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THE 
 
 •WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 LORD BYRON 
 
 COMPLETE 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 THE THIRD EDITION, CONSIDERABLY Al'OMENTED. 
 
 FRANCFORT O. M. 
 
 PRINTED BY AND FOR H. L. BR(ENNER. 
 
 18 3 7. 
 
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THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON, 
 
 BY J. W. LAKE. 
 
 O'er the harp, from earliest yeari beloved, 
 He threw h'u fingers hurriedly, and tones 
 Of melancholy beauty died away 
 Upon iti striiis;s of sweetness. 
 
 It was reserved for the present age to produce one 
 distinguished example of the Muse liaving descended 
 upon a bard of a wounded spirit, and lent her lyre to tell 
 aHlictions of no ordinary description; afilictions origi- 
 nating probably in that singular combination of feeling 
 with imagination whicli has been called the poetical 
 temperament, and which has so often saddened tlie days 
 of those on whom it has been 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 pleasuTe 
 and of pain, that man was Lord Byron. Nor does it 
 require much time or a deep acquaintance with human 
 nature to discover why these extraordinary powers should 
 in so many cases have contributed more to the wretched- 
 ness than to the happiness of their possessor. 
 
 The "imagination all compact" which the greatest 
 poet who ever lived has assigned as the distiiiguisiiing 
 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 delusive pleasure arising from these visions of ima- 
 gination, resembles that of a child whose notice is at- 
 tracted by a fragment of glass, to which a sun-beam has 
 given momentary splendour. He hastens to the spot with 
 breathless impatience, and finds the object of his curiosity 
 and expectation is equally vulgar and worthless. Such 
 is tiie man of quick and exalted powers of imagination: 
 his fancy over-estimates the object of his wishes; and 
 pleasure, fame, distinction, are alternately pursued, at- 
 tained, and despised when in his power. Like the en- 
 chanteei fruit in the palace of a sorcerer, the objects of his 
 admiration lose their attraction and value as soon as 
 they are grasped by the adventurer's hand, and all that 
 remains is regret for the time lost in the chase, and wonder 
 at the hallucination under the influence of which it was 
 undertaken. The disproportion between hope and pos- 
 session, which is felt by all men, is thus doubled to those 
 whom nature has endowed with the power of gilding a 
 distant prospect by the rays of imagination. 
 
 We think that many points of resemblance may be 
 ii-aced between Byron and Rousseau. Both are distin- 
 // guished by the most ardent and vivid delineation of 
 intense conception, and by a deep sensibility of passion 
 rather than of afl'eetion. Both, too, by this double power, 
 haveiield a dominion over the sympathy of their readers. 
 
 far beyond the range of those ordinary feelings wliich 
 are usually exfuted by the mere eflbrts 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 pos- 
 sessed, — which lies in the continual embodying of the 
 individual character, it might almost be said of the very 
 person of the writer. When we speak or think of Itous- 
 seau — or ]5yron, we are not conscious of speaking or 
 thinking ofan 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^f^nsjuiitl^ met such 
 beings in real life, or had known them in me dim and 
 dark communion of a dream. Each of their works pre- 
 sents, 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 
 tiie contrary, are images, pictures, busts of their living 
 selves, — clothed, no doubt, at diflerent times, in (liflerent 
 drapery, and prominent from a ditlerent back-ground, — 
 but utiiformly impressed witli tlie same form, and mien, 
 and lineaments, and not to be mistaken for the represent- 
 tatious 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 explanation. The 
 personal character of which we have spoken, it should be 
 understood, is not altogether that on which the seal of 
 life has been set, — and to which, therefore, moral ap- 
 proval 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 constitution of the 
 being in body and in soul. Each of these illustrious writ- 
 ers has, in this light, filled his works with expressions of 
 his own character, — has unveiled to the world the secrets 
 of his own being, the mysteries of the framing of man. 
 They have gone down into those depths which every 
 man may sound for himself, though not for another; and 
 they have made disclosures to the world of what they 
 beheld and knew there — disclosures that have com- 
 manded and forced a profound and universal sympathy, 
 by proving that all mankind, the troubled and the un- 
 troubled, the lofty and the low, the strongest and the 
 frailest, are linked together by the bonds of a common 
 but inscrutable nature. 
 
 4 598U; 
 
n 
 
 LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 v 
 
 Thus, each of tlicse wayward and richly-gifted spirits 
 made liimself the object of profound interest to the world, 
 and that too during periods of society when ample food 
 was every wiiere spread abroad for the meditations and 
 passions of men. 
 
 Although of widely dissimilar fortunes and birth, a 
 close rcsemblanoe in their passions and their genius may 
 be traced too between iJyron and Robert Burns. Their 
 /careers were short and glorious, and they both perished 
 in the "rich summer of their life and song," and in all 
 the splendour of a reputation more likely to increase than 
 diminish. One was a peasant, and the other was a peer; 
 but nature is a great leveller, and makes amends for the 
 injuries of fortune by tiie richness of her benefactions 
 the genius of Burns raised him to a level with the nobles 
 of the land ; by nature, if not by birth, he was the peer 
 of Byron. They both rose by the force of their genius, 
 and both fell by the strength of their passions; one wrote 
 from a love, and the other from a scorn of mankind ; and 
 they both sung of the emotions of their own hearts with 
 a vehemence and an originality which few have equalled, 
 and none surely have surpassed. 
 
 The versatility of authors who have been able to draw 
 and support characters, as different from each other as 
 from their own, has given to their productions the inex- 
 pressible charm of variety, and has often secured them 
 from that neglect which in general attends what is technic- 
 ally called mannerism. But it was reserved for LortK. 
 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 aba- 
 ted, although the most important person of the drama 
 retained the same lineaments. 
 
 But that noble tree will never more bear fruit or blos- 
 som! It has been cut down in its strength, and the past 
 is all that remains to us of Byron. That voice is silent 
 for ever, which, bursting so frequently on our ear, was 
 often heard with rapturous admiration, sometimes with 
 regret, but always with the deepest interest. — Yet the 
 impression of his works still remains vivid and strong. 
 The charm which cannot pass away is there,— life breath- 
 ing in dead words — the stern grandeur — the intense 
 power and energy — the fresh beauty , the undimmed 
 lustre — the immortal bloom, and verdure, and fragrance 
 of life, all those still are there. But it was not in these 
 alone, it was in that continual impersonation of himself 
 in his writings, by which he was for ever kept brightly 
 before the eyes of men. 
 
 It might, at first, seem that his undisguised revelation 
 of feelings and passions, which the becoming pride of 
 human nature, jealous of its own dignity, would in ge- 
 neral desire to hold in unviolated silence, could have 
 produced in the public mind, only pity, sorrow, or repugn- 
 ance. But in the case of men of real genius, like Byron, 
 it is otherwise: they are not felt, while we read, as decla- 
 rations 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 
 hearing of the uninitiated, because it is not understood. 
 A great poet may address the whole world in the language 
 of intensest passion, concerning objects of which rather 
 than speak face to face with any one human being on 
 earth, he would perish in his misery. For it is in solitude 
 that he utters what is to be wafted by all the winds of 
 heaven: there are, during his inspiration, present with 
 him only the shadows of men. He is not daunted, or 
 
 perplexed, or disturbed, or repelled by real, living, breath- 
 ing features. He can updraw 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 him- 
 self alone, partly to the ideal abstractions and imperson- 
 ated images that float around him at his own conju- 
 ration; and partly to human beings like himself, moving 
 in the dark distance of the every-day world. He con- 
 fesses himself, not before men, but before the spirit of 
 humanity; and he thus fearlessly lays open his heart, 
 assur^ that nature never prompted unto genius, that, 
 whicJi will not triumphantly force its wide way into the 
 human heart. 
 
