » — Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added of names equally illustrious and unhappy. Note 70. Stanza clxxiii. Lo, >"emi 1 navell'd in the woody hills. The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of Egeria, and, from the shades which embosomed the temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinctive appellation of The Grove. Nemi is but an evening's ride from the comfortable inn of Albano. Note 71. Stanza clxxiv. and afar The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves The Latian coast, etc. etc. The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, which has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupi- ter, the prospect embraces all the objects alluded (o in the cited stania : the Mediterranean; the whole scene of the latter half of the ^Eneid; and the coast from beyond the mouth of the Tiber to the headland of Circaeum and the Cape of Terracina. The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince Lucien Buonaparte. The former was thought some years ago the actual site, as may be seen from Middleton's Life of Cicero. At present it has lost something of its credit, except for the Domenichinos. Nine monks, of the Greek order, live there, and the adjoining "villa is a cardinal's summer- house. The other villa, called Ruffinella, is on the sum- mit of the hill above Frascati, and many rich remains of Tusculum have been found there, besides seventy- two statues of different merit and preservation, and seven busts. From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, embosomed in which lies the long valley of Fuistiea. There are several circumstances which tend to establish the identity of this valley with the « Ustica* of Horace ; and it seems possible that the mosaic pavement which the peasants uncover by throwing up the earth of a vine- yard, may belong to his villa. Rustica is pronounced short, not according to our stress upon — « Usticce cu- ba7itis.ii — It is more rational to think that we arewrong, I than that the inhabitants of this secluded valley have ' changed their tone in this word. The addition of the consonant prefixed is nothing: yet it is necessary to be aware that Rustica may be a modern name which the peasants may have caught from the antiquaries. The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a knoll covered with chesnut-trees. A stream runs down the valley, and although it is not true, as said in the guide- books, that this stream is called Licenza, yet there is a village on a rock at the head of the valley which is so denominated, and which may have taken its name from the Digentia. Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. On a peak a little way beyond is Civitella, containing 3oo. On the banks of the Anio, a little before you turn up into Valle Rustica, to the left, about an hour from the villa, is a town called Vico-varo, another favourable j coincidence with the Varia of the poet. At the end of the valley, towards the Anio, there is a bare hill, crowned with a little town called Rardela. At the foot of this hill the rivulet of Licenza flows, and is almost absorbed in a wide sandy bed before it reaches the Anio. Nothing can be more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whe- ther in a metaphorical or direct sense : a Jle quotiens reficit j Quern Mandela bibit didus Digentia rivus, igosus frigore pagus. The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow like a sulphur rivulet. Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half an hour's walk from the vineyard where the pavement is shown, does seem to be the site of the fane of Vacuna, and an inscription found there tells that this temple of the Sabine victory was repaired by Vespasian. 1 With these helps, and a position corresponding exactly to every thing which the poet has told us of his retreat, we may feel tolerably secure of our site. The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Campa- nile, and by following up the rivulet to the pretended Bandusia, you come to the roots of the higher mountain Gcnoaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of ploughed land in the whole valley is on the knoll where this Ban- dusia rises, u Tn frigus amabile Fessis vomere tauris Praebes, et pecori vago.» The peasants show another spring near the mosaic pavement, which they call « Oradina,» and which flows down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence trickles over into the Digentia. But we must not hope u To trace the Muses upwards to their spring," by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange that ' IMP. CESAR VESPiSIi^VS POTIFEX NAXIMVS. IEIB. POTEST. CEKSOR. IDEM iCTOalE. VETVSTATE ILLAPSAM SVi. IMPEKSi. EESI1TV1T. CH1LDK HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. l3 immortal spring has, in fact, been discovered in pos- session of the holders of many good things in Italy, the monks. It -was attached to the church ofStGervais and Protais near Venusia, where it -was most likely to be found. 1 We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller in finding the occasional pine still pendant on the poe- tic villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but there are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or mis- took, for the tree in the ode. 2 The truth is, that the pine is now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a garden tree, and any one should have thought Dandusia a fountain of the | exhortations of the moralist, may have made this work Digeutia — Horace has not let drop a word of it ; and this ' something more and better than a book of travels, but they have not made it a book of travels; and this obser- vation applies more especially to that enticing method of instruction conveyed by the perpetual introduction of the same Gallic Helot to reel and bluster before the rising generation,' and terrify it into decency by the display of all the excesses of the revolution. An ani- mosity against atheists and regicides in general, and Frenchmen specifically, may be honourable, and may be useful, as a record; but that antidote should either be administered in any work rather than a tour, or, at it was not at all likely to be found in the craggy accli- | least, should be served up apart, and not so mixed with vities of the valley of Rustiea. Horace probably had one ' the whole mass of information and reflection, as to give of thern in the orchard close above his farm, immediately I a bitterness to every page : for who would chuse to have overshadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights at j the antipathies of any man, however just, for his tra- some distance from his abode. The tourist may have j veiling companions? A tourist, unless he aspires to the easily supposed himself to have seen this pine figured in the above cypresses, for the orange and lemon trees which throw such a bloom over his description of the royal gardens at Naples, unless they have been since dis- placed, were assuredly only acacias and other common garden shrubs. 3 The extreme disappointmen t experienced by chusing the Classical Tourist as a guide in Italy must be allowed to find vent in a few observations, which, it is asserted without fear of contradiction, will be con- firmed by every one who has selected the same conduc- tor through the same country. This author is, in fact, one of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory writers that have in our times attained a temporary reputation, and is very seldom to be trusted even when he speaks of ob- jects which he must be presumed to have seen. His er- rors, from the simple exaggeration to the downright mis- statement, are so frequent as so induce a suspicion that he had either never visited the spots described, or had trusted to the fidelity of former writers. Indeed the Classical Tour has every characteristic of a mere com- pilation of former notices, strung together upon a very slender thread of personal observation, and swelled out by those decorations which are so easily supplied by a systematic adoption of all the common-places of praise, applied to every thing, and therefore signifying nothing. The style which one person thinks cloggy and cum- brous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of others, and such may experience some salutary excitement in ploughing through the periods of the Classical Tour. It must be said, however, that polish and weight are apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst the pains of the damned to toil up a climax with a huge round stone. The tourist had the choice of his words, but there was no such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. The love of virtue and of liberty, which must have distin- guished the character, certainly adorns the pages of Mr Eustace, and the gentlemanly spirit, so recommenda- tory either in an author or his productions, is very con- spicuous throughout the Classical Tour. Cut these ge- nerous qualities are the foliage of such a performance, and may be spread about it so prominently and pro- fusely, as to embarrass those who wish to see and find the fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, and the 1 See Historical Illustrations of the fourth Canto, p. 43. 2 See Classical Tour, etc., chap, vii, p. 25o, vol. ii. 3 k Under our windows, and bordering on the beach, is the roval garden, laid out in parterres, and walks shaded by rows of orange trees." Classical Tour, etc., chap, xi, vol. ii, oct. 365. credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes which may take place in the country which he describes : but bis reader may very fairly esteem all his political portraits and deductions as so much waste paper, the moment they cease to assist, and more particularly if they obstruct, his actual survey. Neither encomium nor accusation of any govern- ment, or governors, is meaut to be here offered; but it is stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the change operated, either by the address of the late imperial sys- tem, or by the disappointment of every expectation by those who have succeeded to the Italian thrones, has been so considerable, and is so apparent, as not only to put Mr Eustace's Antigallican philippics entirely out of date, but even to throw some suspicion upon the competency and candour of the author himself. A re- markable example may be found in the instance of Bo- logna, over whose papal attachments, and consequent desolation, the tourist pours forth such strains of con- dolence and revenge, made louder by the borrowed trumpet of Mr Burke. Now, Bologna is at this moment, and has been for some years, notorious amongst the states of Italy for its attachment to revolutionary prin- ciples, and was almost the only city which made any demonstrations in favour of the unfortunate Murat. This change may, however, have been made since Mr Eustace visited this country; but the traveller whom he has thrilled with horror at the projected stripping of the copper from the cupola of St Peter's, must be much relieved to find that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or any other plunderers, the cupola being co- vered with lead. 1 If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics i.acl not given considerable currency to the Classical Tour, it would have been unnecessary to warn the reader, that, however it may adorn his library, it will be of little or no service to him in his carriage; and if the judgment of those critics had hitherto been suspended, no attempt would have been made to anticipate their decision. As it is, those who stand in the relation of posterity to Mr Eustace may be permitted to appeal from contempo- rary praises, and are perhaps more likely to be just 1 "What, then, will be the astonishment, or rather the horror of my reader, when I inform him the French Committee turned its attention to Saint Peter's, and employed a company of Jews to estimate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze, that adorn the inside of the edifice, as well as the copper that covers the vaults and dome on the outside. n Chap, iv, p. i3o. vol. ii. The story about the Jews is positively denied at Rome. l32 BYRON'S WORKS. in proportion as the causes of love and hatred are the farther removed. This appeal had, in some measure, heen made before the above remarks "were "written; for one of the most respectable of the Florentine publishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated inquiries of I those on their journey southwards, to reprint a cheap | edition of the Classical Tour, was, by the concurring advice of returning travellers, induced to abandon his design, although he had already arranged his types and paper, and had struck off one or two of the first sheets. The writer of these notes would wish to part (like Mr Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the Car- dinals, but he does not think it necessary to extend the same discreet silence to their humble partisans. W&$ (Sterna: $ A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no sting. MOORE. TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS. RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, ®&te ^rotructum in fornix*, BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, BYRON. ADVERTISEMENT. The Tale which these disjointed fragments present is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the « olden time;» or because the Christians have better 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 avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnaouts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The deser- tion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful. THE GIAOUR. No breath of air to break the wave That rolls below the Athenians grave, That tomb l which, gleaming o'er the cliff, First greets the homeward-veering skiff, High o'er the land he saved in vain : When shall such hero live again ? Fair clime ! where every season smiles Benignant o'er those blessed isles, Which, seen from far Colonna's height, Make glad the heart that hails the sight, And lend to loneliness delight. There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek Reflects the tints of many a peak Caught by the laughing tides that lave These Edens of the eastern wave ; And if, at times, a transient breeze Break the blue crystal of the seas, Or sweep one blossom from the trees, How welcome is each gentle air That wakes and wafts the odours there ! For there — the rose o'er crag or vale, Sultana of the nightingale, 2 The maid for whom his melody, His thousand songs are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : His queen, the garden queen, his rose, Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, Far from the winters of the west, By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by nature given, In softest incense back to heaven ; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. And many a summer flower is there, And many a shade that love might share. And many a grotto, meant for rest, That holds the pirate for a guest; Whose bark in sheltering cove below Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, Till the gay mariner's guitar 3 Is heard, and seen the evening star; ! THE GIAOUR. i33 Then stealing with the muffled oar, Was freedom's home or glory's grave! Far shaded by the rocky shore, Shrine of the mighty! can it be, Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, That this is all remains of thee? And turn to groans his roundelay. Approach, thou craven crouching slave: Strange — that where nature loved to trace, Say, is not this Thermopylae? As if for gods, a dwelling-place, These waters blue that round you lave, And every charm and grace hath mix'd Oh servile offspring of the free, — Within the paradise she fix'd, Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? There man, enamour'd of distress. The gulf, the rock of Salami's! Should mar it into wilderness, These scenes, their story not unknown, And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower Arise, and make again your own ; That tasks not one laborious hour ; Snatch from the ashes of your sires Nor claims the culture of his hand The embers of their former fires: To bloom along the fairy land, And he who in the strife expires But springs as to preclude his care, Will add to theirs a name of fear And sweetly woes him — but to spare ! That tyranny shall quake to hear, Strange, that where all is peace beside And leave his sons a hope, a fame, There passion riots in her pride, They too will rather die than shame : And lust and rapine wildly reign For freedom's battle once begun, To darken o'er the fair domain. Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, It is as though the Sends prevail'd Though baffled oft is ever won. Against the seraphs they assail'd, Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell Attest it many a deathless age! The freed inheritors of hell ; While kings, in dusty darkness hid, So soft the scene, so fonn'd for joy, Have left a nameless pyramid, So curst the tyrants that destroy! Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, He who hath bent him o'er the dead, A mightier monument command, Ere the first day of death is fled, The mountains of their native land ! Tke first dark day of nothingness, There points thy muse to stranger's eye The last of danger and distress The graves of those that cannot die ! (Before decay's effacing fingers T were long to tell, and sad to trace, Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), Each step from splendour to disgrace; And mark'd the mild angelic air, Enough — no foreign foe could quell The rapture of repose that 's there, Thy soul, till from itself it fell; The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way The languor of the placid cheek, To villain-bonds and despot-sway. And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, What can he tell who treads thy shore ? And but for that chill, changeless brow. No legend of thine olden time, Where cold obstruction's apathy i No theme on which the muse might soar. Appals the gazing mourner's heart, High as thine own in days of yore, As if to him it could impart When man was worthy of thy clime. The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; The hearts within thy valleys bred, Yes, but for these, and these alone, The fiery souls that might have led Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, Thy sons to deeds sublime, He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; Now crawl from cradle to the grave, So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave, 6 The first, last look by death reveal'd ! 5 And callous, save to crime; Such is the aspect of this shore: Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 'T is Greece, but living Greece no more ! Mankind, where least above the brutes; So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, Without even savage virtue blest, We start, for soul is wanting there. Without one free or valiant breast. Hers is the loveliness in death, Still to the neighbouring ports they waft That parts not quite with parting breath ; Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft; But beauty with that fearful bloom, In this the subtle Greek is found. That hue which haunts it to the tomb, For this, and this alone, renown'd. Expression's last receding ray, In vain might liberty invoke A gilded halo hovering round decay, The spirit to its bondage broke. The farewell beam of feeling past away! Or raise the neck that courts the yoke . Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, No more her sorrows I bewail, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth ! Yet this will be a mournful tale. And they who listen may believe, Clime of the uuforgotten brave! Wlio heard it first had ca;;sc to grieve. Whose laud from plain to mountain-cave u BYRON'S WORKS. Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, The shadows of the rocks advancing, Start on the fisher's eye like boat ' Of island-pirate or Mainote; And, fearful for his light caique, He shuns the near but doubtful creek: Though worn and weary with his toil, And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, Till Port Leone's safer shore Receives him by the lovely light That best becomes an eastern night. Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? Beneath the clattering iron's sound, The 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, 'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! 7 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 liery passion's brunt; Though bent on earth thine evil eye, As meteor-like thou glidest by, Right well I view and deem thee one Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. On — on he hasten'd, and he drew My gaze of wonder as he flew : Though like a demon of the night He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight, His aspect and his air impress'd A troubled memory on my breast, And long upon my startled ear Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. He spurs his steed; he nears the steep That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; He winds 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 flee ; And not a star but shines too bright On him who takes such timeless flight. He wound along; but, ere he pass'd, One glance he suatch'd, as if his last, A moment check'd his wheeling steed, A moment breathed him from his speed, A moment on his stirrup stood — Why looks he o'er the olive wood ? The crescent glimmers on the hill, The mosque's high lamps are quivering still: Though too remote for sound to wake In echoes of the far tophaike, 8 The flashes of each joyous peal Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. To-night, set Rhamazani's sun : To-night, the Bairam's feast's begun; To-night — but who and what art thou, Of foreign garb and fearful brow? And what are these to thine or thee, That thou shouldst cither pause or flee? He stood — some dread was on his face, Soon hatred settled in its place: It rose not with the reddening flush » Of transient anger's darkening blush, But pale as marble o'er the tomb, Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. His brow was bent, his eye was glazed, He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, And sternly shook his hand on high, As doubting to return or fly: Impatient of his flight delay'd, Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade : That sound had burst his waking dream, As slumber starts at owlet's scream. The spur hath lanced his courser's sides; Away, away, for life he rides; Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed,9 Springs to the touch his startled steed ; The rock is doubled, and the shore Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ; The crag is won, no more is seen His christian crest and haughty mien. 'T was but an instant he restrain'd That fiery barb so sternly rein'd: 'T was but a moment that he stood, Then sped as if by death pursued ; Rut in that instant o'er his soul Winters of memory seem'd to roll, And gather in that drop of time A life of pain, an age of crime. O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, Such moment pours the grief of years : What felt he then, at once opprest By all that most distracts the breast? That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! Though in time's record nearly nought, It was eternity to thought ! For infinite as boundless space The thought that conscience must embrace, Which in itself can comprehend Woe without name, or hope, or end. The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; And did he fly or fall alone ? Woe to that hour he came or went ! The curse for Hassan's sin was sent, To turn a palace to a tomb : He came, he went, like the simoom,* That harbinger of fate and gloom, Beneath whose widely-wasting breath The very cypress droops to death — Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, The only constant mourner o'er the dead! The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; The lonely spider's thin grey pall Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; The bat builds in his haram bower ; And in the fortress of his power The owl usurps the beacon-tower; The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, With baffled thirst, and famine grim ; THE GIAOUR. 35 For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread 'T was sweet of yore to see it play And chase the sultriness of day, As, springing bigh, the silver dew In whirls fantastically flew, And flung luxurious coolness round The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 'T was sweet, when cloudiess stars were bright, To view the wave of watery light, And hear its melody by night. And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd Around the verge of that cascade; And oft upon his mother's breast That sound had harmonized his rest; And oft had Hassan's youth along Its bank been soothed by beauty's song; And softer seem'd each melting tone Of music mingled with its own. But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose Along the brink at twilight's close: The stream that fill'd that font is fled — The blcod that warm'd his heart is shed ! And here no more shall human voice Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice; The last sad note that swell'd the gale Was woman's wildest funeral wail: That quenched in silence, all is still, But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, No hand shall close its clasp again. On desert sands 't were joy to scan The rudest steps of fellow man — So here the very voice of grief Might wake an echo like relief; At least 't would say, « all are not gone ; « There lingers life, though but in one — » For many a gilded chamber's there, Which solitude might well forbear! Within that dome as yet decay Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate, Nor there the fakir's self will wait; Nor there will wandering dervise stay, For bounty cheers not his delay ; Nor there will weary stranger halt To bless the sacred « bread and salt." " Alike must wealth and poverty Pass heedless and unheeded by, For courtesy and pity died With Hassan on the mountain side. His roof, that refuge unto men, Is desolations hungry den. The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour, Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre! 12 I hear the sound of coming feet, But not a voice mine ear to greet; More near — each turban I can scan, And silver-sheathed ataghan. l3 The foremost of the band is seen, An emir by his garb of green: '4 « Ho! who art thou? — this low salam l5 Replies of Moslem faith I am. The burthen ye so gently bear, Seems one that claims your utmost care, And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, My humble bark would gladly wait.» « Thou speakest sooth ; thy skiff unmoor, And waft us from the silent shore : Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply The nearest oar that's scatter'd by; And midway to those rocks where sleep The channel'd waters dark and deep, Rest from your task — so — bravely done, Our course has been right swiftly run; Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, That one of— Sullen it pluuged, and slowly sank, The calm wave rippled to the bank. I watch'd it as it sank ; methought Some motion from the current caught Bestirr'd it more, — 't was but the beam That chequer'd o'er the living stream : I gazed till, vanishing from view, Like lessening pebble it withdrew; Still less aud less a speck of white That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; And all its hidden secrets sleep, Known but to genii of the deep, Which, trembling in their coral caves, They dare not whisper to the waves. As rising on its purple w ing The insect-queen l6 of eastern, spring, O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful eye: So beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wing as wild; A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betray'd, Woe waits the insect and the maid; A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play, and man's caprice: The lovely toy so fiercely sought Hath lost its charm by being caught. For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 'T is left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing, or hleediug breast, Ah! where shall either victim rest? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before? Or beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower? No : gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, 36 BYRON'S WORKS. And every woe a tear can claim Except an erring sister's shame. The mind that broods o'er guilty woes Is like the scorpion girt by fire; In circle narrowing as it glows, The flames around their captive close, Till, inly search' d by thousand throes, And maddening in her ire, One sad and sole relief she knows, The sting she nourish'd for her foes, Whose venom never yet was vain, Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, And darts into her desperate brain. So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; i7 So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death! Black Hassan from the haram flies, Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; The unwonted chase each hour employs, Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. Not thus was Hassan wont to fly When Leila dwelt in his Serai. Doth Leila there no longer dwell? That tale can only Hassan tell : Strange rumours in our city say Upon that eve she fled away, When Rhamazan's lS last sun was set, And, flashing from each minaret, Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast Of Bairam through the boundless East. 'T was then she went as to the bath, Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; For she was flown her master's rage, lu likeness of a Georgian page, And far beyond the Moslem's power Had wrong' d him with the faithless Giaour. Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd; But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, Too well he trusted to the slave Whose treachery deserved a grave : And on that eve had gone to mosque, And thence to feast in his kiosk. Such is the tale his Nubians tell, Who did not watch their charge too well. But others say, that on that night, By pale Phingari's '9 trembling light, The Giaour upon his jet-black steed Was seen, but seen alone to speed With bloody spur along the shore, Nor maid nor page behind him bore. Her eye's dark charm 't were vain to tell, But gaze on that of the gazelle, It will assist thy fancy well ; As large, as languishingly dark, But soul beam'd forth in every spark That darted from beneath the lid, Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 2a Yea, soul, and should our prophet say That form was nought but breathing clay, By Alia ! I would answer nay, Though on Al-Sirat's 21 arch I stood, Which totters o'er the fiery flood, With paradise within my view, And all his houris beckoning through. Oh! who young Leila's glance could read, And keep that portion of his creed 22 Which saith that woman is but dust, A soulless toy for tyrant's lust? On her might muftis gaze, and own That through her eye the Immortal shone; On her fair cheek's unfading hue The young pomegranate's ^ blossoms strew Their bloom in blushes ever new; Her hair in hyacinthine 2 £ flow, When left to roll its folds below, As midst her handmaids in the hall She stood superior to them all, Hath swept the marble where her feet Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, Ere from the cloud that gave it birth It fell, and caught one stain of earth. . The cygnet nobly walks the water; So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, The loveliest bird of Franguestan! 25 As rears her crest the ruffled sw r an, And spurns the wave with wings of pride, When pass the steps of stranger man Along the banks that bound her tide; Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — Thus arm'd with beauty would she check Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. Thus high and graceful was her gait; Her heart as tender to her mate; Her mate — stern Hassan, who was lie? Alas ! that name was not for thee! Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en, With twenty vassals in his train, Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, With arquebuss and ataghan; The chief before, as deck'd for war, Bears in his belt the scimitar Stain'd with the best of Arnaout blood, When in the pass the rebels stood, And few return'd to tell the tale Of what befel in Parne's vale. The pistols which his girdle bore Were those that once a pacha wore, Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, Even robbers tremble to behold. 'T is said he goes to woo a bride More true than her who left his side; The faithless slave that broke her bower, And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! The sun's last rays are on the hill. And sparkle in the fountain rill, Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, Draw blessings from the mountaineer: Here may the loitering merchant Greek Find that repose 't were vain to seek THE GIAOUH. 37 In cities lodged too near his lord, And trembling for his secret hoard — Here may he rest where none can see, In crowds a slave, in deserts free; And with forbidden wine may stain The bowl a Moslem must not drain. The foremost Tartar 's in the gap. Conspicuous by his yellow cap; The rest in lengthening lirje the while Wind slowly through the long defile. Above, the mountain rears a peak, Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, And theirs may be a feast to-night Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light; Beneath, a river's wintry stream Has shrunk before the summer beam, And left a channel bleak and bare, Save shrubs that spring to perish there. Each side the midway path there lay Small broken crags of granite grey, By time , or mountain lightning, riven From summits clad in mists of heaven; For where is he that hath beheld The peak of Liakura unveil'd? They reach the grove of pine at last: « Bismillah! ^ now the peril 's past; For yonder view the opening plain, And there we '11 prick our steeds amain." The Chiaus spake, and as he said, A bullet whistled o'er his head. The foremost Tartar bites the ground! Scarce had they time to check the rein, Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; But three shall never mount again : Unseen the foes that gave the wound. The dying ask revenge in vain. With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent. Some o'er their coursers' harness leant. Half shelter'd by the steed ; Some fly behind the nearest rock, And there await the coming shock. Nor tamely stand to bleed Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, Who dare not quit their craggy screen. Stern Hassan only from his horse Disdains to light, and keeps his course, Till fiery flashes in the van Proclaim too sure the robber-clan Have well secured the only way Gould now avail the promised prey. Then curled his very beard ~1 with ire, And glared his eye with fiercer fire: « Though far and near the bullets hiss, I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this.» And now the foe their covert quit, And call his vassals to submit : But Hassan's frown and furious word Are dreaded more than hostile sword, Nor of his little band a man Resign'd carbine or ataghan, Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! 2 S In fuller sight, more near and near, The lately ambush'd foes appear, And, issuing from the grove, advance Some who on battle-charger prance. Who leads them on with foreign brand. Far flashing in his red right hand? « 'T is he ! ' t is he ! I know him now ; I know him by his pallid brow; I know him by the evil eye 2 9 That aids his envious treachery ; I know him by his jet-black barb: Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, Apostate from his own vile faith, It shall not save him from the death. 'T is he ! well met in any hour ! Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour !» As rolls the river into ocean, In sable torrent wildly streaming; As the sea-tide's opposing motion, In azure column proudly gleaming, Beats back the current many a rood, In curling foam and mingling flood, While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, Roused by the blast of winter, rave; Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash The lightnings of the waters flash In awful whiteness o'er the shore, That shines and shakes beneath the roar: Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, With waves that madden as they meet — Thus join the bauds, whom mutual wrong, And fate, and fury, drive along. The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; And pealing wide or ringing near Its echoes on the throbbing ear, The death-shot hissing from afar : The shock, the shout, the groan of war. Reverberate along that vale, More suited to the shepherd's tale. Though few the numbers — theirs the strife That neither spares nor speaks for life. Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, To seize and share the dear caress, But love itself could never pant For all that beauty sighs to grant With half the fervour hate bestows Upon the last embrace of foes, When grappling in the fight they fold Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold. Friends meet to part; love laughs at faith : True foes, once met, are join'd till death ' With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, Yet dripping with the blood he spilt; Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand Which quivers round that faithless brand j His turban far behind him roll'd, And cleft in t-wain its firmest fold; His flowing robe by falchion torn, And crimson as those clouds of morn That, streak'd with dusky red, portend The day shall have a stormy end; A stain on every bush that bore A fragment of his palampore, 3o iS 38 BYRON'S WORKS. His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, His back to earth, his face to heaven, Fall'n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye Yet lowering on his enemy, As if the hour that seal'd his fate Surviving left his quenchless hate; And o'er him bends that foe with brow As dark as his that bled below. — « Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, But his shall be a redder grave; Her spirit pointed well the steel Which taught that felon heart to feel. He call'd the Prophet, but his power Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: He call'd on Alia — but the word Arose unheeded or unheard. Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer Be pass'd, and thine accorded there? I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, The traitor in his turn to seize; My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, And now I go — but go alone.» [The browzing camels' bells are tinkling: His mother look'd from her lattice high — She saw the dews of eve besprinkling The pasture green beneath her eye, She saw the planets faintly twinkling: « 'T is twilight — sure his train is nigh.» She could not rest in the garden-bower, But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower « Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, Nor shrink they from the summer heat: Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift? Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift? Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now Has gain'u our nearest mountains brow, And warily the steep descends, And now within the valley bends; And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow — How could 1 deem his courser slow ? Right well my largess shall repay His welcome speed, and weary way.» The Tartar lighted at the gate, But scarce upheld his fainting weight: His swarthy visage spake distress, But this might be from weariness; His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, But these might be from his courser's side; He drew the token from his vest — Angel of Death! t is Hassan's cloven crest! His calpac 3l rent— his caftan red— « Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed: Me, not from mercy, did they spare, But this empurpled pledge to bear. Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt : Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt.» A turban 32 carved in coarsest stone, A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, Whereon can now be scarcely read The Koran verse that mourns the dead, Point out the spot where Hassan fell A victim in that lonely dell. There sleeps as true an Osmanlie As e'er at Mecca bent the knee; As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, In orisons resumed anew At solemn sound of « Alia Hu!» 33 Yet died he by a stranger's hand, And stranger in his native land; Yet died he as in arms he stood, And unavenged, at least in blood. But him the maids of paradise Impatient to their halls invite, And the dark heaven of Houris' eyes On him shall glance for ever bright; They come — their kerchiefs green they wave, 3 4 And welcome with a kiss the brave! Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour Is worthiest an immortal bower. But tbou, false infidel ! shalt writhe Beneath avenging Monkir's 35 scythe; And from its torment 'scape alone To wander round lost Eblis' 36 throne; And fire unquench'd, unquenchable, Around, within, thy heart shall dwell; Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell The tortures of that inward hell! But first, on earth as vampire 3 7 sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race; There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life; Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse : Thy victims ere they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. But one that for thy crime must fall, The youngest, most beloved of all, Shall bless thee with a father's name — That word shall wrap thy heart in flame! Yet must thou end thy task, and mark Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark, And the last glassy glance must view Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue; Then with unhallow d hand shalt tear The tresses of her yellow hair, Of which in life a lock, when shorn, Affection's fondest pledge was worn; But now is borne away by thee, Memorial of thine agony! Wet with thine own best blood shall drip 38 Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip; Then, stalking to thy sullen grave, Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave; Till these in horror shrink away From spectre more accursed than they ! THE GIAOUR. 189 «How name ye yon lone Caloyer? Not oft to smile descendeth he, His features I have scann'd before And, when he doth, 't is sad to see In mine own land: 't is many a year, That he but mocks at misery. Since, dashing by the lonely shore, How that pale lip will curl and quiver 1 I saw him urge as fleet a steed Then fix once more as if for ever ; As ever served a horseman's need. As if his sorrow or disdain But once I saw that face, yet then Forbade him e'er to smile again. It was so mark'd with inward pain, Well w ere it so — such ghastly mirth I could not pass it by again; From joyauuce ne'er derived its birth. It breathes the same dark spirit now, But sadder still it were to trace As death were stamp'd upon his brow.» What once were feelings in that face: Time hath not yet the features fix'd, « «'T is twice three years at summer tide But brighter traits with evil mix'd; Since first among our freres he came; And there are hues not always faded, Which speak a mind not all degraded, And here it soothes him to abide For some dark deed he will not name. Even by the crimes through which it waded : But never at our vesper prayer, The common crowd but see the gloom Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; Nor e'er before confession chair Kneels he, nor recks he when arise The close observer can espy Incense or anthem to the skies, A noble soul, and lineage high : But broods within his cell alone, Alas! though both bestow'd in vain, His faith and race alike unknown. Which grief could change, and guilt could stain, The sea from Paynim land he crost, It was no vulgar tenement And here ascended from the coast ; To which such lofty gifts were lent, Yet seems he not of Othman race, And still with little less than dread But only Christian in his face: On such the siglu is riveted. I'd judge him some stray renegade, The roofless cot, decay' d and rent, Repentant of the change he made, Will scarce delay the passer-by; Save that he shuns our holy shrine, The tower by war or tempest bent, Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. While yet may frown one battlement, Great largess to these walls he brought, Demands and daunts the stranger's eye; And thus our abbot's favour bought : Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, But, were I prior, not a day Pleads haughtily for glories gone. Should brook such stranger's further stay; « His floating robe around him folding, Or, pent within our penance cell, Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle ; Should doom him there for aye to dwell. With dread beheld, with gloom beholding Much in his visions mutters he The rites that sanctify the pile. . Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea; But when the anthem shakes the choir, Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, And kneel the monks, his steps retire : Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. By yonder lone and wavering torch On cliff he hath been known to stand, His aspect glares within the porch ; And.rave as to some bloody hand There will he pause till all is done — Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, And hear the prayer, but utter none. Invisible to all but him, See — by the half-illumined wall Which beckons onward to his grave His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, And lures to leap into the wave.» That pale brow wildly wreathing round, As if the Gorgon there had bound The sablest of the serpent-braid Dark and unearthly is the scowl That o'er her fearful forehead slray'd : That glares beneath his dusky cowl: For he declines the convent oath, The flash of that dilating eye And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth, Reveals too much of times gone by ; But wears our garb in all beside; Though varying, indistinct its hue, And not from piety, but pride, Oft will his glance the gazer rue, Gives wealth to walls that never heard For in it lurks that nameless spell Of his one holy vow nor word Which speaks, itself unspeakable, Lo! — mark ye, as the harmony A spirit yet unquell'd and high, Peals louder praises to the sky, That claims and keeps ascendancy; That livid cheek, that stony air And like the bird whose pinions quake, Of mix'd defiance and despair ! But cannot fly the gazing snake, Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! Will others quail beneath his look, Else may we dread the wrath divine, Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. Made manifest by awful sign. From him the half-affrighted friar If ever evil angel bore When met alone would fain retire, The form of mortal, such he wore : As if that eye and bitter smile By all my hope of sins forgiven, Transferr'd to others fear and guile: Such looks are not of earth nor heaven !» f4° BYRON'S WORKS. To love the softest hearts are prone, Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd, But such can ne'er be all his own ; Such as thy penitents unfold, Too timid in his woes to share, Whose secret sins and sorrows rest Too meek to meet, or brave despair; Within thy pure and pitying breast. And sterner hearts alone may feel My days, though few, have pass'd below The wound that time can never heal. In much of joy, but more of woe; I The rugged metal of the mine Yet still, in hours of love or strife, Must burn before its surface shine, I 've 'scaped the weariness of life : But plunged within the furnace-flame, Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, It bends and melts — though still the same; I loathed the languor of repose. Then temper'd to thy want, or will, Now nothing left to love or hate, "f will serve thee to defend or kill ; No more with hope or pride elate, A breast-plate for thine hour of need, I 'd rather be the thing that crawls Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed.; Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, But if a dagger's form it bear, Than pass my dull, unvarying days, Let those who shape its edge beware ! Gondemn'd to meditate and gaze. Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, Yet, lurks a wish within my breast Can turn and tame the sterner heart; For rest — but not to feel 't is rest. From these its form and tone are la'en. Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; And what they make it, must remain, And I shall sleep without the dream Hut break — before it bend again. Of what I was, and would be still, + *•**** Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : * My memory now is but the tomb If solitude succeed to grief, Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom : Belease from pain is slight relief; Though better to have died with those, The vacant bosom's wilderness Than bear a life of lingering woes. Might thank the pang that made it less. My spirits shrunk not to sustain We loathe what none are left to share: The searching throes of ceaseless pain; Even bliss — 't were woe alone to bear; Nor sought the self-accorded grave The heart once left thus desolate Of ancient fool and modern knave : Must fly at last for ease — to hate. Yet death I have not fear'd to meet; It is as if the dead could feel And in the field it had been sweet, The icy worm around them steal, Had danger wood me on to move And shudder, as the reptiles creep The slave of glory, not of love. To revel o'er their rotting sleep, I've braved it — not for honour's boast; Without the power to scare away I smile at laurels won or lost; The cold consumers of their clay ! To such let others carve their way, It is as if the desert-bird, 3 9 For high renown, or hireling pay : Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream But place again before my eyes To still her famish' d nestlings' scream, Aught that I deem a worthy prize; Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, The maid I love, the man I hate, Should rend her rash devoted breast, And I will hunt the steps of fate And find them flown her empty nest. To save or slay, as these require, The keenest pangs the wretched find Through rending steel, and rolling fire : Are rapture to the dreary void, Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one The leafless desert of the mind, Who would but do — what he hath done. The waste of feelings unemploy'd. Death is but what the haughty brave, Who would be doom'd to gaze upon The weak must bear, the wretch must crave; A sky without a cloud or sun? Then let life go to him who gave : Less hideous far the tempest's roar 1 have not quail'd to danger's brow Than ne'er to brave the billows more — When high and happy — need I nowl Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, ****** A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, « I loved her, friar! nay, adored — Unseen to drop by dull decay. — But these are words that all can use — Better to sink beneath the shock . I proved it more in deed than word; Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! There's blood upon that dinted sword, A stain its steel can never lose: 'T was shed for her, who died for me, « Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd. 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, To bid the sins of others cease, Nor midst my sins such act record : Thyself without a crime or care, Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, Save transient ills that all must bear, For he was hostile to thy creed! Has been thy lot from youth to age; The very name of Nazarene And thou wilt bless thee from the rage Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. THE GIAOUR. 14. Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands Well wielded in some hardy hands, And wounds by Galileans given, The surest pass to Turkish heaven, For him his Houris still might wait Impatient at the prophet's gate. ■ I loved her — love will find its way Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, And if it dares enough, t were hard If passion met not some reward — No matter how, or where, or why, I did not vainly seek, nor sigh: Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain I wish she had not loved again. She died— I dare not tell thee how ; But look — 't is written on my brow ! There read of Cain the curse and crime In characters unworn by time : Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause; Not mine the act, though I the cause. Yet did he but what I had done, Had she been false to more than one. Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; But true to me, I laid him low : Howe'er deserved her doom might be, Her treachery was truth to me ; To me she gave her heart, that all Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall ; And I, alas ! too late to save ! Yet all I then could give, I gave — 'T was some relief — our foe a grave. His death sits lightly; but her fate Has made me— what thou well mayst hate. His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, Deep in whose darkly-boding ear 4o The death-shot peal'd of murder near, As filed the troop to where they fell ! He died too in the battle broil, A time that heeds nor pain nor toil; One cry to Mahomet for aid, One prayer to Alia all he made : He knew and cross'd me in the fray— I gazed upon him where he lay, And watch'd his spirit ebb away : Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel, He felt not half that now I feel. I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find The workings of a wounded mind ; Each feature of that sullen corse Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. Oh, what had vengeance given to trace Despair upon his dying face ! The late repentance of that hour, When penitence hath lost her power To tear one terror from the grave, And will not soothe, and cannot save. « The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name ; But mine was like the lava flood That boils in ./Etna's breast of flame. I cannot prate in puling strain Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : If changing cheek, and scorching vein, Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, And daring deed, and vengeful steel, And all that I have felt, and feel, Betoken love — that love was mine, And shown by many a bitter sign. T is true I could not whine nor sigh, I knew but to obtain or die. / I die — but first I have possess'd, And, come what may, I have been blest. Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? No — reft of all, yet undismay'd But for the thought of Leila slain, Give me the pleasure with the pain, So would 1 live and love again. I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! For him who dies, but her who died: She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — Ah ! had she but an earthly grave, This breaking heart and throbbing head Should seek and share her narrow bed. She was a form of life and light, That, seen, became a part of sight ; And rose where'er I turn'd mine eye, The morning-star of memory ! « Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ; A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Alia given, To lift from earth our low desire. Devotion wafts the mind above, But heaven itself descends in love ; A feeling from the Godhead caught, To wean from self each sordid thought ; A ray of him who form'd the whole ; A glory circling round the soul ! I graut my love imperfect, all That mortals by the name miscall; Then deem it evil, what thou wilt; But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! She was my life's unerring light ; That quench'd, what beam shall break my night? Oh! would it shone to lead me still, Although to death or deadliest ill ! Why marvel ye, if they who lose This present joy, this future hope, No more with sorrow meekly cope ; In frenzy then their fate accuse : In madness do those fearful deeds That seem to add but guilt to woe ? Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds Hath nought to dread from outward blow : Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss. Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now To thee, old man, my deeds appear : I read abhorrence on thy brow, And this too was I born to bear ! T is true, that, like that bird of prey, With havock have I mark'd my way : But this was taught me by the dove, To die — and know no second love. This lesson yet hath man to learn, Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : The bird that sings within the brake, The swan that swims upon the lake, One mate, and one alone, will take. 1^2 BYRON'S WORKS. And let the fool, still prone to range, And he will start to hear their truth, And sneer on all who cannot change, And wish his words had not been sooth : Partake his jest with boasting boys ; Tell him, unheeding as I was, I envy not his varied joys, Through many a busy bitter scene, But deem such feeble, heartless man, Of all Gur golden youth had been, Less than yon solitary swan; In pain, my faltering tongue had tried Far, far beneath the shallow maid To bless his memory ere I died ; He left believing and betray'd. But Heaven in wrath would turn away, Such shame at least was never mine — If guilt should for the guiltless pray. Leila! each thought was only thine! I do not ask him not to blame, My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, Too gentle he to wound my name ; My hope on high — my all below. And what have I to do with fame ? Earth holds no other like to thee, I do not ask him not to mourn, Or if it doth, in vain for me : Such cold request might sound like scorn; For worlds I dare not view the dame And what than friendship's manly tear Resembling thee, yet not the same. May better grace a brother's bier ! The very crimes that mar my youth, But bear this ring, his own of old, This bed of death — attest my truth ! And tell him — what thou dost behold! 'T is all too late— thou wert, thou art The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, The cherish'd madness of my heart ! The wreck by passion left behind, A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter d leaf, « And she was lost — and yet I breathed, Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief ! But not the breath of human life : ♦ ♦♦ + ♦• A serpent round my heart was wreathed, And stung my every thought to strife. « Tell me no more of fancy's gleam ; Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, No, father, no, 't was not a dream : Shuddering I shrunk from nature's face, Alas! the dreamer first must sleep; Where every hue that charm' d before I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep, The blackness of my bosom wore. But could not, for my burning brow The rest thou dost already know, Throbb'd to the very brain, as now : And all my sins, and half my woe. I wish'd but for a single tear, But talk no more of penitence; As something welcome, new, and dear: Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence : I wish'd it then, I wish it still — And if thy holy tale were true, Despair is stronger than my will. The deed that 's done canst thou undo ? Waste not thine orison, despair Think me not thankless — but this grief Is mightier than thy pious prayer : Looks not to priesthood for relief.^ 1 I would not, if I might, be blest ; My soul's estate in secret guess : I want no paradise, but rest. But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 'T was then, I tell thee, father! then When thou canst bid my Leila live, I saw her; yes, she lived again; Then will I sue thee to forgive ; And shining in her white symar,^ 2 Then plead my cause in that high place As through yon pale grey cloud the star Where purchased masses proffer grace. Which now 1 gaze on, as on her, Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung Who look'd and looks far lovelier; From forest-cave her shrieking young, Dimly I view its trembling spark: And calm the lonely lioness: To-morrow's night shall be more dark ; But soothe not — mock not my distress ! And I, before its rays appear, That lifeless thing the living fear. « In earlier days, and calmer hours, I wander, father ! for my soul When heart with heart delights to blend, Is fleeting towards the hnal goal. Where bloom my native valley's bowers, I saw her, friar ! and I rose I had — Ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! Forgetful of our former woes; To him this pledge I charge thee send, And rushing from my couch, I dartj Memorial of a youthful vow ; And clasp her to my desperate heart ; I would remind him of my end : I clasp — what is it that I clasp? Though souls absorb'd like mine allow No breathing form within my grasp, Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, No heart that beats reply to mine. Yet dear to him my blighted name. Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, And art thou, dearest, changed so much, And I have smiled — I then could smile — As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? When prudence would his voice assume, Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, And warn — I reck'd not what — the while : I care not; so my arms enfold But now remembrance whispers o'er The all they ever wish'd to hold. Those accents scarcely mark'd before. Alas ! around a shadow prest, Say— that his bodings came to pass, They shrink upon my lonely breast; THE GIAOUR. i43 Yet still 't is there ! in silence stands, And beckons with beseeching hands! With braided hair, and bright-black eye- I knew 't was false — she could not die! But he is dead! within the dell I saw him buried where he fell; He comes not, for he cannot break From earth ; why then art thou awake? They told me wild waves roll'd above The face I view, the form I love; They told me — 't was a hideous tale ! I 'd tell it, but my tongue would fail: If true, and from thine ocean-cave Thou comest to claim a calmer grave, Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er This brow that then will burn no more; Or place them on my hopeless heart: But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, In mercy ne'er again depart! Or farther with thee bear my soul, Than winds can waft or waters roll ! « Such is my name, and such my tale. Confessor ! to thy secret ear I breathe the sorrows I bewail, And thank thee for the generous tear This glazing eye could never shed. Then lay me with the humblest dead, And, save the cross above my head, Be neither name nor emblem spread, By prying stranger to be read, Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread.» He pass'd — nor of his name and race Hath left a token or a trace, Save what the father must not say Who shrived him on his dying day: This broken tale was all we knew Of her he loved, or him he slew.4 3 NOTES. Note 1. Page i32, line 3. That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff. A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. Note 2. Page i32, line 22. Sultana of the nightingale. The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well-known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the « Bul- bul of a thousand tales » is one of his appellations. Note 3. Page i32, line 4c. Till the gay mariner's guitar. The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor by night: with a steady fair wind, and during a calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing. Note 4. Page i33, line 40. Where cold obstruction's apathy. ■ Ay, but to die and go we know not where, To lie in cold obstruction." Measure for Measure, Act III. i3o. Sc. 2. Note 5. Page i33, line 48. The first, last look by death reveal'd. I trust that few of my readers have ever had an op- portunity of witnessing what is here attempted in de- scription, but those who have will probably retain a painful remembrance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, after « the spirit is not there." It is to be remarked in cases of -violent death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is always that of languor, whatever the natural energy of the suffer- er's character; but in death from a stab the counte- nance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias to the last. Note 6. Page i33, line 110. Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave. Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave of the seraglio and guardian of the women), who appoints the Waywode. A pandar and eunuch — these are not polite, yet true appellations — now governs the governor of Athens ! Note 7. Page i34, line 23. 'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour. Infidel. Note 8. Page i34, line 58. In echoes of the far tophaike. «Tophaike,» musket. — The Bairam is announced by the cannon at sunset; the illumination of the mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with ball, proclaim it during the night. Note 9. Page i34, line 84. Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed. Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which is darted from horseback with great force and precision. It is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans; but I know not if it can be called a manly one, since the most ex- pert in the art are the black eunuchs of Constantinople — I think, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the most skilful that came within my observation. Note 10. Page i34, line 11 5. He came, he went, like the Simoom. The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, and often alluded to in eastern poetry. Note 11. Page 1 35, line 47- To bless the sacred u bread and salt.* To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your host, insures the safety of the guest; even though an enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. Note 12. Page i35, line 55. Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre. I need hardly observe that Charity and Hospitality are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet; and, to say truth, very generally practised by his disciples. The first praise that can be bestowed on a chief is a panegyric on his bounty; the next on his valour. Note i3. Page i35, line 59. And silver-sheaihed ataghan. The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; and, among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. BYRON'S WORKS. Note 14. Page i35, line 61. An emir by his garb of green. Green is the privileged colour of the Prophet's nu- merous pretended descendants ; with them, as here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede the necessity of good works: they are the worst of a very indifferent brood. Note i5. Page i35, line 62. a Ho ! who art thou ? — this low salam, » etc. Salam aleikoum! aleikoum salam! peace be with you,- be with you peace — the salutation reserved for the faithful: — to a Christian, « Urlarula,» a good jour- ney; or saban hiresem, saban serula; good morn, good even; and sometimes, « may your end be happy ;» are the usual salutes. Note 16. Page 1 35, line g3. The insect-queen of eastern spring. The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare and beautiful of the species. Note 17. Page i36, line i5. Or lire like scorpion girt by fire. Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some maintain that the position of the sting, when turned towards the head, is merely a convulsive movement : but others have actually brought in the verdict, « Felo de se.» The scorpions are surely interested in a speedy decision of the question , as, if once fairly established as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live as long as they think proper, without being martyred for the sake of an hypothesis. Note 18. Page i36, line 3o. When Rhamazan's last sun was set. The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See note 8. Note 19. Page i36, line 49. By pale Phingari's trembling light. Phingari, the moon. Note 20. Page i36, line 60. Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, the embellisher of Istakhar; from its splendour, named Schebgerag, « the torch of night;» also « the cup of the sun,» etc. — In the first editions « Giamschid » was written as a word of three syllables, so D'Herbelot has it; but I am told Piichardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and writes « Jamshid.» I have left in the text the or- thography of the one with the pronunciation of the other. Note 21. Page i36, line 64. Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood. Al-Sirat, the bridge, of breadth less than the thread of a famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must skate into paradise, to which it is the only entrance ; but this is not the worst, the river beneath being hell itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskilful and tender of foot contrive to tumble with a « facilis descensus Averni,» not very pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards for the Jews and Christians. Note 22. Page i36, line 69. And keep that portion of his creed. A vulgar error: the Koran allots at least a third of paradise to well-behaved women; but by far the greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own way, and exclude their moieties from heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot discern « any fitness of things » in the souls of the other sex, conceiving them to be superseded by the Houris. Note 2 3. Page 1 36, line 75. The young pomegranate's blossoms strew. An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly stolen, be deemed « plus Arabe qu'en Arabie.» Note 24. Page i36, line 77. Her hair in hyacinthine flow. Hyacinthine, in Arabic «Sunbul;» as common a thought in the Eastern poets as it was among the Greeks. Note 25. Page i36, line 87. The loveliest bird of Franguestan. « Franguestan, » Circassia. Note 26. Page 137, line 26. u Bismillah ! now the peril 's past," etc. Bismillah — « In the name of God,» the commence- ment of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of prayer and thanksgiving. Note 27. Page 137, line Si. Then curl'd his very beard with ire. A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussul- man. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers at a diplo- matic audiencewerenotlesslivelywith indignation than a tiger-cat's, to the horror of all the dragomans ; the portentous mustachios twisted, they stood erect of their own accord, and were expected every moment to change their colour, but at last condescended to subside, which probably saved more heads than they contained hairs. Note 28. Page 137, line 61. Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! «Amaun,» quarter, pardon. Note 29. Page 137, line 70. I know him by the evil eye. The «evil eye,» a common superstition in the Levant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet very singular on those who conceive themselves affected. Note 3o. Page i37,line 124. A fragment of his palampore. The flowered shawls generally worn by persons of rank. Note 3i. Page r 38, line 5i. His calpacrent — his caftan red. The « Calpac » is the solid cap or centre part of the head-dress ; the shawl is wound round it, and forms the turban. Note 32. Page i38, line 57. A turban carved in coarsest stone. The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate the tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery or the wilderness. In the mountains you frequently pass similar mementos; and, on inquiry, you are in- formed that they record some victim of rebellion, plun- der, or revenge. Note 33. Page i38, line 68. At solemn sound of « Alia Hu !» «Alla Hu!» the concluding words of the Muezzin's THE GIAOUR. j45 call to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of the Minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a fine voice, -which is frequently the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells in Chris- tendom. Note 34. Page i38, line 77. They come — their kerchiefs green they wave. The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks : — « I see — I see a dark-eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green ; and cries aloud, Gome, kiss me, for I love thee,» etc. Note 35. Page i38, line 82. Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe. Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, before whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate and preparatory training for damnation. If the an- swers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped down with a red-hot mace till pro- perly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. The office of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but two, and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small proportion to the remainder, their hands are al- ways full. Note 36. Page i38, line 84. To wander round lost Eljlis' throne. Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. Note 37. Page i38, line 89. But first, on earth as vampire sent. The Vampire superstition is still general in the Le- vant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes about these « Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term is « Vardoulacha.» I recollect a whole family being terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word without horror. I find that « Brou- colokas » is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation — at least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, was after his death animated by the Devil. The moderns, however, use the word I mention. Note 38. Page i38, line 11 5. Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly attested. Note 39. Page 140, line 36. It is as if the desert-bird. The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the imputation of feeding her chickens with her blood. Note 4». Page 141, line 36. Deep in whose darkly boding ear. This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never met with downright second-sight in the East) fell once under my own observation. — On my third journey to Gape Colonna early in 181 1, as we passed through the defile that leads from the hamlet between Keratia and Colonna, I observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, and leaning his head upon his hand as if in pain. I rode up and inquired. «We are in peril, » he answered. « What peril ? we are not now in Albania, nor in the passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto ; there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates have not courage to be thieves." — « True, Affendi; but never- theless the shot is ringing in my ears.» — «The shot! — not a tophaike has been fired this morning. » — « I hear it notwithstanding — Bom— Bom — as plainly as I hear your voice. » — «Psha.» — «As you please, Affendi ; if itis written, so will it be.» — I left this quick-eared predesti- narian, and rode up to Basili, his Christian compatriot, whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means relished the intelligence. We all arrived at Golonna, remained some hours, and returned leisurely, saying a variety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled the building of Babel, upon the mistaken seer ; Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and English were all exercised, in various conceits upon the unfortunate Mussulman. While we were contemplating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was occupied about the columns. I thought he was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he had become a « Palaocastro » man: « No,» said he, « but these pillars will be useful in making a stand ;» and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own belief in his troublesome faculty of fore-hearing. On our return to Athens, we heard from Leone (a prisoner set ashore some days after) of the intended attack of the Mainotes, mentioned, with the cause of its not taking place, in the notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I was at some pains to question the man, and he described the dresses, arms, and marks of the horses of our party so accurately, that, with other circumstances, we could not doubt of his having been in «villanous company," and ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more musketry than ever will be fired, to the great refresh- ment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his native moun- tains. — I shall mention one trait more of this singular race. In March 1811, a remarkably stout and active Arnaout came (I believe the 5oth on the same errand) to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined : «Well, Affendi, » quoth he, « may you live ! — you would have found me useful. I shall leave the town for the hills to-morrow; in the winter I return, perhaps you will then receive me.» — Dervish, who was present, remarked, as a thing of course, and of no consequence, « in the mean time he will join the Klephtes,» (robbers), which was true to the letter. — If not cut off, they come down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in some town, where they are often as well known as their exploits. Note 41 • Page 1 4 2 > nne 36. Looks not to priesthood for relief. The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so little effect upon the patient, that it cotdd have no hopes from the reader. It maybe sufficient to say, that it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from the interruptions and uneasiness of the penitent), and was delivered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers. Note 42. Page 142, line 102. And shining in her white symar. « Symar» — Shroud. Note 43. Page 143, line 37. The circumstance to which the above story relates was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his 19 1 46 BYRON'S WORKS. sons supposed iufidelity ; he asked with whom, aud she had the barbarity to give in a list of the twelve hand- somest women in Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night ! One of the guards who was present informed me, that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symp- tom of terror at so sudden a « wrench from all we know, from all we love.» The fate of Phrosine, the fair- est of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and Arnaout ditty. The story in the text is one told of a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly for- gotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. The additions and interpolations by the translator will be easily distin- guished from the rest by the want of Eastern imagery; and I regret that my memory has retained so few frag- ments of the original. For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most eastern, and, as Mr Weber justly entitles it, « sublime tale,» the « Caliph Vathek. » I do not know from what source the author of that singular volume may have drawn his materials ; some of his incidents are to be found in the « Bibliotheque Orientale;» but for correctness of cos- tume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all European imitations ; and bears such marks of originality, that those who have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow before it; his « Happy Valley » will not bear a comparison with the « Hall of Eblis.» ©ttf Attire of &6siK>?3, A TURKISH TALE. Had we never loved so kindly, Had we never loved so blindly, Never met or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. BURNS. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF BEGABD AND BESPECT, BY HIS GBATEFULLY OBLIGED AND SINCEBE FRIEND, BYRON. CANTO I. i. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime ? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine , Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'dwith perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul l in her bloom ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? T is the clime of the East; 't is the land of the sun — Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 2 Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. II. Begirt with many a gallant slave, Apparell'd as becomes the brave, Awaiting each his lord's behest To guide his steps, or guard his rest, Old Giaffir sat in his Divan : Deep thought was in his aged eye; And though the face of Mussulman Not oft betrays to standers by The mind within, well skill'd to hide All but unconquerable pride, His pensive cheek and pondering brow Did more than he was wont avow. III. « Let the chamber be clear'd.» — The train disappear'd- « Now cali me the chief of the Haram guard. » With Giaffir is none but his only son, And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. <■<■ Haroun — when all the crowd that wait Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, (Woe to the head whose eye beheld My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !) Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; Her fate is fix'd this verv hour: THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. i4 7 Yet not to her repeat my thought; . By me alone he duty taught! » « Pacha! to hear is to obey.» No more must slave to despot say — Then to the tower had ta'en his way, But here youug Selim silence brake, First lowly rendering reverence meet ; And downcast look'd, and gently spake, Still standing at the Pacha s feet : For son of Moslem must expire, Ere dare to sit before his sire. « Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide My sister, or her sable guide, Know — for the fault, if fault there be, Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — So lovelily the morning shone, That — let the old and weary sleep — I could not; and to view alone The fairest scenes of land and deep, With none to listen and reply To thoughts with which my heart beat high Were irksome — for whate'er my mood, In sooth I love not solitude; I on Zuleika's slumber broke, And, as thou knowest that for me Soon turns the Haram's grating key, Before the guardian slaves awoke We to the cypress groves had flown, And made earth, main, and heaven our own There linger'd we, beguiled too long With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song: 3 Till I, who heard the deep tambour £ Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, To thee and to my duty true, Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : But there Zuleika wanders yet — Nay, father, rage not — nor forget That none can pierce that secret bower But those who watch the women's tower." IV. « Son of a slave!» — the Pacha said — « From unbelieving mother bred, Vain were a father's hope to see Aught that beseems a man in thee. Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, Must pore where babbling waters flow, And watch unfolding roses blow. Would that yon orb, whose matin glow Thy listless eyes so much admire, Would lend thee something of his fire ! Thou, who wouldst see this battlement By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall Before the dogs of Moscow fall, Nor strike or>e stroke for life and death Against the curs of Nazareth ! Go — let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff — not the brand. But, Harouu !— to my daughter speed: And hark — of thine own head take heed — If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — Thou seest yon bow — it hath a string !» V. No sound from Selim's lip was heard, At least that met old Giaffir's ear, But every frown and every word Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. « Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with fear! Those gibes had cost another dear. Son of a slave ! — and who my sire !» Thus held his thoughts their dark career, And glances even of more than ire Flash forth, then faintly disappear. Old Giaffir gazed upon his son And started ; for within his eye He read how much his wrath had done ; He saw rebellion there begun : « Come hither, boy, — what, no reply ? I mark thee, and I know thee too ; But there be deeds thou darest not do : But if thy beard had manlier length, And if thy hand had skill and strength, I 'd joy to see thee break a lance, Albeit against my own, perchance. » As sneeringly these accents fell, On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : That eye return'd him glance for glance, And proudly to his sire's was raised, Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance — And why — he felt, but durst not tell. « Much I misdoubt this wayward boy Will one day work me more annoy ; I never loved him from his birth, And — but his arm is little worth, And scarcely in the chase could cope With timid fawn or antelope, Far less would venture into strife Where man contends for fame and life — •I would not trust that look or tone: No — nor the blood so near my own. That blood — he hath not heard— no more — I '11 watch him closer than before. He is an Arab 5 to my sight, Or Christian crouching in the fight- But hark !— I hear Zuleika's voice; Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear : She is the offspring of my choice ; O ! more than even her mother dear, With all to hope, and nought to fear — My Peri ! ever welcome here ! Sweet, as the desert-fountain's wave To lips just cool'd in time to save — Such to my longing sight art thou ; Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine More thanks for life, than I for thine, Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now.» VI. Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — But once beguil'd— and ever more beguiling ; Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendant vision To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven ; Soft, as the memory of buried love ; Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts above : i48 BYRON'S WORKS. Was she — the daughter of that rude old chief, Who met the maid -with tears — but not of grief. Who hath not proved how feebly words essay To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray? Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess The might — the majesty of loveliness? Such was Zuleika — such around her shone The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the music breathing from her face, 6 The heart whose softness harmonized the whole- And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul ! Her graceful arms in meekness bending Across her gently-budding breast; At one kind word those arms extending To clasp the neck of him who bless'd His child caressing and caress'd, Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt His purpose half within him melt: Not that against her fancied weal His heart, though stern, could ever feel : Affection chain'd her to that heart; Ambition tore the links apart. VII. « Zuleika! child of gentleness! How dear this very day must tell, When I forget my own distress, In losing what I love so well, To bid thee with another dwell : Another ! and a braver man Was never seen in battle's van. We Moslem reck not much of blood ; But yet the line of Carasman7 Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood First of the bold Timariot bands That won and well can keep their lands. Enough that he who comes to woo Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou: His years need scarce a thought employ — I would not have thee wed a boy. And thou shalt have a noble dower : And his and my united power Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, Which others tremble but to scan, And teach the messenger 8 what fate The bearer of such boon may wait. And now thou know'st thy father's will — All that thy sex hath need to know : 'T was mine to teach obedience still — The way to love thy lord may show.» VIII, In silence bow'd the virgin's head ■ And if her eye was fill'd with tears That stifled feeling dare not shed, And changed her cheek from pale to red, And red to pale, as through her ears Those winged words like arrows sped, What could such be but maiden fears ! So bright the tear in beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; So sweet the blush of bashfulness, Even pity scarce can wish it less ! Whate'er it was, -the sire forgot; Or, if remember'd, mark'd it not: Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed,9 Resign'd his gem-adorn'd Chibouque/ And mounting featly for the mead, With Maugrabee ll and Mamaluke, His way amid his Delis took,' 2 To witness many an active deed With sabre keen, or blunt jereed. The Kislar only and his Moors Watch well the Haram's massy doors. IX. His head was leant upon his hand, His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water That swiftly glides and gently swells Between the winding Dardanelles ; But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, Careering cleave the folded felt ' 3 With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, Nor heard their Ollahs <4 wild and loud — He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter ! X. No word' from Selim's bosom broke ; One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : Still gazed he through the lattice grate, Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, But little from his aspect learn'd : Equal her grief, yet not the same ; Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : But yet that heart alarm'd or weak, She knew not why, forbade to speak. Yet speak she must — but when essay ? « How strange he thus should turn away ! Not thus we e'er before have met ; Not thus shall be our parting yet.» Thrice paced she slowly through the room, And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd: She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd The Persian Atar-gulV 5 perfume, And sprinkled all its odours o'er The pictured roof* 6 and marbled floor : The drops, that through his glittering vest The playful girl's appeal address'd, Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, As if that breast were marble too. « What, sullen yet ? it must not be — Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee! » She saw in curious order set The fairest flowers of Eastern land — « He loved them once ; may touch them yet, If offered by Zuleika's hand.» The childish thought was hardly breathed Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed ; The next fond moment saw her seat Her fairy form at Selim's feet : « This rose, to calm my brother's cares, A message from the Bulbul '7 bears; It says to-night he will prolong For Selim's ear his sweetest song : THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. J 49 And though his note is somewhat sad, He 'Jl try for once a strain more glad, With some faint hope his alter'd lay May sing these gloomy thoughts away. XL « What! not receive my foolish flower? Nay then I am indeed unblest: On me can thus thy forehead lower? And know'st thou not who loves thee best? Oh, Selim dear! oh, more than dearest! Say, is it me thou hai'st or fearest? Come, lay thy head upon my breast, And I will kiss thee into rest, Since words of mine, and songs must fail Even from my fabled nightingale. I knew our sire at times was stern, But this from thee had yet to learn: Too well I know he loves thee not j But is Zuleika's love forgot? Ah ! deem I right? the Pacha's plan — This kinsman Bey of Carasman Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, If shrines that ne'er approach allow To woman's step admit her vow, Without thy free consent, command, The Sultan should not have my hand ! Think'st thou that I could bear to part With thee, and learn to halve my heart? Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side, Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? Years have not seen, time shall not see The hour that tears my soul from thee: Even Azrael, 18 from his deadly quiver When flies that shaft, and fly it must, That parts all else, shall doom for ever Our hearts to undivided dust!» XII. He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt; He raised the maid from where she knelt : His trance was gone — his keen eye shone With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. As the stream late conceal'd By the fringe of its willows, When it rushes reveal'd In the light of its billows ; As the bolt bursts on high, From the black cloud that bound it," L Flash'd the soul of that eye Through the long lashes round it. A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, A lion roused by heedless hound, A tyrant waked to sudden strife By graze of ill-directed knife, Starts not to more convulsive life Than he, who heard that vow, display'd, And all, before repress'd, betray'd: « Now thou art mine, for ever mine, With life to keep, and scarce with life resign: Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; That vow hath saved more heads than one. But blench not thou — thy simplest tress Claims more from me than tenderness : I would not wrong the slenderest hair That clusters round thy forehead fair, For all the treasures buried far Within the caves of Istakar. '9 This morning clouds upon me lower'd, Reproaches on my head were shower'd, And Giaffir almost call'd me coward! Now I have motive to be brave, The son of his neglected slave — Nay, start not, 't was the term he gave — May show, though little apt to vaunt, A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee, Perchance I am, at least shall be; But let our plighted secret vow Be only known to us as now. I know the wretch who dares demand From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul, Holds not a Musselim's 20 control. Was he not bred in Egripo? 21 A viler race let Israel show ! But let that pass — to none be told Our oath; the rest shall time unfold. To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; I 've partisans for peril's day : Think not I am what I appear ; I 've arms, and friends, and vengeance near.» XIII. « Think not thou art what thou appearest ! My Selim, thou art sadly changed : This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest; But now thou 'rt from thyself estranged. My love thou surely knew'st before, It ne'er was less, nor can be more. To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, And hate the night I know not why, Save that we meet not but by day: With thee to live, with thee to die, I dare not to my hope deny : Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, Like this — and this — no more than this; For, Alia! sure thy lips are flame : What fever in thy veins is flushing? My own have nearly caught the same, At least I feel my cheek too blushing. To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, Partake, but never waste thy wealth, Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, And lighten half thy poverty ; Do all but close thy dying eye, For that I could not live to try ; To these alone my thoughts aspire: More can I do, or thou require? But, Selim, thou must answer why We need so much of mystery? The cause I cannot dream nor tell, Yet be it, since thou say'st 't is well. Yet what thou mean st by ' arms ' and ' friends Beyond my weaker sense extends. I meant that Giaffir should have heard The very vow I plighted thee ; His wrath would not revoke my word : But surely he would leave me free. Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 5o BYRON'S WORKS. To be what I have ever been ? What other hath Zuleika seen From simple childhood's earliest hour ? What other can she seek to see Than thee, companion of her bower, The partner of her infancy? These cherish'd thoughts with life begun, Say, why must I no more avow ? What change is wrought to make me shun The truth — my pride, and thine till now ? To meet the gaze of strangers' eyes Our law, our creed, our God denies; Nor shall one wandering thought of mine At such, our Prophet's will, repine : No ! happier made by that decree ! He left me all in leaving thee. Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd To wed with one I ne'er beheld : This wherefore should I not reveal? Why wilt thou urge me to conceal? I know the Pacha's haughty mood To thee hath never boded good ; And he so often storms at nought, Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! And why I know not, but within IViy heart concealment weighs like sin. If then such secrecy be crime, And such it feels while lurking here, Oh, Selim! tell me yet in time, Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. Ah! yonder see the Tchocadar, 22 My father leaves the mimic war; I tremble now to meet his eye — Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why?» XIV. « Zuleika! to thy tower's retreat Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet: And now with him I fain must prate Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. There 's fearful news from Danube's banks ; Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! Our Sultan hath a shorter way Such costly triumph to repay. ' But, mark me, when the twilight drum Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, Unto thy cell will Selim come: Then softly from the Haram creep Where we may wander by the deep : Our garden-battlements are steep ; Nor these will rash intruder climb To list our words, or stint our time : And if he doth, I want not steel, Which some have felt, and more may feel. Then shalt thou learn of Selim more Than thou hast heard or thought before ; Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! Thou know'st I hold a Haram key.» « Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now Did word like this — » « Delay not thou: I keep the key — and Haroun's guard Have some, and hope of more reward. To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear My tale, my purpose, and my fear : I am not, love! what I appear.» CANTO II. The winds are high on Helle's wave, As on that night of stormy water When love, who sent, forgot to save The young, the beautiful, the brave, The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. Oh ! when alone along the sky Her turret-torch was blazing high, Though rising gale, and breaking foam, And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home ; And clouds aloft and tides below, With signs and sounds, forbade to go; He could not see, he would not hear Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; His eye but saw that light of love, The only star it hail'd above ; His ear but rang with Hero's song, « Ye waves, divide not lovers long !» — That tale is old, but love anew May nerve young hearts to prove as true. The winds are high, and Helle's tide Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; And night's descending shadows hide That field with blood bedew'd in vain, The desert of old Priam's pride; The tombs, sole relics of his reign, All — save immortal dreams that could beguile The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle! III. Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; These feet have press'd the sacred shore, These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, To trace again those fields of yore, Believing every hillock green Contains no fabled hero's ashes, And that around the undoubted scene Thine own « broad Hellespont » 23 still dashes, Be long my lot ! and cold were he Who there could gaze denying thee ! IV. The night hath closed on Helle's stream, Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill That moon, which shone on his high theme ; No warrior chides her peaceful beam, But conscious shepherds bless it still. Their flocks are grazing on the mound Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow : That mighty heap of gather'd ground Which Amnion's 2 4 son ran proudly round, By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd, Is now a lone and nameless barrow! Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow ! Without — can only strangers breathe The name of him that was beneath : Dust long outlasts the storied stone, But thou— 'thy very dust is gone! THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 5i Late, late to-night will Dian cheer The swain, and chase the boatman's fear; Till then — no beacon on the cliff May shape the course of struggling skiff; The scatter d lights that skirt the bay, All, one by one, have died away; The only lamp of this lone hour Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, And o'er her silken ottoman Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; 25 Near these, with emerald rays beset, (How could she thus that gem forget ?) Her mother's sainted amulet, 26 Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, Could smooth this life, and win the next; And by her Comboloio 2 7 lies A Koran of illumined dyes; And many a bright emblazon' d rhyme By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, Reclines her now neglected lute ; And round her lamp of fretted gold Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould; The richest work of Iran's loom, And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; All that can eye or sense delight Are gather' d in that gorgeous room : But yet it hath an air of gloom. She, of this Peri cell the sprite, What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? VI. Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, Which none save noblest Moslem wear, To guard from winds of heaven the breast As heaven itself to Selim dear, With cautious steps the thicket threading, And starting oft, as through the glade The gust its hollow moanings made, Till on the smoother pathway treading, More free her timid bosom beat, The maid pursued her silent guide ; And though her terror urged retreat, How could she quit her Selim's side? How teach her tender lips to chide ? VII. They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn By nature, but enlarged by art, Where oft her lute she wont to tune, And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; And oft in youthful reverie She dream'd what Paradise might be : Where woman's parted soul shall go Her prophet had disdain'd to show ; But Selim's mansion was secure, Nor deem'd she, could he long endure His bower in other worlds of bliss, Without her, most beloved in this ! Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell? What houri soothe him half so well ? VIII. Since last she visited the spot Some change seem'd wrought within the grot: It might be only that the night Disguised things seen by better light : That brazen lamp but dimly threw A ray of no celestial hue ; But in a nook within the cell Her eye on stranger objects fell. There arms were piled, not such as wield The turban'd Delis in the field ; But brands of foreign blade and hilt, And one was red — perchance with guilt! Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? A cup too on the board was set That did not seem to hold sherbet. What may this mean ? she turn'd to see Her Selim — « Oh ! can this be he ?» IX. His robe of pride was thrown aside, His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, But in its stead a shawl of red, Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore : That dagger, on whose hilt the gem Were worthy of a diadem, No longer glitter'd at his waist, Where pistols unadorn'd were braced; And from his belt a sabre swung, And from his shoulder loosely hung The cloak of white, the thin capote That decks the wandering Candiote: Beneath — his golden-plated vest Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; The greaves below his knee that wound With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. But were it not that high command Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, All that a careless eye could see In him was some young Galiongee. 28 X. « I said I was not what I seem'd ; And now thou seest my words were true : I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, If sooth — its truth must others rue. My story now 't were vain to hide ; I must not see thee Osman's bride : But had not thine own lips declared How much of that young heart I shared, I could not, must not, yet have shown The darker secret of my own. In this I speak not now of love ; That, let time, truth, and peril prove: But first — Oh! never wed another — Zuleika! I am not thy brother !» XL « Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — God ! am I left alone on earth To mourn — I dare not curse — the day That saw my solitary birth ? Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! My sinking heart foreboded ill; But know me all I was before, Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 52 BYRON'S WORKS. Thou led'st me here perchance to kill; If thou hast cause for vengeance, see ! My breast is offer'd, take thy fill! Far better with the dead to be Than live thus nothing now to thee : Perhaps far worse, for now I know Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe; And I, alas ! am Giaffir's child, For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. If not thy sister — wouldst thou save My life, oh! bid me be thy slave !» XII. « My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I 'm thine : But, gentle love, this transport calm, Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. So may the Koran 2 9 verse display'd Upon its steel direct my blade, In danger's hour to guard us both, As I preserve that awful oath ! The name in which thy heart hath prided Must change; but, my Zuleika, know, That tie is widen'd, not divided, Although thy sire 's my deadliest foe. My father was to Giaffir all That Selim late was deem'd to thee ; That brother wrought a brother's fall, But spared, at least, my infancy ; And lull'd me with a vain deceit That yet a like return may meet. He rear'd me, not with tender help, But like the nephew of a Gain ; 3o He watch'd me like a lion's whelp, That gnaws and yet may break his chain. My father's blood in every vein Is boiling; but for thy dear sake No present vengeance will I take ; Though here I must no more remain. But first, beloved Zuleika! hear How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. XIII. « How first their strife to rancour grew, If love or envy made them foes, It matters little if I knew ; In fiery spirits, slights, though few And thoughtless, will disturb repose. In war Abdallah's arm was strong, Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, And Paswan's 3 ' rebel hordes attest How little love they bore such guest: His death is all 1 need relate, The stern effect of Giaffir's hate; And how my birth disclosed to me, Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. XIV. « When Paswan, after years of strife, At last for power, but first for life, In Widin's walls too proudly sate, Our Pachas rallied round the state; Nor last nor least in high command Each brother led a separate band. They gave their horsetails 32 to the wind, And, mustering in Sophia's plain, Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd ; To one, alas ! assign'd in vain! What need of words ? the deadly bowl, By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, With venom, subtle as his soul, Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. Reclined and feverish in the bath, He, when the hunter's sport was up, But little deem'd a brother's wrath To quench his thirst had such a cup : The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; He drank one draught, 33 nor needed more ! If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, Call Haroun — he can tell it out. XV. « The deed once done, and Paswan's feud In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, Abdallah's pachalick was gain'd : Thou know'st not what in our Divan Can wealth procure for worse than man — Abdallah's honours were obtain'd By him a brother's murder stain'd. T is true, the purchase nearly drain'd His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. Wouldst question whence ? Survey the waste, And ask the squalid peasant how His gains repay his broiling brow ? Why me the stern usurper spared, Why thus with me his palace shared, I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, And little fear from infant's force ; Besides, adoption as a son By him whom Heaven accorded none, Or some unknown cabal, caprice, Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace : He cannot curb his haughty mood, Nor I forgive a father's blood. XVI. « Within thy father's house are foes; Not all who break his bread are true : To these should I my birth disclose, His days, his very hours were few. They only want a heart to lead, A hand to point them to the deed. But Haroun only knows, or knew This tale, whose close is almost nigh : He in Abdallah's palace grew, And held that post in his Serai Which holds he here — he saw him die : But what could single slavery do ? Avenge his lord ! alas ! too late ; Or save his son from such a fate ? He chose the last, and when elate With foes subdued, or friends betray 'd, Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, He led me helpless to his gate, And not in vain, it seems, essay'd To save the life for which he pray'd. The knowledge of my birth secured From all and each, but most from me ; Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. Removed he too from Roumelie THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. i53 To this our Asiatic side, Far from our seats by Danube's tide, With none but Haroun, who retains Such knowledge— and that Nubian feels A tyrant's secrets are but chains From which the captive gladly steals, And this and more to me reveals. Such still to guilt just Alia sends Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! XVII. « All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds; But harsher still my tale must be : Howe'cr my tongue thy softness wounds, Yet I must prove all truth to thee. I saw thee start this garb to see, Yet is it one I oft have worn, And long must wear: this Galiongee, To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, Is leader of those pirate hordes, Whose laws and lives are on their swords; To hear whose desolating tale Would make thy waning cheek more pale : Those arms thou see'st my band have brought, The hands that wield are not remote ; This cup too for the rugged knaves Is fill'd — once quaff d, they ne'er repine: Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; They're only infidels in wine. XVIII. « What could I be ? Proscribed at home, And taunted to a wish to roam ; And listless left — for Giaffir's fear Denied the courser and the spear — Though oft— Oh, Mahomet! how oft!— In full Divan the despot scoff d, As if my weak unwilling hand Refused the bridle or the brand. He ever went to war alone, And pent me here untried, unknown ; To Haroun's care with women left, By hope unblest, of fame bereft. While thou — whose softness long endear'd, Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer'd — To Brusa's walls for safety sent, Awaited'st there the field's event. Haroun, who saw my spirit pining Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, His captive, though with dread resigning, My thraldom for a season broke, On promise to return before The day when Giafhr's charge was o'er. 'Tis vain — my tongue cannot impart My almost drunkenness of heart, When first this liberated eye Survey'd earth, ocean, sun, and sky, As if my spirit pierced them through, And all their inmost wonders knew ! One word alone can paint to thee That more than feeling — I was Free ! E'en for thy presence ceased to pine; The world — nay — heaven itself was mine ! XIX. « The shallop of a trusty Moor Convey'd me from this idle shore ; I long'd to see the isles that gem Old Ocean's purple diadem: I sought by turns, and saw them all ; 3 4 But when and where I join'd the crew, With whom I 'm pledged to rise or fall, When all that we design to do Is done, 't will then be time more meet To tell thee when the tale 's complete. XX. « 'T is true, they are a lawless brood, But rough in form, nor mild in mood; And every creed, and every race, With them hath found — may find a place: But open speech, and ready hand, Obedience to their chief's command; A soul for every enterprise, That never sees with terror's eyes ; Friendship for each, and faith to all, And vengeance vowel for those who fall, Have made them fitting instruments For more than even my own intents. And some— and 1 have studied all Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, But chiefly to my council call The wisdom of the cautious Frank — And some to higher thoughts aspire, The last of Lambro's 35 patriots there Anticipated freedom share; And oft around the cavern fire On visionary schemes debate, To snatch the Rayahs 36 from their fate. So let them ease their hearts with prate Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ; I have a love for freedom too. Ay ! let me like the ocean-patriarch 3 7 roam, Or only know on land the Tartar's home! 3S My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, Are. more than cities and serais to me: Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, Across the desert, or before the gale, Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my prow! But be the star that guides the wanderer, thou ! Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; The dove of peace and promise to mine ark! Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray! Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call : Soft — as the melody of youthful days, That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise; Dear — as his native song to exile's ears, Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. For thee in those bright isles is built a bower Blooming as Aden 3 9 in its earliest hour. A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ! Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. The haram's languid years of listless ease Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these. Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, Unnumber'd perils— but one only love ! 1 54 BYRON'S WORKS. I Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, '1 hough fortune frown, or falser friends betray. How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! Be hut thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown ; To (hee be Selim's tender as thine own; To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, blend every thought, do all — but disunite! Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide; Friends to each other, foes to aught beside. Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd By fatal nature to man's warring kind: Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease! He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, lint ask no land beyond my sabre's length : Power sways but by division — her resource The blest alternative of fraud or force ! Ours be the last; in time deceit may come When cities cage us in a social home : There even thy soul might err — how oft the heart Corruption shakes which peril could not part! And woman, more than man, when death or woe Or even disgrace would lay her lover low, Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame — Away suspicion! — not Zuleika's name ! But life is hazard at the best; and here No more remains to win, and much to fear: Yes, fear! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, By Osman's power and Giaffir's stern decree. That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, Which love to-night hath promised to my sail: No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms: Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, So that those arms cling closer round my neck: The deepest murmur of this lip shall be No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! The war of elements no fears impart To love, whose deadliest bane is human art : There lie the only rocks our course can check; Here moments menace — there are years of wreck ! But hence ye thoughts that rise in horror's shape ! This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. Few words remain of mine my tale to close; Gf thine but one to waft us from our foes; Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline? And is not Osman, who would part us, thine? XXI. « His head and faith from doubt and death Beturn'd in time my guard to save; Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave From isle to isle I roved the while : And since, though parted from my band Too seldom now I leave the land, No deed they 've done, nor deed shall do, Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : I form the plan, decree the spoil, 'T is fit I oftener share the toil. But now too long I 've held thine ear; Time presses, floats my bark, and here We leave behind but hate and fear. To-morrow Osman with his train Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : And would'st thou save that haughty Bey, Perchance his life who gave thee thine, With me this hour away — away! But yet, though thou art plighted mine, Would'st thou recal thy willing vow, Appall'd by truths imparted now, Here rest 1 — not to see thee wed : But be that peril on my head !» xxir. Zuleika, mute and motionless, Stood like that statue of distress, When, her last hope for ever gone, The mother harden'd into stone; All in the maid that eye could see Was but a younger Niobe. B.ut ere her lip, or even her eye, Essay' d to speak, or look reply, Beneath the garden's wicket porch Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! Another — and another — and another — « Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more than brother !> Far, wide, through every thicket spread, The fearful lights are gleaming red; Nor these alone — for each right hand Is ready with a sheathless brand. They part, pursue, return, and wheel With searching flambeau, shining steel ; And last of all, his sabre waving, Stern Giaffir in his fury raving : And now almost they touch the cave — Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? XXIII. Dauntless he stood — « 'Tis come — soon past — One kiss, Zuleika — 't is my last: But yet my band not far from shore May hear this signal, see the flash ; Yet now too few — the attempt were rash : No matter — yet one effort more.» Forth to the cavern mouth he stept; His pistol's echo rang on high. Zuleika started not, nor wept, Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — « They hear me not, or if they ply Their oars, 't is but to see me die; That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. Then forth my father's scimitar, Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! Farewell, Zuleika! — Sweet! retire: Yet stav within — here linger safe, At thee his rage will only chafe. Stir not — lest even to thee perchance Some erring blade or ball should glance. Fear'st thou for him? — may I expire If in this strife I seek thy sire ! No — though by him that poison pour'd; No — though again he call me coward ! But tamely shall I meet their steel? No — as each crest save his may feel!» XXIV. One bound he made, and gain'd the sand: Already at his feet hath sunk THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 1 55 The foremost of the prying baml, A gasping head, a quivering trunk: Another falls — but round him close A swarming circle of his foes; From right to left his path he cleft, And almost met the meeting wave : His boat appears — not five oars' length— His comrades strain with desperate strength- Oh ! are they yet in time to save? His feet the foremost breakers lave; His band are plunging in the bay, Their sabres glitter through the spray; "Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand They struggle — now they touch the land ! They come — 't is but to add to slaughter — His heart's best blood is on the water! XXV. Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, Or scarcely grazed it's force to feel, Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, To where the strand and billows met : There as his last step left the land, And the last death-blow dealt his hand — Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look For her his eye but sought in vain? That pause, that fatal gaze he took, Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. Sad proof, in peril and in pain, How late will lover's hope remain ! His back was to the dashiug spray ; Behind, but close, his comrades lay, When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — « So may the foes of Giaffir fall !» Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang? Whose bullet through the night-air sang? Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err, 'T is thine — Abdallah's murderer ! The father slowly rued thy hate, The son hath found a quicker fate: Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — ]f aught his lips essay'd to groan, The rushing billows choak'd the tone ! xxvr. Morn slowly rolls the clouds away; Few trophies of the fight are there : The shouts that shook the midnight-bay Are sdent ; but some signs of fray That strand of strife may bear, And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; Steps stamp'd; and dash'd into the sand The print of many a struggling hand May there be mark'd ; nor far remote A broken torch, an oarless boat; And tangled on the weeds that heap The beach where shelving to the deep There lies a white capote ! 'T is rent in twain — one dark-red stain The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : But where is he who wore? Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep Go, seek them where the surges sweep Their burthen round Sigaeum's steep And cast on Lemnos' shore : The sea-birds shriek above the prey, O'er which their hungry beaks delay, As shaken on his restless pillow, His head heaves with the heaving billow; That hand, whose motion is not life, Yet feebly seems to menace strife, Flung by the tossing tide on high, Then levell'd with the wave — What recks it, though that corse shall lie Within a living grave? The bird that tears that prostrate form Hath only robb'd the meaner worm; The only heart, the only eye Had bled or wept to see him die, Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, And mourn'd above his turban-stone, 4° That heart hath burst— that eye was closed — Yea — closed before his own ! XXVII. By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale : Zuleika ! last of Giaffir's race, Thy destined lord is come too late; He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! Can he not hear The loud Wul-wulleh4» warn his distant ear? Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, The Korau-chaunters of the hymn of fate, The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, Tell him thy tale! Thou didst not view thy Selim fall! That fearful moment when he left the cave Thy heart grew chill : He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — And that last thought on him thou couldst not save Sufficed to kill; Burst forth in one wild cry— and all was still. Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave! Ah ! happy! but of life to lose the worst! That grief— though deep— though fatal— was thy first ! Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse! And, oh! that pang where more than madness lies! The worm that will not sleep— and never dies^ Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, That winds around, and tears the quivering heart! Ah! wherefore not consume it — and depart! Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief? Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread : By that same hand Abdallah— Selim bled. Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, Thy daughter's dead! Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, The Star bath set that shone on Helle's stream. What quench'd its ray?— the blood that thou hast shed ! Hark! to the hurried question of despair: « Where is my child?»— an echo answers— «Where?» 4- XXVIII. Within the place of thousand tombs That shine beneath, while dark above 1 56 BYRON'S WORKS. The sad but living cypress glooms And -withers not, though branch and leaf Arc stamp'd with an eternal grief, Like early unrequited love, One spot exists, which ever blooms, Even in that deadly grove — A single rose is shedding there Its lonely lustre, meek and pale: It looks as planted by despair — So white — so faint — the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high; And yet, though storms and blight assail, And hands more rude than wintry sky May wring it from the stem — in vain — To-morrow sees it bloom again ! The stalk some spirit gently rears, And waters with celestial tears; For well may maids of Helle deem That this can be uo earthly flower, Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, And buds unshelter'd by a bower; Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, Nor woos the summer beam : To it the livelong night there sings A bird unseen — but not remote : Invisible his airy wings, Hut soft as harp that houri strings His long entrancing note! It were the bulbul ; but his throat, Though mournful, pours not such a strain : For they who listen cannot leave The spot, but linger there and grieve As if they loved in vain ! And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 'T is sorrow so unmix'd with dread, They scarce can bear the morn to break That melancholy spell, And longer yet would weep and wake, He sings so wild and well! But when the day-blush bursts from high Expires that magic melody. And some have been who could believe (So fondly youthful dreams deceive, Yet harsh be they that blame) That note so piercing and profound Will shape and syllable its sound Into Zuleika's name. 43 'T is from her cypress' summit heard, That melts in air the liquid word : 'T is from her lowly virgin earth That white rose takes its tender birth. There late was laid a marble stone; Eve saw it placed — the morrow gone ! It was no mortal arm that bore That deep-fix' d pillar to the shore ; For there, as Helle's legends tell, Next morn 't was found where Selim fell : Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave Denied his bones a holier grave : And there, by night, reclined, 't is said, Is seen a ghastly turban'd head: And hence extended by the billow, 'T is named the « Pirate-phantom's pillow !» Where first it lay that mourning flower Hath flourished ; fjourisheth this hour, Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; As weeping beauty's cheek at sorrow's tale ! NOTES. Note 1. Page 146, line 8. Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom. « Gul,» the rose. Nole 2. Page 146, line 17. Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? u Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, « With whom revenge is virtue." Young's Revenge. Note 3. Page 147, line 3i. With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song. Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. Note 4- Page 147, line 32. Till I, who heard the deep tambour. Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, noon, and twilight. Note 5. Page 147, line io3. He is an Arab to my sight. The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compli- ment a hundredfold) even more than they hate the Christians. Note 6. Page 148, line 12. The mind, the music breathing from her face. This expression has met with objections. I will not refer to « him who hath not Music in his soul,» but merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, the features of the woman whom he believes to be the most beautiful; and if he then does not comprehend fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, 1 shall be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the latest work of the first female writer of this, perhaps, of any age, on the analogy (and the immediate com- parison excited by that analogy) between « painting and music, » see vol. iii. cap. 10. De L'Allemagne. And is not this connexion still stronger with the original than the copy ? with the colouring of nature than of art? After all, this is rather to be felt than described; still I think there are some who will understand it, at least they would have done had they beheld the coun- tenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea; for this passage is not drawn from imagination but memory, that mirror which affliction dashes to the earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only be- holds the reflection multiplied! Note 7. Page 148, line 34. But yet the line of Garasman. Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the prin- cipal landholder in Turkey; he governs Magnesia: those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on con- dition of service, are called Timariots : they serve as Spahis, according to the extent of territory, and bring a certain number into the field, generally cavalry. Note 8. Page 148, line 46. And teach the messenger what fate. When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the single messenger, who is always the first bearer of the order for his death, is strangled instead, and some- times five or six, one after the other, on the same errand, by command of the refractory patient; if, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses the THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 1 5 Sultan's respectable signature, and is bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, several of these presents were exhibited in the niche of the Seraglio gate ; among others, the head of the Pacha of Dagdat, a brave young man, cut off by treachery, after a desperate resist- ance. Note 9. Page 148, line 65. Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed. Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have no bells. Note 10. Page 148, line 66. Resign'd his gem-adorn'd Chibouque. Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber mouth-piece, and sometimes the ball -which contains the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in posses- sion of the wealthier orders. Note 11. Page 148, line 68. With Maugrabee and Maraaluke. Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. Note 12. Page 148, line 69. His way amid his Delis took. Delis, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, and always begin the action. Note i3. Page 148, line 81. Careering cleave the folded felt. A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice by the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through it at a single stroke: sometimes a tough tur- ban is used for the same purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. Note 14. Page 148, line 84. Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud — « 011ahs,» Alia il Allah, the « Leilies,» as the Spanish poets call them, the sound is OUah ,• a cry of which the Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, particularly during the jerreed, or in the chase, but mostly in battle. Their animation in the held, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and comboloios, form an amusing contrast. Note 1 5. Page 148, line io3. The Persian Atar-gul's perfume. « Atar-gul,» ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest. Note 16. Page 148, line io5. The pictured roof and marble floor. The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mussulman apartments are generally painted, in great houses, with one eternal and highly coloured view of Constantinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble contempt of perspective; below, arms, scimitars, etc. are in in general fancifully and not inelegantly disposed. Note 17. Page 148, line 121. A message from the Bulbul bears. it has been much doubted whether the notes of this « Lover of the rose » are sad or merry ; and Mr Fox's remarks on the subject have provoked some learned controversy as to the opinions of the ancients on the subject. I dare not venture a conjecture on the point, though a little inclined to the « errare mallem,» etc. if Mr Fox was mistaken. Note 18. Page 149, line 33. Even Azrael, from his deadly quiver. « Azrael »— the angel of death. Note 19. Page 149, line 67. Within the caves of Istakar. The treasures of the Preadamite Sultans. See D'Her- belot, article Istakar. Note 20. Page 149, line 83. Holds not a Musselim's control. Musselim, a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha ; a Waywode is the third; and then come the Agas. Note 21. Page 149, line 84. Was he not bred in Egripo ? Egripo— the Negropont. According to the proverb, the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the Greeks of Athens, are the worst of their respective races. Note 22. Page i5o, line 3i. Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar. « Tchocadar » — one of the attendants who precedes a man of authority. Note 23. Page i5o, line 101. Thine own u broad Hellespont" still dashes. The wrangling about this epithet, « the broad Hel- lespont » or the « boundless Hellespont,» whether it means one or the other, or what it means at all, has been beyond all possibility of detail. I have even heard it disputed on the spot ; and not foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with swimming across it in the mean time, and probably may again, before the point is settled. Indeed, the question as to the truth of « the tale of Troy divine » still continues, much of it resting upon the talismanic word « cnxsipcx; :» probably Homer had the same no- tion of distance that a coquette has of time, and when he talks of boundless, means half a mile; as the latter, by a like figure, when she says eternal attachment, simply specifies three weeks. Note 24. Page i5o, line 112. Which Amnion's son ran proudly round. Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar with laurel, etc. He was afterwards imitated by Cara- calla in his race. It is believed that the last also poi- soned a friend, named Festus, for the sake of new Pa- troclean games. I have seen the sheep feeding on the tombs of jEsietes and Antilochus ; the first is in the cen- tre of the plain. Note 25. Page i5i, line 12. O'er which her fairy fingers ran. When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a per- fume, which is slight, but not disagreeable. Note 26. Page i5i, line i5. Her mother's sainted amulet. The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or enclosed in gold boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, worn round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still univer s al in the East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in the second cap. of the Koran describes the attributes of the Most High, and is engraved in this manner, and worn by the pious, as the most esteemed and sublime of all sentences. 58 BYRON'S WORKS. Note 27. Page i5i, line 18. And by her coraboloio lies. «Comboloio »— a Turkish rosary. The MSS., par- ticularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and illuminated. The Greek females are kept in utter igno- rance; but many of the Turkish girls are highly ac- complished, though not actually qualified for a Chris- tian coterie ; perhaps some of our own « blues » might not be the worse for bleaching. Note 28. Page i5i, line 96. In him was some young Galiongee, « Galiongee » — or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turk- ish sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the guns. Their dress is picturesque ; and I have seen the Capitau Pacha more than once wearing it as a kind of incog. Their legs, however, are generally naked. The buskins described in the text as sheathed behind with silver, are those of an Arnaout robber, who was my host (he had quitted the profession), at his Pyrgo, near Gas- touni in the Morea ; they were plated in scales one over the other, like the back of an armadillo. Note 29. Page i52, line 17. So may the Koran verse displayed. The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain some- times the name of the place of their manufacture, but more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. Amongst those in my possession is oue with a blade of singular construction; it is very broad, and the edge notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of water, or the wavering of flame. I asked the Armenian who sold it, what possible use such a figure could add : he said, in Italian, that he did not know; but the Mussul- mans had an idea that those of this form gave a severer wound; and liked it because it was « piu feroce.» I did not much admire the reason, but bought it for its peculiarity. Note 3o. Page i52, line 32. But like the nephew of a Cain. It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing or personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, or Gain, is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew ; indeed the former profess to be much better acquainted with the lives, true and fabulous, of the patriarchs, than is warranted by our own Sacred writ, and not content with Adam, they have a biography of Pre-Adamites. Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a prophet inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is the Persian name of Potiphar's wife, and her amour with Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems in their language. It is therefore no violation of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem. Note 3i. Page i52, line 48. And Paswan's rebel hordes attest. Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin, who for the last years of his life set the whole power of the Porte at defiance. Note 32. Page ljSa, line 60. They gave their horsetails to the wind. Horsetail, the standard of a Pacha. . Note 33. Page i52, line 73. He drank one draught, nor needed more ! Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not sure which, was actually taken off by the Albanian Ali, in the manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while I was in the country, married the daughter of his vic- tim, some years after the event had taken place at a bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was mixed in the cup of coffee, which is presented before the sher- bet by the bath-keeper, after dressing. Note 34. Page 1 53, line 64. I sought by turns, and saw them all. The Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. Note 35. Page i53, line 87. The last of Lambro's patriots there. Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts in 1789-90 for the independence of his country: aban- doned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises. He is said to be still alive at Petersburgh. He and Piiga are the two most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists. Note 36. Page 1 53, line 91. To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. « Rayahs, » all who pay the capitation-tax, called the «Haratch.» Note 37. Page i53, line g5. Ay ! let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. This first of voyages is one of the few with which the Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. Note 38. Page 1 53, line 96. Or only know on land the Tartar's home. The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turko- mans, will be found well detailed in any book of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself cannot be denied. A young French renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that he never found himself alone, galloping in the desert, without a sensation approaching to rapture, which was indescribable. Note 3g. Page i53, line 116. Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. « Jannat al Aden,» the perpetual abode, the Mussul- man Paradise. Note 40. Page i55, line 78. And mourn'd above his turban-stone. A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men only. Note 41. Page i55, line 87. The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear. The death-song of the Turkish women. The « silent slaves >> are the men whose notions of decorum forbid complaint in public. Note 42. Page i55, line 123. "Where is my child?"— an echo answers— "Where?" « I came tG the place of my birth and cried, ' the friends of my youth, where are they?' and an Echo an- swered, 'where are they?'» From an Arabic MS. The above quotation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must be already familiar to every reader— it is given in the first annotation, page 67, of «The Plea- sures of Memory ;» a poem so well known as to render reference almost superfluous ; but to whose pages all will be delif.hted.to recur. THE CORSAIR. Note 43. Page i56, line 47. Into Zuleika's name. * And airy tongues that syllable men's names." Milton. For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttle- ton's ghost story ; the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that George I flew into her window in the shape of a raven (see Orford's Reminiscences), and many other in- stances, bring this superstition nearer home. The most singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who believ- ing her daughter to exist in the shape of a singing-bird, literally furnished her pew in the Cathedral with cages- full of the kind ; and as she was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, no objection was made to her harmless folly. — For this anecdote see Orford's Letters. A TALE. Isuoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno. TASSO, Canto decimo, Gerusalemme Liberata. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. MY DEAR MOORE, I dedicate to you the last production with which I shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, for some years ; and I own that I feel anxious to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning my pages with a name consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of her pa- triots; while you stand alone the first of her bards in her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaint- ance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect of its renewal,whenever your leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will be laid in the East; none can do those scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnifi- cent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may there be found ; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded sky; but wilduess, tenderness, and originality are part of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you have already thus far proved your title more clearly than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. May I add a few words on a subject ou which all men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable? — Self. I have written much, and published more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now meditate; but for some years to come it is my intention to tempt, no further the award of « Gods, men, nor columns." In the present composition I have attempted not the most I difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our I language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. j The stanza of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified ' for narrative; though I confess, it is the measure most after my own heart : Scott alone, of the present gene- ration, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty genius: in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popular measure certainly; but as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take my chance once more with that versification, in which I have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose former circulation is part of my present and will be of my future regret. With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad to have rendered my personages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal. Be it so — if I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of « drawing from self,» the pictures are probably like, since they are unfavourable; and if not, those who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little interest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but my acquaintance should think the author better than the beings of his imagining ; but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amuse- ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the present instance, when 1 see several bards (far more deserving, I allow), in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be found with little more morality than « The Giaour,» and perhaps — but no — I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage ; and as to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever « alias » they please. If, however, it were worth while to remove the im- pression, it might be of some service to me, that the man who is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, most truly and affectionately, his obedient servant, BYRON. January 2, 1814. 6o BYRON'S WORKS. CANTO I. nessun mar>gior dolore, Qie ricordarsi del tempo felico Nellu rniseria, DANTE. « O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, , Survey our empire and behold our home ! These are our realms, no limits to their sway — Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. Ours the wild life in tumult still to range From toil to rest, and joy in every change. Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave ! Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wavej Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please !- Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense— the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? That for itself can woo the approaching fight, And turn what some deem danger to delight; That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, And where the feebler faint — can only feel — Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? No dread of death — if with us die our foes — Save that it seems even duller than repose: Come when it will — we snatch the life of life; When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife? Let him who crawls euamour'd of decay, Cling to his couch, and sicken years away, Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head; Ours — the fresh turf — and not the feverish bed. While gasp by gasp he faulters forth his soul, Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, And they who loathed his life may gild his grave: Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. For us, even banquets fond regret supply In the red cup that crowns our memory; And the brief epitaph in danger's day, When those who win at length divide the prey, And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow, How had the brave who fell exulted noiv.'n II. -Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle, Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while; Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, And unto ears as rugged seemed a song! In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand; Select the arms — to each his blade assign, And careless eye the blood that dims its shine: Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, While others straggling muse along the shore; For the wild bird the busy springes set, Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net; Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, With all the thirsting eye of enterprise ; Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : No matter where — their chief's allotment this, Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. But who that Chief? his name on every shore Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. With these he mingles not but to command; Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, But they forgive his silence for success. Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, That goblet passes him untasted still — And for his fare — the rudest of his crew Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too; Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots, And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, His short repast in humbleness supply With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, His mind seems nourish' d by that abstinence. « Steer to that shore !»— they sail. «Do this !»— 'tis done: «Now form and follow me!» — the spoil is won. Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, And all obey and few inquire his will; To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye, Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. III. « A sail ! — a sail !» a promised prize to hope ! Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope? No prize, alas! — but yet a welcome sail : The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. Already doubled is the cape — our bay Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. How gloriously her gallant course she goes! Her white wings flying — never from her foes — She walks the waters like a thing of life, And seems to dare the elements to strife. Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck — To move the monarch of her peopled deck? IV. Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; The sails are furl'd, and, anchoring, round she swings : And gathering loiterers on the land discern Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 'T is mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand, Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. Hail to the welcome shout !— the friendly speech ! When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; The smile, the question, and the quick reply, And the heart's promise of festivity! The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd: The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear word. « Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — But shall we see them? will their accents bless? From where the battle roars — the billows chafe — They doubtless boldly died — but who are safe? THE CORSAIR. 16: Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, And kiss the douht from these delighted eyes!» — VI. « Where is our chief? for him we hear report — And doubt that joy — which hails our coming— short; Yet, thus sincere — 't is cheering, though so brief; But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief : Our greeting paid, we '11 feast on our return, And all shall hear what each may wish to learn. » Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, And freshness breathing from each silver spring, Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst; From crag to cliff they mount. — Near yonder cave, What lonely straggler looks along the wave? In pensive posture leaning on the brand, Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand. « 'T is he — 't is Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; On — Juan! on — and make our purpose known. The bark he views — and tell him we would greet His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood, When strange or uninvited steps intrude." VII. Him Juan sought, and told of their intent — He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. These Juan calls — they come — to their salute He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. « These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the spy, Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : Whate'er his tidings, we can well report, Much that»— «Peace,peace!»— Hecutstheirpratingshorl Wondering they turn, abash'd while each to each Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : They watch his glance with many a stealing look, To gather how that eye the tidings took ; But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, He read the scroll — « My tablets, Juan, hark — Where is Gonsalvo?» « In the anchor'd bark.» « There let him stay — to him this order bear. Back to your duty — for my course prepare : Myself this enterprise to-night will share. » « To-night, Lord Conrad ?» « Ay ! at set of sun : The breeze will freshen when the day is done. My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. Sling on thy bugle — see that, free from rust, My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, And give its guard more room to fit my hand. This let the armourer with speed dispose ; Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : Mark that the signal- gun be duly fired To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired.» VIII. They make obeisance, and retire in haste, Too soon to seek again the watery waste : Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides ; And who dare question aught that he decides ? That man of loneliness and mystery, Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ■ Still sways their souls with that commanding art That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. What is that spell, that thus his lawless train Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? What should it be, that thus their faith can bind? The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, That moulds another's weakness to its will; Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown, Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own, Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one ! T is Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, How light the balance of his humbler pains! IX. Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, Demons in act, but gods at least in face, In Conrad's form seems little to admire, Though his dark eye-brow shades a glance of fire : Robust, but not Herculean — to the sight No giant frame sets forth his common height; Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; They gaze and marvel how — and still confess That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; And oft perforce his rising lip reveals The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien, Still seems there something he would not have seen : His features' deepening lines and varying hue At times attracted, yet perplexd the view, As if within that murkiness of mind Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; Such might it be — that none could truly tell — Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. There breathe but few whose aspect might defy The full encounter of his searching eye. He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, At once the observer's purpose to espy, And on himself roll back his scrutiny, Lest he to Conrad rather should betray Some secret thought than drag that chiefs to day. There was a laughing devil in his sneer, That raised emotions both of rage and fear; And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, Hope withering fled— and Mercy sigh'd farewell! Slight are the outward signs of evil thought; Within — within — 't was there the spirit wrought! Love shows all changes— hate, ambition, guile, Betray no further than the bitter smile: The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone Of deeper passions; and to judge their mien, He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 21 162 BYRON'S WORKS. Then — -with the hurried tread, the upward eye, The clenched hand, the pause of agony, That listens, starting, lest the step too near Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : Then — with each feature working from the heart, With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart, That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glow, Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; Then — Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not, Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! Mark— how that lone and blighted bosom sears The scathing thought of execrated years ! Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, Man as himself — the secret spirit free? XI. Yet was not Conrad thus by nature sent To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument : His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, In words too wise, in conduct tiiere a fool ; Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, Dooin'd by his very virtues for a dupe, He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, And not the traitors who betray'd him still; Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men Had left him joy, and means to give again. Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost her force, He hated man too much to feel remorse, And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, To pay the injuries of some on all. He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd The rest no better than the thing he seem'd; And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. He knew himself detested, but he knew The hearts that loathed him crouch'd and dreaded too. Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt From all affection and from all contempt: His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; But they that fear'd him dared not to despise. Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake The slumbering venom of the folded snake : The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings ! XII. None are all evil — quickening round his heart, One softer feeling would not yet depart: Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled By passions worthy of a fool or child ; Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, And even in him it asks the name of love! Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, Felt but for one from whom he never ranged; Though fairest captives daily met his eye, He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by; Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. Yes — it was love — if thoughts of tenderness, Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, And yet — Oh more than all ! — untired by time; Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile Could render sullen, were she near to smile; Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent On her one murmur of his discontent ; Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart; Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — If there be love in mortals — this was love ! He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower On him — but not the passion, nor its power, Which only proved, all other virtues gone, Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one! XIII. He paused a moment — till his hastening men Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. « Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past, Nor know I why this next appears the last! Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate; And, if my plan but hold, and fortune smile, We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral pile. Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!) To warm these slow avengers of the seas. Now to Medora — Oh! my sinking heart, Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! Yet was 1 brave — mean boast where all are brave ! Even insects sting for aught they seek to save. This common courage which with brutes we share, That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, Small merit claims — but 't was my nobler hope To teach my few with numbers still to cope : Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed ; No medium now — we perish or succeed ! So let it be — it irks not me to die ; But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. My lot hath long had little of my care, But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare. Is this my skill ? my craft? to set at last Hope, power, and life upon a single cast? Oh, fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late.» XIV. Thus with himself communion held he, till He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill : There at the portal paused — for wild and soft He heard those accents never heard too oft ; Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : « Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, Lonely and lost to light for evermore, Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, Then trembles into silence as before. « There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; Which not the darkness of despair can damp, Though vain its ray as it had never been. THE CORSAIR. 63 « Remember me — Oh! pass not thou my grave Without one thought whose relics there recline : The only pang my bosom dare not brave Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. « My fondest — faintest — latest — accents hear : Grief for the dead not virtue can reprove ,• Then give me all I ever asked — a tear, The first— last — sole reward of so much love!» He pass'd the portal— cross'd the corridor, And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er : « My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — » « In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad? Without thine ear to listen to my lay, Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray ; Still must each accent to my bosom suit, My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute ! Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind, And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ,• Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge : Still would I rise to rouse the beacon-fire, Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, And morning came — and still thou wert afar. Oh! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, And day broke dreary on my troubled view, And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! At length — 't was noon — I hail'd and blest the mast That met my sight — it near'd — Alas! it past ! Another came — Oh God ! 't was thine at last ! Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, My Conrad! learn the joys of peace to share? Sure thou hast more than wealth ; and many a home As bright as this invites us not to roam ; Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, I only tremble when thou art not here : Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, Which flies from love and languishes for strife — How strange that heart, to me so tender still, Should war with nature and its better will !» «Yea, strange indeed, that heart hath long been changed : Worm-like 't was trampled — adder-like avenged, Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, My very love to thee is hate to them, So closely mingling here, that, disentwined, I cease to love thee when I love mankind. Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past Assures the future that my love will last. But— Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart, This hour again — but not for long — we part.» « This hour we part! — my heart foreboded this : Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! Yon bark hath hardly anchored in the bay ; Her consort still is absent, and her crew Have need of rest before they toil anew. My love! thou mock'st my weakness; and wouldst steel My breast before the time when it must feel : But trifle now no more with my distress, Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest! come and share The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd At such as seem'd the fairest : thrice the hill My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! The grape's gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears ! Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice, What others deem a penance is thy choice. But come, the board is spreid ; our silver lamp Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : Then shall my handmaids while the time along, And join with me the dance, or wake the song; Or my guitar, which still thou lovest to hear, Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, We '11 turn the tale, by Ariosto told, Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. * >Yhy — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; Or even that traitor chief — I 've seen thee smile, When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said, Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread, Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : And he deceived me — for — he came again !» « Again — again — and oft again — my love ! If there be life below, and hope above, He will return : but now, the moments bring The time of parting with redoubled wing. The why — the where — what boots it now to tell ? Since all must end in that wild word — farewell ! Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, For sudden siege and long defence prepared . Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet, Security shall make repose more sweet. List ! — 't is the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — One kiss — one more — another — oh ! adieu !» She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace, Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, In ail the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt So full— that feeling seem'd almost unfelt! Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ? It told 't was sunset — and he cursed that sun. Again — again — that form he madly press'd ; Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly carcss'd ! 64 BYRON'S WORKS. And, tottering to the couch, his hride he hore, One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; Felt — that for him earth held hut her alone, Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone? XV. « And is he gone ?» — on sudden solitude How oft that fearful question will intrude ! « T was but an instant past — and here he stood I And now» — without the portal's port she rush'd, And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; Dig — bright — and fast, unknown to her they fell ; But still her lips refused to send — « farewell !» For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair. O'er every feature of that still pale face, Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase ; The tender blue of that large loving eye Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, Till — oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him, And then it flow'd — and phrensied seem'd to swim Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes, dew'd With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. « He 's gone !» — against her heart that hand is driven, Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven. She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; The white sail set — she dared not look again ; But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — « It is no. dream— and I am desolate !» XVI. From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way Forced on his eye what he would not survey, His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, That liail'd him first when homeward from the deep : And she — the dim and melancholy star, Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, On her he must, not gaze, he must not think — There he might rest, but on destruction's brink. Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave His fate to chance, his projects to the wave; Cut no — it must not be — a worthy chief May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, And sternly gathers all his might of mind : Again he hurries on, and as he hears The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar, As marks his eye the sea-boy on the mast, The anchor's rise, the sails unfurling fast, The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; And, more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, He feels of all his former self possest; He bounds— he flies— until his footsteps reach The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud. His was th«j lofty port, the distant mien, That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : The solemn aspect, and the high-horn eye, That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; All these he wielded to command assent : But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent, That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, And other's gifts show'd mean beside his word, When echoed to the heart as from his own His deep yet tender melody of tone : But such was foreign to his wonted mood, He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued ; The evil passions of his youth had made Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. XVII. Around him mustering ranged his ready guard; Before him Juan stands — « Are ail prepared ?» « They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat Waits but my chief »> « My sword and my capote. So firmly girded on, and lightly slung, His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung. « Call Pedro here !» — He comes — and Conrad bends, With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; « Beceive these tablets, and peruse with care, Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine On our return — till then all peace be thine !» This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, Around the waves, phosphoric 2 brightness broke; They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands ; Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands : He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn? Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, And live a moment o'er the parting hour; She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ! Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — Again he mans himself and turns away; Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart,. And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; They to the midnight watch protract debate ; To anxious eyes what hour is ever late? Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile : And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. Count they each sail — and mark how there supine The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ; THE CORSAIR. 65 Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! CANTO II. Conosceste i dubiosi desiri ? DANTE. In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : A feast for promised triumph yet to come, "When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home. This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, And faithful to his firman and his word, His summon'd prows collect along the coast, And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast : Already shared the captives and the prize, Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 'T is but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's sun Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won! Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill ; Though all, who can, disperse on shore, and seek To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek. How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave — To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay — Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, And do not deign to smite because they may ! Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, To keep in practice for the coming foe. Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, And they who wish to wear a head must smile; For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, And hoard their curses till the coast is clear. II. High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — Forbidden draughts, 't is said, he dared to quaff, Though to the rest the sober berry's juice, 3 The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use ; The long Chibouque's 4 dissolving cloud supply, While dance the Almas 5 to wild minstrelsy. The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark : And revellers may more securely sleep On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep. Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; And yet the numbers crowded in his host Might warrant more than even the Pachas boast. III. With cautious reverence from the outer gate, Slow stalks the slave, w!;ose office there to wait, Bows his bent head— his hand salutes the floor, Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : « A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest Escaped is here — himself would tell the rest.» He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, And led the holy man in silence nigh. His arms were folded on his dark green vest, His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; Yet worn he seemd of hardship more than years, And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone; Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; And question of his coming fain would seek, Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. IV. « Whence com'st thou, Dervise ?» « From the outlaw's den, A fugitive — » «Thy capture where and when?» « From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains The PiOvers won : our limbs have worn their chains. I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; At length a fisher's humble boat by night Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight : I seized the hour, and find my safety here — With thee — most mighty Pacha! who can fear ?» u How speed the outlaws? stand they well prepared, Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard ? Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?)) « Pacha! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; I only heard the reckless waters roar, Those waves that would not bear me from the shore; I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, Too bright — too blue — for my captivity; And felt— that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, Must break my chain before it dried my tears. This mayst thou judge, at least, from my escape, They little deem of aught in peril's shape; Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance: The careless guard that did not see me fly, May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. Pacha ! my limbs are faint — and nature craves Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves ; Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace With all around! — now grant repose — release.)) « Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — stay, I do command thee — sit — dost hear? obey! More I must ask — and food the slaves shall bring ; Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting. The supper done — prepare thee to reply Clearly and full — I love not mystery. » 'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man, Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan; 66 BYRON'S WORKS. Nor show'd high relish for the hanquet prest, And less respect for every fellow guest. T was but a moment's peevish hectic past Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast : He sate him down in silence, and his look Resumed the calmness which before forsook. The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare He shunn'd, as if some poison mingled there ; For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. « What ails thee, Dervise? eat — dost thou suppose This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes ? Why dost thou shun the salt— that sacred pledge Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight !» « Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; And my stern vow and order's 6 laws oppose To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, That peril rests upon my single head ; But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, I taste nor bread, nor banquet — save alone ; Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." « Well, as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — One question answer ; then in peace depart. How many ? Ha! it cannot sure be day ! What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! The galleys feed the flames — and I afar! Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now ?> Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, But like a warrior bounding on his barb, Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow Of flames on high, and torches from below ; The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell, Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! 7 lie saw their terror — check'd the first despair That urged him but to stand and perish there, Since far too early and too well obey'd, The flame was kindled ere the signal made; He saw their terror — from his baldric drew His bugle — brief the blast— but shrilly blew ; 'T is answer'd — « Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! Why did I doubt their quickness of career? And deem design had left me single here ?» Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway Sheds fast atonement for its first delay; Completes his fury, what their fear began, And makes the many basely quail to one. The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd with rage, surprise, Retreats before him, though he still defies. No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! His blazing galleys still distract his sight, He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight ; 8 For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, And burst within — and it were death to wait; Where wild amazement shrieking — kneeling — throws The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. They shout to find him grim and lonely there, A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! But short their greeting — shorter his reply — « *T is well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die. Much hath been done — but more remains to do — Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ?» Quick at the word — they seize him each a torch, And fire the dome from minaret to porch. A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry Of women struck, and like a deadly knell Knock'd at that heart unmov'd by battle's yell. « Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not, on your lives One female form — remember — we have wives. On them such outrage vengeance will repay; Man is our foe, and such 't is ours to slay : But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive If at my word the helpless cease to live. Follow who will — I go — we yet have time Our souls to lighten of at least a crime. » He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor; His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke, But still from room to room his way he broke. They search— they find— they save : with lusty arms Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames With all the care defenceless beauty claims : So well could Conrad^tame their fiercest mood, And check the very hands wi«h gore imbrued. But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ! The Haram queen— but still the slave of Seyd ! VI. Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,9 Few words to reassure the trembling fair ; For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war, The foe before retiring fast and far, With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. THE CORSAIR. This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, And hlushes o'er his error, as he eyes The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. Alia il Alia! Vengeance swells the cry — Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — When wrath returns to renovated strife, And those who fought for conquest strike for life. Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd: « One effort — one — to break the circling hcst!» They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost ! Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, Hopeless not heartless, strive and struggle yet — Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more — Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled o'er; Dut each strikes singly, silently, and home, And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! VII. But first ere came the rallying host to blows, And rank to rank and hand to hand oppose, Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed, Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, And dried those tears for4ife and fame that flow'd ; And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, Becall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy That smoothed his accents, softcn'd in his eye: T was strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. The Pacha Avoo'd as if he deem'd the slave Must seem delighted with the heart he gave; The Corsair vow'd protection, sooth'd affright, As if his homage were a woman's right. « The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female, vain — Yet much I long to view that chief again ; If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, The life — my loving lord remember'd not!» VIII. And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; Far from his band, and battling with a host That deem right dearly won the field he lost. Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought; Preserved to linger and to live in vain, While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plaus of pain, And staunch'd the blood she saves to shed again — But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! Can this be he ! triumphant late she saw, When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law ! 'T is he indeed — disarm'd but undeprest, His sole regret the life he still possest ; His wounds too slight, though taken with that will, Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill. Oh ! were there none, of all the many given, To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven? Must he alone of all retain his breath, Who more than all had striven and struck for death? He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, For crimes committed, and the victor's threat Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — He deeply, darkly felt; but evil pride That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. Still in his stern and self-collected mien A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen; Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, But few that saw — so calmly gazed around: Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, The better warriors who beheld him near, Insulted not the foe who taught them fear; And the grim guards that to his durance led, In silence eyed him with a secret dread. IX. The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there To note how much the life yet left could bear; He found enough to load with heaviest chain, And promise feeling for the wrench of pain. To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, And, rising with the wonted blush of morn, Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. Of torments this the longest and the worst, Which adds all other agony to thirst, That day by day death still forbears to slake, While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. « Oh! water — water !» — smiling hate denies The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. This was his doom: — the Leech, the guard were gone, And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. X. 'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew— It even were doubtful if their victim knew. There is a war, a chaos of the mind, When all its elements convulsed — combined — Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, And gnashing with impenitent remorse; That juggling fiend — who never spake before — But cries, « 1 warn'd thee!» when the deed is o'er. Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent, May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent! Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, And, to itself, all — all that self reveals, No single passion, and no ruling thought That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought ; But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — All rushing through their thousand avenues, Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, Endanger'd glory, life itself beset; The joy untasted, the contempt or hate Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate; The hopeless past; the hasting future driven Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven; Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; Things light or lovely in their acted time, But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 68 BYRON'S WORKS. The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, That opening sepulchre — the naked heart Bares with its buried woes, till pride awake, To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. Ay — pride can veil, and courage brave it all, All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, [The only hypocrite deserving praise: Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies ; But he who looks on death — and silent dies. So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, He half-way meets him should he menace near! XI. In the high chamber of his highest tower, Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort Contain'd at once his captive and his court. Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shar'd the same. Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : One thought alone he could not — dared not meet. « Oh! how these tidings will Medora greet ?» Then — only then— his clanking hands he raised, And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed ; But soon he found — or feign'd — or dream'd relief, And smiled in self-derision of his grief, « And now come torture when it will — or may, More need of rest to nerve me for the day.» This said, with languor to his mat he crept, And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done ; And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — Disguised, discovered, conquering, ta'en, condemn'd — A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! XII. He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath Was hush'd so deep — ah ! happy if in death ! He slept — who o'er his placid slumber bends? His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends. Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace? No, 't is an earthly form with heavenly face! Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, And once unclosed — but once may close again. That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair; With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — Through guards and dunnest night how came it there? Ah! rather ask what will not woman dare, Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare? She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, She left his side — his signet ring she bore, Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose; And chill and nodding at the turret door, They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more ; Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. XIII. She gazed in wonder : « Can he calmly sleep, While other eyes his fall or ravage weep? And mine in restlessness are wandering here— What sudden spell hath made this man so dear? True — 't is to him my life, and more I owe, And me and mine he spared from worse than woe: T is late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — How heavily he sighs! — he starts — awakes !» He raised his head— and, dazzled with the light, His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright: He moved his hand — the grating of his chain Too harshly told him that he lived again. « What is that form? if not a shape of air, Methinks my jailor's face shows wondrous fair !» « Pirate ! thou know'st me not— but I am one Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done : Look on me — and remember her thy hand Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band. I come through darkness — and I scarce know why — Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die.» « If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye That would not here in that gay hope delight: Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. But still I thank their courtesy or thine, That would confess me at so fair a shrine.» Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — That playfulness of sorrow ne'er beguiles, And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles; And sometimes with the wisest and the best, Till even the scaffold 10 echoes with their jest! Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — It may deceive all hearts, save that within. Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now A laughing wildness half unbent his brow: And 'these his accents had a sound of mirth, As if the last he could enjoy on earth; Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. XIV. « Corsair! thy doom is named — but I have power To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee now, But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow; But all I can, I will: at least, delay The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. More now were ruin — even thyself were loth The vain attempt should bring but doom to both.» « Yes ! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : Tempt not thyself with peril; me with hope Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : THE CORSAIR. % Unfit to vanquish— shall I meanly fly, The one of all my band that would not die? Yet there is one— to whom my memory clings, Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. My sole resources in the path I trod Were these— my bark, my sword, my love, my God ! The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — ■ And man but works his will to lay me low. I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer Wrung from the coward-crouching of despair: It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. My sword is shaken from the worthless hand That might have better kept so true a brand; My bark is sunk or captive ; but my love — For her in sooth my voice would mount above. Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind — And this will break a heart so more than kind, And blight a form — till thine appear'd, Gulnare! Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair.» « Thou lovest another then?— but what to me Is this — t' is nothing — -nothing e'er can be: Rut yet — thou lovest — and — oh! I envy those Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose; Who never feel the void — the wandering thought That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath wrought.» « Lady, methought thy love was his, for whom This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb.» « My love stern Seyd's ! Oh — no— no — not my love: Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove To meet his passion — but it would not be. I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, To share his splendour, and seem very blest ! Oft must my soul the question undergo, Of — 'Dost thou love?' and burn to answer 'No !' Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, And struggle not to feel averse in vain; But harder still the hearts recoil to bear, And hide from one — perhaps another there. He takes the hand I give not, nor withhold — Tts pulse nor check'd, nor quicken' d — calmly cold: And, when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight From one I never loved enough to hate. No warmth these lips return by his imprest, And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. Yes — had 1 ever proved that passion's zeal, The change to hatred were at least to feel. But still he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — And oft when present — absent from my thought. Or when reflection comes, and come it must — I fear that henceforth 't will but bring disgust. I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, T were worse than bondage to become his bride. Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! Or seek another and give mine release, — But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, Remember, captive! 'tis to break thy chain ^ Repay the life that to thy hand I owe; To give thee back to all endear'd below, Y* r ho share such love as I can never know. Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : T will cost me dear — but dread no death to-day !» XV. She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. And was she here? and is he now alone? What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain? The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, That starts at once— bright — pure— from pity's mine, Already polish'd by the hand divine! Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear— in woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield: Avoid it — virtue ebbs and wisdom errs, Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers! What lost a world, and bade a hero fly? The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven : By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven ! Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe! XVF. T is morn — and o'er his alter'd features play The beams — without the hope of yesterday. What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing, By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, Chill, wet, and misty round each stiffen'd limb, Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! CANTO III. Come vedi— ancor non m' abbandona. DA.NTE. Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills, the setting sun ; Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light ! O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. On old iEgina's rock, and Idra's isle, The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, Though there his altars are no more divine. Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis! Their azure arches, through the long expanse More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven : Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When — Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last, How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, That closed their murder'd sage's " latest day! Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — The precious hour of parting lingers still. 7° BYRON'S WORKS. But sad his light to agonising eyes, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before; But, ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head, The cup of woe was quaff d — the spirit fled ; The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! But lo ! from high Hymeltus to the plain, The queen of night asserts her silent reign. l2 No murky vapour, herald of the storm, Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play, There the white column greets her grateful ray, And, bright around with quivering beams beset, Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret. The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, 13 And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, All tinged with varied hues ; arrest the eye, And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. Again the iEgean, heard no more afar, Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war; Again his waves in milder tints unfold Their long array of sapphire and of gold, Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle, That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. '£ II. Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee? Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, So much its magic must o'er all prevail? Who that beheld that sun upon thee set, Fair Athens! could thine evening face forget? Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees, Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — Would that with freedom it were thine again! III. The sun hath sunk, and, darker than the night, Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height Medora's heart : the third day 's come and gone — With it he comes not— sends not — faithless one! The wind was fair though light, and storms were none. Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet His only tidings that they had not met! Though wild, as now, far different were the tale Had Conrad waited for that single sail. The night-breeze freshens — she that day had past In watching all that hope proclaim'd a mast; Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, And there she wander'd heedless of the spray That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away: She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart; Till grew such certainty from that suspense — His very sight had shock'd from life or sense! It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought, Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. In silence, darkling, each appear' d to wait His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate. Something they would have said; but seem'd to fear To trust their accents to Medora's ear. She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not : Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot, Within that meek fair form were feelings high, That deem'd not till they found their energy. While yet was Hope — they soften d — flutter' d — wept : All lost — that softness died not — but it slept; And o'er its slumber rose that strength which said, « With nothing left to love — there's nought to dread. » 'T is more than nature's: like the burning might Delirium gathers from the fever's height. « Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well: Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." « Lady! we know not — scarce with life we fled; But here is one denies that he is dead : He saw him bound, and bleeding — but alive. » She heard no further — 't was in vain to strive, So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then with- stood; Her own dark soul these words at once subdued : She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies; Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, Raise — fan — sustain, till life returns anew; Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report The tale, too tedious — when the triumph short. IV. In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange, With thoughts of ransom, rsecue, and revenge ; All, save repose or flight: still lingering there Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair; Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led Will save him living, or appease him dead. Woe to his foes ! there yet survive a few, Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. Within the Haram's secret chamber sate Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his captive's fate ; His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell. Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind, While many an anxious glance her large dark eye Sends in its idle search for sympathy : His only bends in seeming o'er his beads, ' 5 But inly views his victim as he bleeds. « Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest Sits triumph — Conrad taken— fall'n the rest ! THE CORSAIR. I7r His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his fate Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate. Methinks, a short release, for ransom told With all his treasure, not unwisely sold. Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard— Would that of this my Pacha were the lord! While haffled, weaken'd hy this fatal fray — Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey: But once cut off — the remnant of his hand Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand. » « Gulnare! if for each drop of blood a gem Were offer' d rich as Stamboul's diadem , If for each hair of his a massy mine Of virgin ore should supplicating shine; If all our Arab tales divulge or dream Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! It had not now redeem'd a single hour, But that I know him fetterd, in my power; And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still On pangs that longest rack and latest kill.» « Nay, Seyd! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, Too justly moved for mercy to assuage; My thoughts were only to secure for thee His riches — thus released, he were not free : Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, His capture could but wait thy first command. » « His capture could! — and shall I then resign One day to him — the wretch already mine ? Release my foe! — at whose remonstrance? — thine! Fair suitor! to thy virtuous gratitude, That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear? I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word Of thine stamps truth on all suspicion heard. Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly? Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 'T is not his life alone may claim such care! Another word and — nay — I need no more. Accursed was the moment when he bore Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no — I then had mourn d thee with a lover's woe : Now 't is thy lord that warns — deceitful thing! Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing? In words alone I am not wont to chafe : Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe!» He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, Rage in his eye, and threats in his adieu : Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued; And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare ! When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew How deep the root from whence compassion grew : She was a slave — from such may captives claim A fellow-feeling, differing but in name; Still half-unconscious — heedless of his wrath. Again she ventured on the dangerous path. Again his rage repell'd — until arose That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes ! VI. Meanwhile — long-anxious — weary — still — the same Roll'd day and night — his soul could terror tame : This fearful interval of doubt and dread, When every hour might doom him worse than dead, When every step that echo'd by the gate, Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; When every voice that grated on his ear Might be the last that he could ever hear; Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high Had proved unwilling as unfit to die : 'T was worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore That conflict deadlier far than all before. The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; But bound and fix'd in fetterd solitude, To pine, the prey of every changing mood; To gaze on thine own heart, and meditate Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — Too late the last to shun — the first to mend ; To count the hours that struggle to thine end, With not a friend to animate, and tell To other cars that death became thee well; Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, And blot life's latest scene with calumny; Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear; But deeply feels a single cry would shame, To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim ; The life thou leavest below, denied above By kind monopolists of heavenly love; And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven Of earthly hope — thy loved oue from thee riven : Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill? Since not to sink beneath is something still! VII. The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare — The second — third — and still she came not there; But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done, Or else he had not seen another sun. The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night Came storm and darkness in their mingling might. Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep; And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, Roused by the roar of his own element! Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, And loved its roughness for the speed it gave; And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, A long-known voice — alas ! too vainly near! Loud sung the wind above; and, doubly loud, Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud • And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar. To him more genial than the midnight star. Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain, And hoped that peril might not prove in vain : He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd One pitying flash to mar the form it made : His steel and impious prayer attract alike — The storm roll'd onward and disdain' d to strike; BYRON'S WORKS. Its peal wax'd fainter— ceased — he felt alone, As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan ! VIII. The midnight pass'd, and to the massy door, A light step came — it paused — it moved once more : Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 'T is as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint; Yet changed since last within that cell she came, More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame. On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, Which spoke before her accents — « Thou must die ! Yes, thou must die, there is but one resource, The last — the worst — if torture were not worse. » « Lady ! I look to none ; my lips proclaim What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same. Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, And change the sentence I deserve to bear? Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed.» « Why should I seek? because — oh! didst thou not Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot? Why should I seek? — hath misery made thee blind To the fond workings of a woman's mind? And must I say? albeit my heart rebel With all that woman feels, but should not tell — Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : It fear'd thee — thank'dthee — pitied — madden'd — loved! Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, Thou lovest another — and I love in vain ; Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, I rush through peril which she would not dare. If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam! What hath such gentle dame to do with home? But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread. If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free, Receive this poniard — rise and follow me!» « Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread, With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head! Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight? Or is that instrument more fit for fight ?» « Misdoubting Corsair! I have gain'd the guard, Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. A single word of mine removes that chain : Without some aid how here could I rema.in 7 Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : The crime — 't is none to punish those of Seyd. That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed! I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — Wrong'd — spurn'd — reviled — and it shall be avenged : Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. Yes, smile! — but he had little cause to sneer : I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear. But he has said it — and the jealous well, Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel. Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretel. I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — Since with me came a heart he could not buy. I was a slave unmurmuring; he hath said, But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 'T was false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, Their words are omens insult renders true. Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer; This fleeting grace was only to prepare New torments for thy life, and my despair. Mine too he threatens; but his dotage still Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! What ! am I then a toy for dotard's play, To wear but till the gilding frets away? I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, If but to show how grateful is a slave. But had he not thus menaced fame and life (And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife), I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. Now I am all thine own—for all prepared : Thou lovest me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. Alas ! this love — that hatred, are the first. Oh! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst not start, Nor fear the fire that lights an eastern heart; 'T is now the beacon of thy safety — now It points within the port a Mainote prow : But in one chamber, where our path must lead, There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor Seytl!» « Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low. Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band From earth with ruthless but with open hand ; And therefore came I, in my bark of war, To smite the smiter with the scimitar; Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. Thine saved I gladly, lady, not for this — Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast ! Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest!» «Rest ! rest! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. I heard the order — saw — I will not see — If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. My life — my love — my hatred — all below Are on this cast, Corsair! — 't is but a blow! Without it flight were idle — how evade His sure pursuit? my wrongs too unrepaid, My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, One blow shali cancel with our future fears; But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, I '11 try the firmness of a female hand. The guards are gain'd— one moment all were o'er : Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud- Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud.» IX. She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; And gathering, as he could, the links that bound His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, THE CORSAIR. i 7 3 Since bar and bolt no more bis steps preclude, He, fast as fetter' d limbs allow, pursued. T was dark and winding, and be knew not where That passage led; nor lamp nor guard were there : He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak? Chance guides bis steps — a freshness seems to bear Full on his brow, as if from morning air ; He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : Yet scarcely heeded these — another light From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. Towards it he moved, a scarcely closing door Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. With hasty step a figure outward past, Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 't is she at last ! No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — « Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill!» Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : As if she late had bent her leauing head Above some object of her doubt or dread. They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — Her hurrying hand had left — 't was but a spot— Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime— 't is blood ! X. He had seen battle — he had brooded lone O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown; He had been tempted — chasten'd — and the chain Yet on his arms might ever there remain : ■ Lut ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — From all his feelings in their inmost force — So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, As now they froze before that purple stain. That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but then It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! XI. « T is done — he nearly waked — but it is done. Corsair! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. All words would now be vain — away — away! Our bark is tossing — 't is already day. The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, And these thy yet surviving band shall join : Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, When once our sail forsakes this hated strand. » XII. She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor; Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind; Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind! But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; The city lies behind — they speed, they reach The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd; Resistance were as useless as if Seyd Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. XIII. Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew — How much had Conrad's memory to review! Sunk he in contemplation, till the cape Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. Ah! — since that fatal night, though brief the time, Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he past; He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : He turn'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide ! XIV. She watch'd his features till she could not bear Their freezing aspect and averted air, And that strange fierceness, foreign to her eye, Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. She knelt beside him, and his hand she prest — «Thou mayst forgive though Alla's self detest; But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? Pieproach me — but not yet — Oh! spare me now! I am not what I seem — this fearful night My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite! If I had never loved — though less my guilt, Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt.» XV. She wrongs bis thoughts, they more himself upbraid Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made; But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, The blue waves sport around the stern they urge; Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! Their little bark her men of watch descry, Aud ampler canvas woos the wind from high ; She bears her down majestically near, Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier; A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, A long, long absent gladness in his glance; «'T is mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again — I am not all deserted on the main !» They own the signal, answer to the hail, Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. «T is Conrad! Conrad !» shouting from the deck, Command nor duty could their transport check ! With light alacrity and gaze of pride, They view him mount once more his vessel's side ; A smile relaxing in each rugged face, Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace, He, half-forgetting danger and defeat, Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, And feels he yet can conquer and command! XVT. These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, Yet grieve to win him back without a blow. 74 BYRON'S WORKS, They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known A woman's hand secured that deed her own, She were their queen — less scrupulous are they Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare; And her, at once above — beneath her sex, Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, She drops her veil, and stands in silence by; Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! XVII. This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah! could he less? Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; What she has done no tears can wash away, And heaven must punish on its angry day. But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt; And he was free! — and she for him had given Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and meek, But varying oft the colour of her cheek To deeper shades of paleness — all its red That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead! He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate; He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. « Gulnare !» — but she replied not — « dear Gulnare !» She raised her eye — her only answer there — At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : If he had driven her from that resting-place, His had been more or less than mortal heart, But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, His latest virtue then hadjoin'd the rest. Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss That askd from form so fair no more than this, The first, the last that frailty stole from faith — To lips where love had lavish'd all his breath, To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling, As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! XVIII. They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle ; To them the very rocks appear to smile; The haven hums with many a cheering sound, The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray; Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill discordant shriek Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak! Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home, Like hope's gay glance from ocean's troubled foam? XIX. The lights are high on beacon and from bower, And midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: He looks in vain — 't is strange — and all remark, Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 'T is strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. With the first boat descends he for the shore, And looks impatient on the lingering oar. Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, To bear him like an arrow to that height! With the first pause the resting rowers gave, He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high Ascends the path familiar to his eye. He reach'd his turret door — he paused — no sound Broke from within; and all was night around. He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; He knock'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand Befused to aid his heavy heart's demand. The portal opens — t is a well-known face — But not the form he panted to embrace; Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd, And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd; He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all — It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. He would not wait for that reviving ray — As soon could he have linger' d there for day; But, glimmering through the dusky corridor, Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor; His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold All that his heart believed not — yet foretold! XX. He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look, And set the anxious frame that lately shook : He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! In life itself she was so still and fair, That death with gentler aspect wither'd there; And the cold flowers' 6 her colder hand contain'd, In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, And made it almost 'mockery yet to weep : The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below. Oh ! o'er the eye death most exerts his might, And hurls the spirit from her throne of light! Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; But the white shroud, and each extended tress, Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, Which, late the sport of every summer wind, Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind, These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier — But she is nothing — wherefore is he here? XXI. He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now By the first glance on that still — marble brow. It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how? The love of youth, the hope of better years, The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, The only living thing he could not hate, Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, But did not feel it less. The good explore, For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar : THE CORSAIR. I 7 5 The proud — the -wayward — who have fix'd below Their joy — and find this earth enough for woe, Lose in that one their all— perchance a mite : But who in patience parts with all delight? Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn; And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, In smiles that least befit who wear them most. XXII. By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest The indistinctness of the suffering breast; Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; No words suffice the secret soul to show, For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, And stupor almost lull'd it into rest; So feeble now— his mother's softness crept To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : It was the very weakness of his brain, Which ihus confess'd without relieving pain. None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen, That useless flood of grief had never been : Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. There is no darkness like the cloud of mind On Grief's vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! XXIII. His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong; Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long; Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew Within the grot — like that had harden'd too; Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock; If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, Though dark the shade — it shelter'd, — saved till now. The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, The granite's firmness, and the lily's growth : The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell, And of its cold protector, blacken round But shiver'd fragments on the barren greund ! XXIV. T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower. He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er: Another morn — another bids them seek, And shout his name till echo waxeth weak; Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 'T is idle all — moons roll on moons away, And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside ; And fair the monument they gave his bride: For him they raise not the recording stone — His death yet dubious, deeds loo widely known; He left a Corsair's name to other times, Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. '7 NOTES. The time in this poem may seem too short for the occurrences, but the whole of the JEgean isles are within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it. Note i. Page i63, line 86. Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. Orlando, Canto 10. Note 2. Page i6/f, line 96. Around the waves phosphoric brightness broke. By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the water. Note 3. Page i65, line 3a. Though to the rest the sober berry's juice. Coffee. Note 4- Page i65, line ^1. The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply. Pipe. Note 5. Page i65, line 42. While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy. Dancing-girls. Note to Canto II. Page i65, line 55. It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised as a spy, is out of nature. — Perhaps so. — I find some- thing not unlike it in history. « Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of his own ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anec- dote may be rejected as an improbable fiction ; but it is a fiction which would not have been imagined unless in the life of a hero.» Gibbon, D. and F. Vol. VI. p. 180. That Conrad is a character not altogether out of na- ture, I shall attempt to prove by some historical coin- cidences which I have met with since writing «The Corsair. » « Eccelin prisonnier,» dit Rolandini, « s'enfermoit dans un silence menacant ; il fixoit sur la terre son visage feroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa profonde in- dignation.— De toutes parts cependant les soldats et les peuples accouroient. ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de toutes parts. « Eccelin etoit d'une petite taille; mais tout 1' aspect de sa personne, tous ses mouvements indiquoient un soldat. — Son langage etoit amer, son deportement su- perbe — et par son seul regard il faisoit trembler les plus hardis.w Sismondi, tome iii. pp. 219, 220. « Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the con- queror of both Carthage and Rome), statura mediocris, 176 BYRON'S WORKS. et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermone ra- rus, luxurise conternptor, ira turbidus, habendi cupidus, adsollicitandasgentesprovidentissimus,»etc., e tc. Jor- nandes de Rebus Geticis, c. 33. I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep iu countenance my Giaour and Corsair. Note 6. Page 166, line 19. And my stern vow and order's laws oppose. The Dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, as the monks. Note 7. Page 166, line 54. They seize that Dervise '.—seize on Zatanai ! Satan. Note 8. Page 166, line 75. He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight. A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. « The Seraskier received a wound in the thigh; he plucked up his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to quit the field. » Note 9. Page 166, line 119. Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare. Gulnare, a female name; it means, literally, the flower of the pomegranate. Note 10. Page 168, line 100. Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest ! In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Boleyn in the Tower, when grasping her neck, she remarked, that « it was too slender to trouble the headsman much.» During one part of the French Re- volution, it became a fashion to leave some <■<■ mot» as a legacy; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that period would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable size. Note 11. Page 169, line 11 3. That closed their murder'd sage's latest day! Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- set (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the en- treaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. Note 12. Page 170, line 10. The queen of night asserts her silent reign. The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of shorter duration. Note 1 3. Page 170, line 20. The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk. The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes. — Cephisus stream is indeed scanty, and llissus has no stream at all. Note 14. Page 170, line 3o. That frown— where gemler ocean seems to smile. The opening lines as far as Section II have, perhaps, little business here, and were annexed to an unpub- lished (though printed) poem; but they were written on the spot in the spring of 1811, and— I scarce know why— the reader must excuse their appearance here if he can. (See Curse of Minerva, p. 189.) Note i5. Page 170, line 116. flits only bends in seeming o'er his beads. The comboloio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beads arc in number ninety-nine. Note 16. Page 174, line 98. And the cold flowers her colder hand contain'd. In the'Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young persons to place a nosegay. Note 17. Page 175, line 65. Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. That the point of honour which is represented in one instance of Conrad's character has not been carried beyond the bounds of probability, may perhaps be in some degree confirmed by the following anecdote of a brother buccaneer in the present year, 1814. Our readers have all seen the account of the enter- prise against the pirates of Barrataria ; but few, we be- lieve, were informed of the situation, history, or nature of that establishment. For the information of such as were unacquainted with it, we have procured from a friend the following interesting narrative of the main facts, of which he has personal knowledge, and which cannot fail to interest some of our readers. Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the gulf of Mexico; it runs through a rich but very Hat country, until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, fifteen miles below the city of New-Orleans. The bay has branches almost innumerable, in which persons can lie concealed from the severest scrutiny. It com- municates with three lakes which lie on the south-west side, and these, with the lake of the same name, and which lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed by the two arms of this lake and the sea. The east and west points of this island were fortified in the year 181 1, by a band of pirates, under the command of one Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority of these out- laws are of that class of the population of the state of. Louisiana who fled from the island of St Domingo during the troubles there, and took refuge in the island of Cuba : and when the last war between France and Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave that island with the short notice of a few davs. Without ceremony, they entered the United States, the most of them the State of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had possessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Go- vernor of that State of the clause in the constitution which forbad the importation of slaves; but, at the same time, received the assurance of the Governor that he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the ge- neral Government for their retaining this property. The Island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29. deg. 1 5 min. Ion. 92. 3o. and is as remarkable for its health as for the superior scale and shell-fish with which its waters abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles de Moor, had mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the year i8i3, this party had, from its turpitude and boldness, claimed the attention of the Governor of Louisiana ; and to break up the establishment, he thought proper to strike at the head. He therefore offered a reward of 5oo dollars for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, who was well known to the inhabitants of the city of New Orleans, from his immediate connexion, and his once having been a fencing-master in that city of great reputation, which art he learnt in Buonaparte's army, where he was a Captain. The reward which was offered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was answered by the offer of a reward from the latter of i5,ooo for the head of the Governor. The Governor ordered out a company to LARA. 77 march from the city to La Fitte's island, and to hum and destroy all the property, and to bring to the city of New- Orleans all his banditti. This company, under the com- mand of a man who had heen the intimate associate of this bold Captain, approached very near to the fortified island, before he saw a man, or heard a sound, until he heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. Then it was he found himself surrounded by armed men,who had emerged from the secret avenues which led into Bayou. Here it was that the modern Charles de Moor developed his few noble traits ; for to this man, who had come to destroy his life and all that was dear to him, he not only spared his life, but offered him that which would have made the honest soldier easy x for the remainder of his days, which was indignantly refused. He then, with the approbation of his captor, returned to the city. This circumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that this band of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our naval force having always been small in that quarter, exertions for the destruction of this illicit establishment could not be expected from them until augmented; for an officer of the navy, with most of the gun-boats on that station, had to retreat from an overwhelming force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of the navy authorised an attack, one was made ; the overthrow of this banditti has been the result ; and now this almost in- vulnerable point and key to New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped the government will hold it by a strong military force. — From an American News- paper. In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical Dic- tionary, there is a singidar passage in his account of Archbishop Blackbourne, and as in some measure con- nected with the profession of the hero of the foregoing poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it. « There is something mysterious in the history and character of Dr Blackbourne. The former is but im- perfectly known ; and report has even asserted he was a buccaneer: and that one of his brethren in that pro- fession having asked, on his arrival in England, what had become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was an- swered, he is Arbhbishop of York. We are informed, that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter in 1694, which office he resigned in 1702: but after his successor, Lewis Barnet's death, in 1704, he regained it. In the following year he became dean; and, in 1714, held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was con- secrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; and translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, according to court scandal, for uniting George I to the Duchess of Slunster. This, however, appears to have been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he behaved with great prudence, and was equaliv respectable as the guardian of the revenues of the see. Rumour whis- pered he retained the vices of his youth, and that a passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of his weaknesses; but so far from being convicted bv seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been directly criminated bv one. In short, I look upon these asper- sions as the effects of mere malice. How is it possible a buccaneer should have been so good a scholar as Black- bourne certainly was ? he who had so perfect a know- ledge of the classics (particularly of the Greek tra- gedians), as to be able to read them with the same ease as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains to acquire the learned languages, and have had both leisure and good masters. But he was undoubtedly educated at Christ-church College, Oxford. He is al- lowed to have been a pleasant man : this, however, was turned against him, by its being said, 'he gained more hearts than souls.'» « The only voice that could soothe the passions of the savage (Alphonso 3d) was that of an amiable and vir- tuous wife, the sole object of his love ; the voice of Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, and the grand-daughter of Philip II, King of Spain. — Her dying words sunk deep into his memory; his fierce spirit melted into tears; and, after the last embrace, Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irre- parable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human hfe.» — Miscellaneous Works of Gibbon, neiv edition, Svo, vol. 3. page 473. A TALE. CANTO I The serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain. And slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord. The long self-exiied chieftain is restored : There be bright faces in the busy hall, Bowls on the board, and banuers on the wall ; Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze; And gay retainers gather round the hearth. With tongues all loudness, and with eves all mirth. The chief of Lara is return d again : And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main? Left by his sire, too young such loss to know. Lord of himself; — that heritage of woe — That fearful empire, which the human breast But holds to rob the heart within of rest! — With none to check, and few to point in time The thousand paths that slope the way to crime : Then, when he most required commandment, then Had Lara's daring boyhood govern' d men. It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace His vouth through all the mazes of its race ; Short was the course his restlessness had run. But long enough to leave him half undone. i7' BYRON'S WORKS. III. And Lara left iu youth his father-land; But from the hour he waved his parting hand Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all Had nearly ceased his memory to recal. His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 'T was all they knew, that Lara was not there; Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew Cold in the many, anxious in the few. His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, His portrait darkens in its fading frame, Another chief consoled his destined hride, The young forgot him, and the old had died: « Yet doth he live?» exclaims the impatient heir, And sighs for sables which he must not wear. A hundred 'scutcheons deck with gloomy grace The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place ; But one is absent from the mouldering file, That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. IV. He comes at last in sudden loneliness, And whence they know not, why they need not guess They more might marvel, when the greeting 's o'er, Not that he came, but came not long before .- No train is his beyond a single page, Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away To those that wander as to those that stay: But lack of tidings from another clime Had lent a flagging wing to weary time. They see, they recognise, yet almost deem The present dubious, or the past a dream. He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, Though sear'd by toil, and something touch' d by time; His faults, whate'cr they were, if scarce forgot; Might be untaught him by his varied lot; Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: His soul in youth was haughtv, but his sins No more than pleasure from the stripling wins; And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. Y. And they indeed were changed — ' t is quickly seen Whate'er he be, 't was not what he had been : That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, And spake of passions, but of passion past: The pride, but not the fire, of early days, Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; A high demeanour, and a glance that took Their thoughts from others by a single look; And that sarcastic levity of tongue, The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, That darts in seeming playfulness around, And makes those feel that will not own the wound : All these seem'd his, and something more beneath, Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, That some can conquer, and that all would claim, Within his breast appear'd no more to strive, Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive; And some deep feeling it were vain to trace At moments lighten' d o'er his livid face. VI. Not much he loved long question of the past. Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, And — as himself would have it. seem — unknown : Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, Nor glean experience from his fellow man; But what he had beheld heshunn'd to show, As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; If still more prying such inquiry grew, His brow fell darker, and his words more few. VII. Not unrejoiced to see him once again, Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men; Born of high lineage, liuk'd in high command, He mingled with the magnates of his land; Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, And saw them smile or sigh their hours away : But still he only saw, and did not share The common pleasure or the general care ; He did not follow what they ajl pursued With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd; Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain, Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : Around him some mysterious circle thrown Bepelld approach, and show'd him still alone; Upon his eye sat something of reproof, That kept at least frivolity aloof; And things more timid that beheld him near, In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear: And they the wiser, friendlier few, confest They deem'd him better than his air exprest. VIII. 'Twas strange — in youth all action and all life, Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife; Woman— the field — the ocean — all that gave Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below, And found his recompense in joy or woe, No tame, trite medium; for his feelings sought In that intenseness an escape from thought : The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed On that the feebler elements hath raised ; The rapture of his heart had look'd on high, And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky: Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? Alas ! he told not — but he did awake To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. IX. Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day From all communion he would start away: And then, his rarely-cali'd attendants said, Through night's long hours would sound his hurried tread O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd In rude but antique portraiture around : They heard, but whisper'd, « that must not be known — The sound of words less earthly than his own. Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen They scarce knew what, but more than should have been. LARA. 79 Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head Which hands profane had gather d from the dead, That still beside his open'd volume lay, As if to startle all save him away? Why slept lie not -when others were at rest? Why heard no music and received no guest? All was not well they deem'd— but where the wrong ] Some knew perchance — but 't were a tale too long ■ And such besides were too discreetly wise To more than hint their knowledge in surmise : But if they would — they could» — around the board, Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. X. ft was the night — and Lara's glassy stream The stars are studding, each with imaged beam : So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, And yet they glide like happiness away; Reflecting far and fairy-like from high The immortal lights that live along the sky : Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee; Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, And Innocence would offer to her love, These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make In windings bright and mazy like the snake. All was so still, so soft in earth and air, You scarce would start to meet a spirit there; Secure that nought of evil could delight To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! It was a moment only for the good : So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate; Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : Such scene reminded him of other days, Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now— No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, Unfelt— unsparing— but a night like this, A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his. XI. He turn'd within his solitary hall, And his high shadow shot along the wall; There were the painted forms of other times, T was all they left of virtues or of crimes, Save vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults; And half a column of the pompous page, That speeds the specious tale from age to age ; Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, Reflected in fantastic figures grew, Like life, but not like mortal life, to view; His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, And the wide waving of his shaken plume. Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave His aspect all that terror gives the grave. XII. 'T was midnight — all was slumber; the lone light Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear That frautic echo burst the sleeping ear? They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave, Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ; They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, And snatch' d in startled haste unbelted brands. XIII. Cold as the marble where his length was laid. Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd, Was Lara stretch'd; his half-drawn sabre near, Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear. Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, And still defiance knit his gather'd brow; Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, There lived upon his lip the wish to slay; Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died, Some imprecation of despairing pride; His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook. Even in its trance, the gladiator's look, That oft awake his aspect could disclose. And now was fix'd in horrible repose. They raise bin! — bear him; hush! he breathes, he speaks The swarthy blush recolotirs in his cheeks, His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, Rolls wide and wild, each slowly-quivering limb Recals its function, but his words are strung In terms that seem not of his native tongue; Distinct, but strange, enough they understand To deem them accents of another land; And such they were, and meant to meet an ear That hears him not — alas! that cannot hear! XIV. His page approach'd, aud he alone appear