 We have admitted that Byron has depicted much of 
 himself in all his heroes; but when we seem to see the" 
 poet shadowed out in all those states of disordered being 
 which his Childe Harolds, Giaours, Conrads, Laras, 
 and Alps exhibit, we are far from believinglhat his ovsn 
 mind has gone through those states of disorder, in its 
 own experience of life. We merely conceive of it as hav- 
 ing felt within itself the capacity of such disorders, and 
 therefore exhibiting itself before us in possibility. This 
 is not general, — it is rare with great poets. Neither 
 Homer, nor Shakspeare, nor Milton ever so show them- 
 selves in the characters which they pourtray. Their 
 poetical personages have no references to themselves, 
 but are distinct, independent 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. Cha- 
 racter is first, and all in all; it is dictated, compelled by 
 some force in his own mind — necessitating him, — and 
 the events obey. His poems , therefore, excepting Don 
 Juan, are not full and complete narrations of some one 
 definite story, containing within itself a picture of human 
 life. They are merely bold , confused , and turbulent 
 exemplifications ofcertain sweeping energies and irresist- 
 ible passions; they are fragments of a poet's dark dream 
 of life. The very personages, vividly as they are pictured, 
 are yet felt to be fictitious, and derive their chief power 
 over us from their supposed mysterious connexion with 
 the poet himself, and, it may be added, with each other. 
 The law of his mind was to embody his peculiar feel- 
 ings in the forms of other men. In all his heroes we 
 recognise, though with infinite modifications, the same 
 great characteristics: a high and audacious conception 
 of the power of the mind, — an intense sensibility of pas- 
 sion, — an almost boundless capacity of tumultuous 
 emotion , — a boasting admiration of the grandeur of 
 disordered power, and, above all, a soul-felt, blood-felt 
 delight in beauty — a beauty, which, in his wild creation, 
 is often scared away from the agitated surface of life by 
 stormier passions, but which, like a bird of calm, is for 
 ever returning, on its soft, silvery wings, ere the black 
 swell subsided into sunshine and peace. 
 
 These reflections naturally precede the sketch we are 
 about to attempt of Lord Byron's literary and private 
 life: indeed they are in a manner forced upon us by 
 his poetisy, by the sentiments of weariness of existence 
 and enmity with the world, which it so frequently ex- 
 presses, and by the singular analogy which such senti- 
 ments hold with the real incidents of his life. 
 
 Lord Byron was descended from an illustrious line of 
 ancestry. From the period of the conquest his family 
 were distinguished , not merely for their extensive 
 manors in Lancashire and other parts of the kingdom, 
 but 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, rendered good service 
 in Bosworth field, to the Earl of Richmond, and contri- 
 buted by his valour, to transfer the crown from the head 
 of Richard the third, to that of Henry the seventh. This 
 Sir John was a man of honour,as well asa brave warrior. 
 He was very intimate with his neighbour Sir Gcj^vaae 
 
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Clifton; and, although Byron fought under Henry, and 
 Clifton under Richard, it did not diminish their friend- 
 ship, but, on the contrary, put it to a severe test. Previous 
 io tiie battle, the prize of which was a kingdom, they 
 had mutually promised that whiciiever of them was 
 vanquished, the other should endeavour to prevent the 
 forfeiture of his friend's estate. While Clifton was bravely 
 righting at the head of his troop, he was struck oft' his 
 horse, w hich Byron perceiving, he quitted the ranks and 
 ran to the relief of his friend, whom he shielded, but who 
 died in his arms. Sir John de Byron kept his word; he 
 interceded with the king : the estate was preserved to the 
 Clifton family, and is now in the possession of a descend- 
 ant of Sir Gervase. 
 
 In the wars between Charles the first and the parlia- 
 ment, the Byrons adhered to the royal cause. Sir 
 Nicholas Byron , the eldest brother and representative of 
 the family, was an eminent loyalist, who, having distin- 
 guished himself in the wars of the Low Countries, was 
 appointed governor of Clielsea, in 1642. He had two 
 sons, who both died without issue; and his younger 
 brother. Sir John, became their heir. This person was 
 made a knight of the Bath at the coronation of James 
 the first. He had eleven sons, most of whom distinguish- 
 ed themselves for their loyalty and gallantry on the 
 side of Charles the first. Seven of these brothers were 
 engaged at the battle of Marston-moor, of whom four 
 fell in defence of tlie royal cause. Sir John Byron, one of 
 the survivors, was appointed to many 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 aflairs, he was appointed 
 governor to the Duke of York, and, in this office, died 
 without issue, in France, in 1652; — upon which his 
 brother Richard, a celebrated cavalier, became the se- 
 cond Lord Byron. He w as governor of Appleby Castle, 
 and distinguisiied himself at Newark. He died in 1697, 
 aged seventy-four, and was succeeded by his eldest son 
 William, who married Elizabeth, the daughter of John 
 Viscount Chawortii, 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 in 1736. 
 
 William, Lord Byron, passed the early part of his life 
 in the navy. In 1763 he was made master 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. Chaworth, in a duel. — The following 
 details of this fatal event are peculiarly interesting from 
 subsequent circumstances connected with the subject 
 of our sketch. 
 
 The old Lord Byron belonged to a club of which Mr. 
 Chaworth was also a member. It met at the Star and 
 Garter tavern. Pall Mall, once a month, and was called 
 the Nottinghamshire Club. On the 29th January, 1765, 
 they met at four o'clock to dinner as usual, and every 
 thing went agreeably on, until about seven o'clock, when 
 a dispute arose betwixt Lord Byron and Mr. Chaworth 
 concerning the quantity of game on their estates. The 
 dispute rose to a high pitch, and Mr. Chaworth, having 
 paid his share of the bill, retired. Lord Byron followed 
 him out of the room in which they had dined, and, stop- 
 ping him on the landing of the stairs, called to tiie 
 waiter to show them into an empty room. They were 
 shown into one, and a single candle being placed on 
 the table, — in a few minutes the bell was rung, and 
 Mr. Chaworth found mortally wounded. He said that 
 Lord Byron and he entered the room together, Lord 
 Byron leading the way; that his lordship, in walking 
 forward, said something relative to the former dispute, 
 , on which he proposed fastening the door; that on turning 
 himself round from this act, he perceived his lordship 
 with his sword half drawn, or nearly so: on which, know- 
 ing 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 lordship shorten 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 lordship, and expressed a 
 concern, as under the apprehension of having mortally 
 wounded him; that Lord Byron rephed by saying some- 
 thing to the like efl'eet, 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 oftence he was unanimously convicted of 
 manslaughter, but, on being brought up for judgment, 
 pleaded his privilege as a peer, and was, in conse- 
 quence, discharged. After this affair he was abandoned 
 by his relations, and retired to Newstead Abbey; where, 
 though he lived in a state of perfect exile from persons 
 of his own rank, his unhappy temper found abundant 
 exercise in continual war witli his neighbours and 
 tenants, and sufficient punishment in their hatred. One 
 of his amusements was feeding crickets , which were his 
 only companions. He had made them so tame as to crawl 
 over him; and used to whip them with a wisp of straw, 
 if too familiar. In this forlorn condition he lingered out 
 a long life, doing all in his power to ruin the paternal 
 mansion for that other branch of the family to w hich 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, although his career in life was almost an 
 unbroken scene of misfortunes. The hardships he endu- 
 red while accompanying Commodore Anson in his ex- 
 pedition to the South Seas are well known, from his own 
 highly popular and affecting narrative. His only son, 
 born in 1751, who received an excellent education, and 
 whose father procured for him a commission in the 
 guards, was so dissipated that he was known by the 
 name of "mad Jack Byron." He was one of the hand- 
 somest men of his time; but his character was so no- 
 torious 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 seduced the Marchioness 
 of Carmarthen, who had been but a few years married 
 to a husband with whom she had lived in the most happy 
 state , until she formed this unfortunate connexion. 
 After one fruitless attempt at reclaiming his lady, the 
 marquis obtained a divorce ; and a marriage was brought 
 about between her and her seducer; which, after the most 
 brutal conduct on his part, and the greatest misery and 
 keenest remorse on hers, w as 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 fortunes by matrimony, and having made 
 a conquest of Miss Catherine Gordon, an Aberdeenshire 
 heiress (lineally descended from the Earl of Huntley and 
 the Princess Jane, daughter of James II. of Scotland), 
 he united himself to her, ran through her property in 
 a few years, and, leaving her and her only child, the 
 subject of this memoir, in a destitute and defenceless 
 state, fled to France to avoid his creditors, and died at 
 Valenciennes, in 1791. 
 
 In Captain Med win's "Conversations of Lord Byron," 
 the following expressions are said to have fallen from his 
 lordship on the subject of his unworthy 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, in fact, my father was, in his youth, 
 any thing but a "Cfelebs 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 wo- 
 men; and once wanted a guinea, that he wrote for: I have 
 
IV 
 
 LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 the note. He seemed bora for his own ruin, and that of 
 the other sex. He began by sedueing Lady Carmarthen, 
 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 des- 
 tined to be a very fortunate one either , and I don't 
 wonder at her differing from Sheridan's widow in the 
 play ; they certainly could not have claimed *the tlitch.' " 
 George Byron Gordon (for so he was called on ac- 
 count of the neglect his fatiier's family had shown to his 
 mother) was born at Dover, on the 22d of January, 
 178S. On tlie unnatural desertion of his father, the entire 
 care of his infant years devolved upon his mother, who 
 retired to Aberdeen, where she lived in almost perfect 
 seclusion, on the ruins of her fortune. Her undivided 
 affection was naturally concentred in her son, who was 
 her darling; and when he only went out for an ordinary 
 walk, she would entreat him, with the tear glistening in 
 her eye, to take care of himself, as "she had nothing on 
 earth but him to live for;" a conduct not at all pleasing 
 to his adventurous spirit; the more especially, as some 
 of his companions, who witnessed the aliectjonate scene, 
 would laugh and ridicule him about it. This excessive 
 maternal indulgence, and the absence of that salutary 
 discimine and control so necessary to childliood, doubt- 
 less contributed to the formation of the less pleasing 
 features of Lord Byron's character. It must, however, 
 be remembered, in Mrs. Byron's extenuation, not only 
 that the circumstances in which she had been left with 
 her son were of a very peculiar nature, but also that a 
 slight malformation of one of his feet, and great weakness 
 of constitution, naturally solicited for him in the heart of 
 a mother a more than ordinary portion of tenderness. 
 For these latter reasons he was uoi sent veny early to 
 school, but was allowed to expana'his lungs^ and brace 
 his limbs, upon the mountains of the neighbourhood. 
 This was evidently the most judicious method for impart- 
 ing strength to his bodily frame; and the sequel showed 
 that it was far from 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 w ith her faulchion bright, 
 Swept the stranger from her sight;" 
 
 his intercourse with a people whose cliief amusements 
 consisted in the recital of heroic tales of other times, 
 feats of strength, and a display of independence, blended 
 with the wild supernatural stories peculiar to remote and 
 thinly-peopled districts; — all these were calculated to 
 foster that poetical feeling innate in his character. 
 
 When George was seven years of age, his mother sent 
 him to thegrammar-school at Aberdeen, where he remain- 
 ed till his removal to Harrow, with the exception of 
 some intervals of absence, which were deemed requisite 
 for the establishment of his health. His progress beyond 
 that of the general run of his class-fellows was never so 
 remarkable as after those occasional intervals, when, in 
 a few days, he would master exercises w hich , in the 
 school-routine, it had required weeks to accomplish. 
 But when he liad overtaken the rest of the class , he 
 always relaxed his exertions, and, contenting himself 
 with being considered a tolerable scholar , never made 
 any extraordinary effort to place himself at the head of 
 the highest form. It was out of school that he aspired 
 to be the leader of every thing; in all boyish games and 
 amusements he would be first if possible. For this he 
 was eminently calculated ; quick , enterprising , and 
 daring, the energy of his mind enabled him to overcome 
 the impediments which nature had thrown in his way. 
 Even at that early period (from eight to ten years of age), 
 all his sports were of a manly character; fishing, shoot- 
 ing, swimming, and managing a horse, or steering and 
 trimming the sails of a boat, constituted his chief delights, 
 
 and, to the superficial observer, seemed his sole occu 
 pations. 
 
 He was exceedingly brave, and in the juvenile wars c 
 the school , he generally gained the victory ; upon on 
 occasion, a boy pursued by another took refuge in Mrs 
 Byron's house: the latter, who had been much abused b; 
 the former, proceeded to take vengeance on him even oi 
 the landing-place of the drawing-room stairs, whei 
 George interposed in his defence, declaring that nobod; 
 should be ill-used while under his roof and protection 
 Upon this the aggressor dared him to fight, and, althougl 
 the former was by much the stronger of the two, th 
 spirit of young Byron was so determined, that after th 
 combat had lasted for nearly two hours, it was suspend 
 ed because both the boys were entirely exhausted. 
 
 A school-fellow of Byron's had a very small Shetlam 
 pony which his father had bought him, and one day tiie; 
 went to the banks of the Don to bathe, but having onl 
 one pony, they were obliged to follow the good ol' 
 practice called in Scotland "ride and tie." Wlien the, 
 came to the bridge over that dark romantic streanr 
 Byron bethought him of the prophecy which he ha 
 quoted in Don Juan : 
 
 "Brig of Balgounie, black's your wa' ; 
 Wi' a wife's ae son and a mear's aefoal, 
 Doun j'c shall fa'." 
 
 He immediately stopped his companion, who was thci 
 riding, and asked him if he remembered the prophecj 
 saying, that as they were both only sons, and as the pon 
 might be "a mare'-s ae fo^l," he would rather ride ove 
 first; because he ha(iQiJji.a mother to lament him, shoul 
 the pro1t)het^y be fuUihed by the falling of the bridge 
 whereas the other had both a father and a mother t 
 grieve for him. 
 
 It is the custom of the grammar-school at Aberdeei 
 tliat the boys of all the five classes of which it is compose 
 should be assembled for prayers in the public school i 
 eight o'clock in the morning; after prayers a censor call 
 over the names of all, and those who are absent are pu 
 nished. The first time that Lord Byron had come to schoc 
 after his accession to his title, the rector had caused hi 
 name to be inserted in the censor's book , Georgius Dc 
 minus de Byron, instead of Georgius Byron Gordon, a 
 formerly. The boys, unaccustomed to this aristocrat! 
 sound, set up a loud and involuntary shout, which ha 
 such an effect on his sensitive mind that he burst int 
 tears, and would have fled from the school had he nc 
 been restrained by the master. 
 
 An answer which Lord Byron made to a fellow scholai 
 who questioned him as to the cause of the honorary ad 
 dition of "Dominus de Byron" to his name, served t 
 that time when he was only ten years of age, to point ou 
 that he would be a man who would think , speak, and a( 
 for himself — who, whatever might be his sayings or hi 
 doings, his vices or his virtues, would not condescend t 
 take them at second hand. Tliis happened on the ver 
 day after he had been menaced with being flogged roun 
 the school for a fault which he had not committed; an 
 when the question was put to him he replied, "it is nc 
 my doing; Fortune was to wliip me yesterday for wha 
 another did, and she has this day made me a lord for wha 
 another has ceased to do. I need not thank her in eithe 
 case, for I have asked nothing at her hands." 
 
 On the 17th of May, 1798, William, the fifth Lor 
 Byron, departed this life at Newstead. As the son of thi 
 eccentric nobleman had died when George was five year 
 old, and as the descent both of the titles and estates wa 
 to heirs male, the latter, of course, succeeded his great 
 uncle. Upon this change of fortune Lord Byron, now te: 
 years of age, was removed from the immediate care c 
 his mother, and placed as a ward under the guardianslii] 
 of the Earl of Carlisle, whose father had married Isabelhi 
 the sister of the preceding Lord Byron. In one or twi 
 
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 points of character this great-aunt resembled the bard: 
 she also wrote beautiful poetry, and after adorning the 
 gay and fashionable world for many years, she left it 
 without any apparent cause and with perfect indillerence, 
 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 lirst instance be sent to 
 the public school at Harrow. He was accordingly placed 
 there under the tuition of the Rev. Dr. Drury to whom 
 he has testified his gratitude in a note to the fourth canto 
 of Childe Harold, in a manner which docs equal honour 
 to the tutor and the pupil. A change of scene and of 
 circumstances so unforeseen and so rapid, would have 
 been hazardous to any boy, but it was doubly so to one 
 of Byron's ardent mind and previous habits. Taken at 
 once from the society of boys in humble life, and placed 
 among youths of his own newly -acquired rank, with 
 means of gratification which to him must have appeared 
 considerable, it is by no means surprising that he should 
 have been betrayed into every sort of extravagance : 
 none of them appear, however, to have been of a very 
 culpable nature. 
 
 "Though he was lame," says one of his schoolfellovfs, 
 "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 remark- 
 able (nor was he ever) for his learning, but he was 
 always a clever, plain-spoken, and undaunted boy. I 
 have seen him fight by the hour like a Trojan, and stand 
 up against the disadvantage of his lameness with all the 
 spirit of an ancient combatant. "Don't you remember 
 your battle witii Pitt?" (a brewer's son) said I to him 
 in a letter (for 1 had witnessed it), but it seems that he 
 had forgotten it. "You are mistaken, I think," said he in 
 reply; "it must have been with Rice-Pudding Morgan, 
 or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the Douglases, or George 
 Raynsford, or Pryce (with whom I had two confiicts), 
 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." " 
 
 Tiie annexed anecdotes are characteristic: 
 
 The boys at Harrow had mutinied, and in their wis- 
 dom had resolved to set fire to the scene of all their ills 
 and troubles — the school-room : Byron, however, Avas 
 against the motion, and by pointing out to the young 
 rebels the names of their fathers on the walls, he pre- 
 vented the intended conflagration. This early specimen 
 of his power over the passions of his school-fellows, his 
 lordship piqued himself not a Utile upon. 
 
 Byron long retained a friendship for several of his 
 Harrow school-fellows; Lord Clare was one of his con- 
 stant correspondents; Scroope Davies was also one of 
 his chief companions before his lordship went to tlie 
 continent. This 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 Byron's 
 pistols to shoot himself with; Byron sent a note refusing 
 to give them, on the ground that they would be forfeited 
 as a deodand. This comic excuse had the desired effect. 
 
 Byron, whilst living at Newstead during the Harrow 
 vacation, saw and became enamoured of Miss Chaworth : 
 she is the Mary of his poetry, and his beautiful "Dream" 
 relates to their loves. Miss Chaworth was older than his 
 Lordship by a few years, was light and volatile, and 
 tliougli, no doubt, highly flattered by liis attachment, yet 
 she treated our poet less as an ardent lover than as a 
 younger brother. She was punctual to the assignations 
 which took place at a gate dividing the grounds of the 
 Byronsfrom the Chavvorths, and accepted his letters from 
 the confidants; but her answers, it is said, were written 
 witli more of the caution of coquetry than the romance 
 
 of "love's young dream;" she gave him, however, her 
 picture, but her hand was reserved for another. 
 
 It was somewhat remarkable that Lord Byron and 
 Miss Chaworth should both have been under the guar- 
 dianship of Mr. White. This gentleman particularly 
 wished that his wards should be married together; but 
 Miss C, as young ladies generally do in such circum- 
 stances, difl'ered from him, and was resolved to please 
 herself in the choice of a husband. The celebrated Mr. 
 M., commonly known by the name of Jack M., was at this 
 time quite the rage,andMiss C was not subtle enough lo 
 conceal i\\e pendiant she had for this jack-a-rfanrfy; and 
 though 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 olf the lady, to the great grief of 
 Lord Byron. The marriage, however, was not a happy 
 one; the parties soon separated , and Mrs. M. after- 
 wards proposed an interview with ^ler former lover, 
 which, by the advice of his sister, he declined. 
 
 From Harrow Lord Byron was removed, and entered 
 of Trinity College, Cambridge; there, however, he did 
 not mend his manners, nor hold the sages of antiquity 
 in higher esteem than when under the command of his 
 reverend tutor at Harrow. He was above studying the 
 poetics, and held the rules of the Stagyrite in as little 
 esteem as in after-life he did the "invariable principles" 
 of the Rev. Mr. Bowles. Reading after the fashion of 
 the studious 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 "the silver cup" for those plodding cha- 
 racters who, perhaps, deserve them, as the guerdon of 
 the unceasing labour necessary to overcome the all but 
 invincible natural dulness of their intellects. Byron, 
 instead of reading what pleased tutors, read what pleased 
 himself, and wrote what could not fail to displease those 
 political weathercoeks. 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" 
 no one likes to be laughed at; doctors frowned, and 
 fellows fumed, and Byron at the age of nineteen left the 
 university without a degree. 
 
 Among other means which he adopted to show his 
 contempt for academical honours, he kept a young bear 
 in his room for some time, which he told all his friends 
 he was training up for a fellowship; but however much 
 the fellows of Trinity may claim acquaintance with the 
 "ursa major," they were by no means desirous of as- 
 sociating with his lordship's eleve. 
 
 When about nineteen years of age, Lord Byron bade 
 adieu to the university, and took up his residence at 
 Newstead Abbey. Here 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 Newfoundland dog, to 
 try w hose sagacity and fidelity he would sometimes fall 
 out of the boat, as if by accident, when the dog would 
 seize him, and drag him ashore. On losing this dog, in 
 the autumn of 1808, he caused a monument to be erected, 
 with an inscription commemorative of its attachment. 
 
 The following descriptions of Newstead's hallowed 
 pile w ill be found interesting : 
 
 This abbey was founded in the year 1 170, by Henry II., 
 as a priory of Black Canons, and dedicated to the Virgin 
 Mary. It continued in the family of the Byrons until the 
 time of the late lord, who sold it first to Mr. Claugliton 
 for the sum of 140,000/., and on that gentleman's not 
 being able to fulfil the agreement, and thus paying 
 20,000/. of a forfeit, it was afterwards sold to another 
 person, and most of the money vested in trustees for the 
 jointure of the Hon. Mrs. Byron. The greater part of 
 the edifice still remains. The present possessor. Major 
 Wildman, is, with genuine Gothic taste, repairing tliis 
 beautiful specimen of architecture. The late Lord Byron 
 
VI 
 
 LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 repaired a considerable part of it j but, forgetting tlic 
 roof, he had turned his attention to the inside, and tlie 
 consequence was, tijat in a few years, the rain paying a 
 visit to the apartments, soon destroyed all those elegant 
 devices w liich his lordship liad contrived. His lordship'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, was a great number 
 of these skulls, taken from the burial-ground of the abbey, 
 and piled up together; but afterwards they were recom- 
 mitted to the earth. A writer, who visited it soon after 
 Lord Byron had sold it, says : "In one corner of the ser- 
 vants' 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. With the exception of the dog's tomb, 
 a conspicuous and elegant object, I do not recollect the 
 slightest trace of culture or improvement. The late lord, 
 a stern and desperate character, who is never mentioned 
 by the neighbouring peasants without a significant 
 shake of the head, might have returned and recognized 
 every thing abotit him, except, perhaps, an additional 
 crop of weeds. There still slept that old pond, into 
 which he is said to have hurled his lady in one of his fits 
 of fury, whence she was rescued by the gardener, a 
 courageous blade, who was the lord's master and chas- 
 tised him for ids barbarity. There still, at the end of the 
 garden, in a grove of oak, two towering satyrs, he with 
 his goat and club, and Mrs. Satyr with her chubby 
 cloven-footed brat, placed on pedestals at the inter- 
 sections of the narrow and gloomy pathways, struck icr 
 a moment with their grim visages, and silent shaggy 
 forms, the fear into your bosoms which is felt by the 
 neighbouring peasantry at "th'oud laird's devils." I 
 have frequently asked the country-people near Newstead, 
 what sort of a man his lordship (our Lord Byron) was. 
 The impression of his eccentric but energetic character 
 was evident in the reply: "He 's the devil of a fellow 
 for comical fancies. He flogs th' oud laird to nothing; 
 but he 's a hearty good fellow for all that. " " 
 
 Walpole, Avho had visited Newstead, gives, in his usual 
 bitter, sarcastic manner, the following account of it: 
 
 "As I returned I saw Newstead and Althorpe; Hike 
 both. The former is the very abbey. The great east 
 window of the cliurch remains, and connects with the 
 house; the hall entire, the refectory entire, the cloister 
 untouched, with the ancient cistern of the cojivent, 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 thousand 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 family 
 liveries for a public day. In the hall is a very good coK 
 lection of pictures, all animals. The refectory, now 
 the great drawing-room, is full of Byrons: the vaulted 
 roof remaining , but the windows have new dresses 
 making for them by a Venetian tailor." 
 
 This is a careless but happy description of one of the 
 noblest mansions in England, and it will now be read 
 with a far deeper interest than when it was written. 
 Walpole saw tiie seat of the Byrons, old, majestic, and 
 venerable ; but he saw nothing of that magic beauty 
 which fame sheds over the habitations of genius, and 
 which now mantles every turret of Newstead Abbey. 
 He saw it when decay was doing its work on the cloister, 
 
 tlie refectory, and the chapel, and all its honors seemed 
 mouldering into oblivion. He could not know that a 
 voice w as soon to go forth from those antique cloisters, 
 that should be heard through all future ages, and cry, 
 "Sleep no more to all the house." Whatever may be its 
 future fate , Newstead Abbey must henceforth be a 
 memorable abode. Time may shed its wild flowers on 
 the walls, and let the fox in upon the court-yard and the 
 chambers; it may even pass into the hands of unlet- 
 tered pride, or plebeian opulence; but it has been the 
 mansion of a mighty poet. Its name is associated with 
 glories that cannot perish, and will go down to posterity 
 in one of the proudest pages of our annals. 
 
 Lord Byron showed, even in his earliest years, that 
 nature had added to the advantages of high descent the 
 richest gifts of genius and of fancy. His own tale is partly 
 told in two lines of Lara: 
 
 Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
 Lord of himself, that heritage of woe. 
 
 His first literary adventure and its fate are well remem- 
 bered. The poems which he published in his minority 
 had, indeed, those faults of conception and diction which 
 are inseparable from juvenile attempts, and in particular 
 may rather be considered as imitative of what had 
 caught the ear and fancy of the youthful author, than 
 as exhibiting originality of conception and expression. 
 It was like the first essay of the singing-bird, catching at 
 and imitating the notes of its parent, ere habit and time 
 have given the fulness of tone, confidence, and self- 
 possession which render assistance unnecessary. Yet 
 though there were many, and those not the worst judges, 
 who discerned in his "Hours of Idleness" a depth of 
 thought and felicity of expression which promised much 
 at a more mature age, the work did not escape the critical 
 lash of the "Scotch Reviewers," who could not resist the 
 opportunity of pouncing upon a titled poet, of showing 
 otl their own wit, and of seeking to entertain their readers 
 with a flippant article, without much respect to the feel- 
 ings of tlie author , or even to the indications of merit 
 which the work displayed. The review was read, and ex- 
 cited mirth; the poems were neglected, the author was 
 irritated, and took his revenge in keen iambics, which, 
 at the same time, proved tl>e injustice of tiie ofiending 
 critic and the ripening talents of the bard. Having thus 
 vented his indignation against the reviewers and their 
 readers, and put all the laughter on his side. Lord Byron 
 went abroad, and the controversy was for some years 
 forgotten. 
 
 it was at Newstead, just before his coming of age, he 
 had planned his future travels, and his original intention 
 included a much larger portion of the world, than that, 
 which he afterwards visited. He first thought of Persia, 
 to which idea indeed he for a long time adhered. He 
 afterwards meant to sail for India, and had so far con- 
 templated this project as to write for information from 
 the Arabic professor at Cambridge, and to ask his mother 
 to inquire of a friend who had lived in India, what things 
 would be necessary for his voyage. He formed his plan 
 of travelling upon very different grounds from those 
 which he afterwards advanced. All men should travel 
 /'at one 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 acquaintance com- 
 menced at Cambridge) , Lord Byron embarked at Fal- 
 mouth for Lisbon, and thence proceeded, by the south- 
 ern provinces of Spain, to the Mediterranean. The 
 objects that he met with as far as Gibraltar seem to have 
 occupied his mind , to the temporary exclusion of his 
 gloomy and misanthropic thoughts ; for a letter which he 
 
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 VII 
 
 wrote to his mother from tlience contains no indication 
 of them, but, on the contrary, much playful description 
 of the scenes through which he had passed. At Seville, 
 Lord Byron lodged in the house of two single ladies, 
 one of whom, however, was about to be married. Though 
 he remained there only three days, she paid him tlie most 
 particular attentions, and, at their parting, embraced him 
 with great tenderness, cutting oil a lock of his hair, and 
 presenting him witli 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 Cadiz with regret , and determine to 
 return to it. Lord Byron wrote to his mother from 
 jNIalta, announcing his safety, and again from Prevesa, 
 in November. Upon arriving at Yanina, Lord Byron 
 found that Ali Pacha was with his troops in Illyrium, 
 besieging Ibraiiim 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 introduced to Ali Pacha, who 
 declared that he knew him to be a man of rank from the 
 smallness of his ears, his curling hair, and his white 
 hands, and who sent him a variety of sweetmeats, fruits, 
 and other luxuries. In going in a Turkish ship of war, 
 provided for him by Ali Pacha, from Prevesa, intending 
 to sail for Patras, Lord Byron was very near lost in but a 
 moderate gale of wind, from the ignorance of the Turkish 
 officers and sailors, and was driven on the coast of Suli. 
 An instance of disinterested hospitality in the chief of 
 a Suliote village occurred to Lord Byron, in consequence 
 of his disasters in the Turkish galliot. 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 take 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 Pacha. Subsequently, he visited Smyrna, 
 whence he went in the Salsette frigate to Constantinople. 
 On the 3d of May , 1810, while this frigate was lying at 
 anchor in the Dardanelles, Lord Byron, accompanied by 
 Lieutenant Ekenliead, swam 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 Abydos, and landed on 
 the opposite shore, full three miles below his meditated 
 place of approach. He had a boat in attendance all the 
 way; so tliat no danger could be apprehended even if 
 liis strength had failed. His lordship records, in one of 
 his minor poems, that he got the ague by the voyage; 
 but it was well known, that when he landed, he was so 
 much exhausted , that he gladly accepted the ofler of a 
 Turkish fisherman, and reposed in his hut for several 
 hours; he was then very ill, and as Lieutenant Ekeahead 
 was compelled to go on board his frigate, he was left 
 alone. The Turk had no idea of the rauk" or conse- 
 quence of his inmate,but paid him most marked attention. 
 His wife was iiis nurse, and, at the end of five days, he 
 left the shore , completely recovered. When he was 
 about to embark, the Turk gave him a large loaf, a 
 cheese, and a skin filled with wine, and then presented 
 him with a few paras (about a penny each), prayed 
 Allaii to bless him, and wished him safe home. His lord- 
 ship made him no return to this, more than saying he felt 
 much obliged. But when he arrived at Abydos, he sent 
 over his man Stefano, to the Turk, with an assortment of 
 fisliing-nets, a fowling piece, a brace of pistols, and twelve 
 yards of silk to make gowns for his wife. The poor Turk 
 was astonished, and said: "What a noble return for an 
 act of humanity!" He then formed the resolution of cross- 
 ing tlie Hellespont, and, in propria persona, thanking 
 
 his lordship. His wife approved of the plan; and he had 
 sailed about halfway across, when a sudden squall upset 
 his boat, and the poor Turkish fisherman found a watery 
 grave. Lord Byron was much distressed w hen he heard 
 of the catastrophe, and, with all that kindness of heart 
 which was natural to him, he sent to the widow fifty dol- 
 lars, and told her he would ever be her friend. This 
 anecdote, so highly honorable to 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 proceeding to 
 Constantinople, landed at the same spot, and made a 
 handsome present to the widow and her son, who recol- 
 lected the circumstance, but knew not Lord Byron, his 
 dress and appearance having so altered him. 
 
 It was not until after Lord Byron arrived at Constan- 
 tinople that he decided not to go on to Persia, but to pass 
 the following summer in the Morea. At Constantinople, 
 Mr. Hobhouse left him to return to England. On losing 
 his companion, Lo.rd Byron went again, and alone, over 
 much of the old track which he had already visited, and 
 studied the scenery and manners, of Greece especially, 
 with the searching eye of a poet and a painter. His mind 
 appeared occasionally to have some tendency towards 
 a recovery from the morbid state of moral apathy which 
 he had previously evinced, and the gratification which 
 he manifested on observing the superiority, in every 
 respect, of England to other countries, proved that pa- 
 triotism was far from being extinct in his bosom. The 
 embarrassed state of his aliairs at length induced him to 
 return home, to endeavour to arrange them; and he 
 arrived in the Volage frigate on the 2d of July, 1811, 
 having been absent exactly two years. His health had 
 not suffered by his travels, although it had been inter- 
 rupted by two sharp fevers; but he had put himself 
 entirely on a vegetable diet, and drank no wine. 
 
 Soon after his arrival, he was summoned toNewstead, 
 inconsequence of the serious illness of his mother; but 
 on reaching the abbey, found that she had breathed her 
 last. He sufl'ered much from this loss, and from the dis- 
 appointment of not seeing her before her death; and 
 while his feelings on the subject w ere still very acute, he 
 received the intelligence that a friend, whom he highly 
 esteemed, had been drowned in the Cam. He had not 
 long before heard of the death, at Coimbra, of a school- 
 fellow, to whom he was much attached. These three 
 melancholy events , occurring within the space of a 
 month, had, no doubt, a powerful eflect on Lord Byron's 
 feelings. 
 
 Towards the termination of his "English Bards and 
 Scotch Reviewers," the noble author had declared, 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 tiie "Minarets" of Con- 
 stantinople, the "Maidens" of Georgia, and the "Sublime 
 Snows" of Mount Caucasus, nothing on earth should 
 tempt him to resume the pen. Such resolutions are sel- 
 dom maintained. In February, 1812, the first two cantos 
 of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" (with the manuscript 
 of which he had presented Iiis friend Mr. Dallas) made 
 their appearance, producing an effect upon tlie public 
 equal to that of any work which had been published 
 within this or the last century. 
 
 This poem is, perhaps, the most original in the English 
 language, both in conception and execution. It is no 
 more like Beattie's Minstrel thanParadise Lost — though 
 the former production was in the noble author's mind 
 when first thinking of Childe Harold. A great poet, who 
 gives himself up free and uuconfined to the impulses of 
 his genius, as Byron did in the better part of this singular 
 creation, shows to us a spirit as if sent out from the 
 hands of nature, to range over the earth and the societies \ 
 of men. Even Shakspt-are himself submits to the shackles 
 of history and society. But here Byron has traversed the 
 whole earth, borne along by the whirlwind of hia ow n 
 
Mil 
 
 LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 spirit. Wlicrcver a forest frowned, or a temple glittered 
 — lliere he was privileged to bend his flight. He sud- 
 denly starts up from his solitary dream , by the seeret 
 fountain of the desert, and deseends at onee into the 
 tumult of peopled or the silence of deserted cities. What- 
 ever actually lived — had perisiied heretofore — or that 
 had within it a power to kindle passion, became the 
 »ja<erm/of his all-embracing song. There are no unities 
 of time or place to fetter him — and we fly with him from 
 hill-top to hill-top, and from tower to tower, over all the 
 solitude of nature, and all the magnihcence of art. When 
 the past pageants of history seemed too dim and faded, 
 he would turn to the splendid spectacles that have dig- 
 nified our own days, and the images of kings and con- 
 querors of old, gave place to those that were yet living in 
 sovereignty and exile. Indeed much of the power which 
 Byron possessed was derived from this source. He lived 
 in a sort of sympathy with the public mind — sometimes 
 w holly distinct from it — sometimes acting in opposition 
 to it — sometimes blending with it, — but, at all times, 
 in all his thoughts and actions, bearing a reference to the 
 public mind. His spirit needed not to go back into the 
 past, — though it often did so, — to bring the objects of 
 its love back to earth in more beautiful life. The existence 
 lie painted was — the present. The objects he presented 
 were marked out to him by men's actual regards. It was 
 his to speak of all tiiose great political events which were 
 objects of such passionate and universal sympathy. But 
 chiefly he spoke our own feelings, exalted in thought, 
 language, and passion. His travels were not, at first, the 
 self-impelled act of a mind, severing itself in lonely 
 roaming from all participation in the society to which it 
 belonged, but rather obeying the general notion of the 
 mind of that society. 
 
 The indications of a bold, powerful, and original mind 
 wliieh glanced through every line of Childe Harold, 
 electrified the mass of readers, and placed at once upon 
 Lord Byron's head, the garland for which other men of 
 genius have toiled long, and which they have gained late. 
 He was placed pre-eminent among the literary men of 
 his country by general acclamation. Those who had so 
 rigorously censured his juvenile essays, and perhaps 
 "dreaded such another field," were the first to pay warm 
 homage to his matured efforts; while others, who saw in 
 the sentiments of Childe Harold much to regret and to 
 censure, did not withhold their tribute of applause to the 
 depth of thought, the power and force of expression, and 
 the energy of sentiment which animated the "Pilgrimage." 
 Thus, as all admired the poem, all were prepared to greet 
 the author, with that fame which is the poet's best reward. 
 It was amidst such feelings of admiration that Lord 
 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 conversation 
 tended to maintain the charm which his genius had flung 
 around him; and those admitted to his conversation, far 
 from finding that the inspired poet sunk into ordinary 
 mortality , felt themselves attached to him not only by 
 many noble qualities, but by the interest of a mysterious, 
 undefined, and almost painful curiosity. 
 
 It is well known how wide the doors of society are' 
 opened in London to literary merit, even to a degree far 
 inferior to Lord Byron's, and that it is only necessary to 
 be honorably 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 whicii his 
 genius attached to his presence, and to his 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 tliose literary men of whom it may 
 be truly said, miyiuit procscntiafamam, A countenance, 
 exquisitely modelled to the expression of feeling and 
 passion, and exhibiting the remarkable contrast of very 
 
 dark hair and eye-brows, with light and expressive eyes, 
 presented to the physiognomist the most interesting sub- 
 ject for the exercise of his art. The predominating ex- 
 pression was that of deep and habitual thought, which 
 gave way to the most rapid play of features when he 
 engaged in interesting discussion ; so that a brother poet 
 compared them to the sculpture of a beautiful alabaster 
 vase, only seen to perfection w hen lighted up from within. 
 The flashes of mirth, gaiety, indignation, or satirical dis- 
 like which frequently animated Lord Byron's counte- 
 nance, might, during an evening's conversation, be mis- 
 taken by a stranger for its habitual expression, so easily 
 and so happily was it formed for them all; but those who 
 had an opportunity of studying his features for a length 
 of time, and upon various occasions, both of rest and 
 emotion , knew that their proper language was that of 
 melancholy. Sometimes shades of this gloom interrupted 
 even his gayest and most happy moments; and the follow- 
 ing verses are said to have dropped from his pen to 
 excuse a transient expression of melancholy which over- 
 clouded 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 eye — 
 Heed not the gloom that soon shall sink. 
 
 My thoughts their dungeon know too well; 
 Back to my breast the captives shrink, 
 
 And bleed within their silent cell. 
 
 It was impossible to notice a dejection belonging neitlier 
 to the rank, the age, nor the success of this young noble- 
 man, without feeliqg an indefinable curiosity to ascertain 
 whetherit had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional 
 temperament. It was obviously of a degree incalculably 
 more serious than that alluded to by Prince Arthur — 
 
 1 remember when I was in France, 
 
 Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, 
 Only for wantonness 
 
 But, howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord Byron's air 
 of mingling in amusements and sports as if he contemned 
 them, and felt that his sphere was far above the fashion- 
 able and frivolous crowd which surrounded him, gave a 
 strong ellect of colouring to a character w hose tints were 
 otherwise decidedly romantic. Noble and far descended, 
 the pilgrim of distant and savage countries, eminent as a 
 poet among the first whom Britain has produced, and 
 having besides cast around him a mysterious charm 
 arising from the sombre tone of his poetry, and the oc- 
 casional melancholy of his deportment, Lord Byron oc- 
 cupied the eyes and interested the feelings of all. The 
 enthusiastic looked on him to admire, the serious with a 
 wish to admonish, and the soft with a desire to console. 
 Even literary envy, a base sensation , from which, per- 
 haps, this age is more free than any other, forgave the 
 man whose splendor dimmed the fame of his competitors. 
 ,The generosity of Lord Byron's disposition, his readiness 
 to assist merit in distress, and to bring it forward where 
 unknown, deserved and obtained general regard; while 
 his poetical effusions, poured forth with equal force and 
 fertility, showed at once a daring confidence in his own 
 powers, and a determination to maintain, by contiimed 
 effort, the high place he had attained in British literature. 
 At one of the fashionable parties where the noble bard 
 was present. His Majesty, then Prince Regent, entered 
 the room: Lord Byron was at some distance at the time, 
 but, on learning who he was. His Royal Highness sent a 
 gentleman to him to desire that he would be presented. 
 Of course the presentation took place ; the Regent ex- 
 pressed iiis admiration of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," 
 and entered into a conversation which so fascinated the 
 poet, that had it not been for an accident which deferred 
 
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 IX 
 
 a levee intended to have been held tlie next day, lie would 
 have gone to court. Soon after, however, an unfortunate 
 influence counteracted tlie effect of royal praise, and Lord 
 Byron permitted himself to write and speak disrespect- 
 fully of the prince. 
 
 The w hole of Byron's political career may be summed 
 up in tlie following anecdotes: 
 
 The Earl of Carlisle having declined to introduce Lord 
 Byron to the House of Peers, he resolved to introduce 
 himself, and accordingly went tiiere a little before 
 the usual hour, w hen lie knew few of the lords would be 
 present. On entering he appeared rather abashed and 
 looked very pale, but, passing the woolsack, where the 
 Chancellor (Lord Eldon) was engaged in some of the 
 ordinary routine of tiie liouse, he went directly to the 
 table, where the oaths were administered to him in the 
 usual manner. The Lord Chancellor then approached, 
 and offered his hand in the most open familiar manner, 
 congratulating him on his taking possession of his seat. 
 Lord Byron only placed the tips of his lingers in the 
 Chancellor's hand; the latter returned to his seat, and 
 Byron, after lounging a few minutes on one of the op- 
 position benches, retired. To his friend, 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 
 supposed he would join the court-party, whereas he 
 i intended to have nothing at all to do w itii politics." 
 
 He only addressed the house three times : the first of 
 his speeches was on the Frame-work Bill; the second in 
 favour of the Catiiolic claims, which gave good hopes of 
 his becoming an orator; and the other related to a 
 petition from Major Cartwright. Byron himself says, the 
 Lords told him "iiis 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 thathe was 
 interesting. He always voted with the opposition, but 
 evinced no likelihood of becoming the blind partisan of 
 either side. 
 
 The following is a pleasing instance of the generosity, 
 thedeli('acy, and the uuwounding benevolence of Byron's 
 nature : 
 
 A young lady of considerable talents, but who had 
 never been able to succeed in turning them to any pro- 
 fitable 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 
 so urged on, more by the sulierings of those she held dear 
 than by her own, she summoned up resolution to wait on 
 Lord Byron at his apartments in the Albany, and ask 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 dispo- 
 sition. Experience did not disappoint her, and though 
 she entered tlie apartment with faltering steps and a pal- 
 pitatingheart,slie soon found courage to state her request, 
 which she did in the most simple and delicate manner: 
 he heard it with the most marked attention and the keen- 
 est sympathy; and when she had ceased speaking, he, 
 as if to avert her thoughts from a subject which could not 
 be but painful to her, began to converse in words so fas- 
 cinating, and tones so gentle, that she hardly perceived 
 he had been writing, until he put a folded slip of paper 
 into her hand, saying it was his subscription, and that he 
 most heartily wished her success. "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 ratlier than 
 good." The young lady,overpowerd by the prudence and 
 delicacy of his conduct, took her leave, and upon opening 
 in the street the paper, which in her agitation she had not 
 previously looked at, she found it was a draft upon his 
 banker for fifty pounds! 
 
 The enmity that Byron entertained towards the Earl 
 of Carlisle was owing to two causes: the earl iiad spoken 
 rather irreverently of the"Hours ofldleness," whenBy ron 
 expected, as a relation, that he would have countenanced 
 it. He had moreover refused to introduce his kinsman to 
 the House of Lords, even, it is said, somewhat doubting 
 his right to a seat in that honorable house. 
 
 The Earl of Carlisle was a great admirer of the classic 
 drama, and once publisiied a sixpenny pamphlet, in 
 which he strenuously argued in behalf of the propriety 
 and necessity of small theatres : on the same day that tiiis 
 weighty publication appeared, he subscribed a thousand 
 pounds for some public 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 tlius the difierence you may hit 
 
 Between his fortune and his wit. 
 
 Byron retained his antipathy to this relative to the 
 last. On reading some lines in the newspapers addressed 
 to Lady Holland by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her 
 to reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, 
 beginning : 
 
 Lady, reject the gift, etc. 
 
 He Immediately wrote the following parody: 
 
 Lady, accept the gift a hero wore. 
 
 In spite of all this elegiac stulf: 
 Let not seven stanzas written by a bore 
 
 Prevent your ladyship from taking snuff. 
 
 Sir Lumley Skeffington had written a tragedy, called, 
 if we remember right, "The Mysterious Bride," which 
 was fairly damned on the first night: a masquerade took 
 place soon after tiiis fatal catastrophe, to which went 
 John Cam Hobhouse, as a Spanish nun who had been 
 ravished by the French army , and was under the pro- 
 tection of his lordship. Skeffington, compassionating the 
 unfortunate young woman, asked, in a very sentimental 
 manner, of Byron, "who is she?"— "The Mysterious 
 Bride," replied his lordship. 
 
 On Byron's return from his first tour, Mr. Dallas called 
 upon him, and, after the usual salutations liad passed, 
 inquired if he was prepared with any other work to sup- 
 port the fame which he had already acquired. Byron then 
 delivered for his examination a poem, entitled "Hints 
 from Horace," being a paraphrase of the art of poetry. 
 Mr. Dallas promised to superintend the publication of 
 tliis piece as he had done that of the satire, and, accord- 
 ingly, it was carried to Cawthorn the bookseller, and 
 matters arranged; but Mr. Dallas, 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 canvass with each flatter'd face. 
 
 Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush, 
 
 Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
 
 Or should some limner join, for show or sale, 
 
 A maid of 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 thai 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 expressed his sorrow tiiat his lordship had 
 written nothing else. Byron tlien told him that he had 
 
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 occasionally composed some verses in Spenser's measure, 
 relative to tlie countries lie had visited. "Tliey are not 
 worth troubling you with," said his lordship, "hut you 
 shall have them all with you:" he then took "Childe 
 Harold's Pilgrimage" from a trunk, and delivered it to 
 him. Mv. Dallas, having read the poem, was in raptures 
 with it; he instantly resolved to do his utmost in sup- 
 pressing the "Hints fromHorace," and to bring out Childe 
 Harold. He urged Byron to publish this last poem; but 
 he was unwilling, and preferred to have the "Hints" 
 published. He would not be convinced of the great merit 
 of the**'Childe," and as some person had seen it before 
 Mr. Dallas, and expressed disapprobation, Byron was 
 by no means sure of its kind reception by the world. In a 
 short time afterwards, however, he agreed to its publi- 
 cation, and requested Mr. Dallas not to deal with Caw- 
 thorn, but ofl'er it to Miller of Albemarle Street: he wished 
 a fashionable publisher; but Miller declined it, chieily on 
 account of the strictures it contained on Lord lillgin, 
 '^ w hose publisher he w as. Longman had refused to publish 
 the "Satire," and Byron would notsuH'erany of liis works 
 to come from that house: the work was therefore carried 
 to Mr. Murray , who then kept a shop opposite St. 
 Dunstan's church in Fleet Street. Mr. Murray had ex- 
 pressed a desire to publish for Lord Byron, and regretted 
 that Mr. Dallas had not taken the "English Bards and 
 Scotch Reviewers" to him; but this was a/ter its success. 
 
 Byron fell into company with Hogg , the Ettrick 
 Shepherd, at the Lakes. The Shepherd was standing at 
 the inn-door of Ambleside, when forth came a strapping 
 young man from the house, and olf with his hat, and out 
 with his hand. Hogg did not know him, and appearing at 
 a dead halt, the other relieved him by saying, "Mr. Hogg, 
 I hope you will excuse me; my name is liyron, audi 
 cannot help thinking that we ought to hold ourselves ac- 
 quainted." The poets accordingly shook hands immedia- 
 tely, and, while they continued at the Lakes, were hand 
 and glove, drank furiously together, and laughed at their 
 brother bards. On Byron's leaving tiie Lakes, he sent 
 Hogg a letter quizzing the Lakists, which the Shepherd 
 was so mischievous as to show to them. 
 
 When residing at Mitylene in tlieyearl812,he portion- 
 ed 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 
 bouglit a new boat for a lisherman w ho had lost his own 
 in a gale, and he often gave Greek testaments to the poor 
 children. 
 
 While at Metaxata, in 1823, an embankment, at w Inch 
 several persons had been engaged digging, fell in, and 
 buried some of them alive: he was at dinner when he 
 heard of the accident, and, starting up from the table, 
 ran to the spot, accompanied by his physician, w ho took 
 a supply of medicines with him. The labourers who were 
 employed to extricate their companions, soon became 
 alarmed for themselves, and refused to go on, saying, 
 they believed they had dug out all the bodies which had 
 been covered by the ruins. Lord Byron endeavoured to 
 induce them to continue their exertions, but finding 
 menaces in vain, he seized a spade and began to dig most 
 zealously; at length the peasantry joined him, and they 
 succeeded in saving two more persons from certain death. 
 
 It is stated in the "Conversations," that Byron was 
 engaged in several duels, — that in one instance he was 
 himseif principal in an "allair of honour" with Hob- 
 house, — and would have been so in another with Moore, 
 if the Bard of Erin's challenge had been properly for- 
 warded to him. 
 
 On the 2d of January, 1815, Lord Byron married, at 
 Seaham, in the county of Durham, Anne Isabella, only 
 daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke (since Noel), Bart. To 
 tliis lady he had made a proposal twelve months before, 
 but was rejected : well would it have been for their 
 mutual happiness had that rejection been repeated. After 
 
 their marriage. Lord and Lady Byron took a house in 
 London; gave splendid dinner-parties; kept separate 
 carriages; and, in short, iaunclied into every sort of 
 fashionable extravagance. This could not last long; the 
 portion which his lordship had received with Miss Mil- 
 banke (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, 1815, 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, and a separation ensued, for which various 
 reasons have been assigned ; the real cause or causes, 
 however, of that regretted event, are up to this moment 
 involved in mystery, though, as might be expected, a 
 wonderful sensation w as excited at the time, and every 
 description of contradictory rumour was in active cir- 
 culation. 
 
 Byron was first introduced to Miss Milbanke 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 Newstead." 
 
 The following anecdotes on the subject of this unfor- 
 tunate marriage are given from Lord Byron's Conver- 
 sations, in his own words: 
 
 "There was something piquant , and w hat we term 
 pretty, in Miss Milbanke : her features w ere small and 
 feminine, though not regular; she had the fairest skin 
 imaginable; her figure was perfect for her height, and 
 there was a simplicity, a retired modesty about her, which 
 was very characteristic, and formed a happy contrast to 
 the cold artificial formality and studied stillness which is 
 called fashion: she interested me exceedingly. It is un- 
 necessary to detail the progress 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 con- 
 firmed in this opinion by her reviving our correspondence 
 herself twelve months after. Thetenour of her letter was, 
 that although she could not love me, she desired my 
 friendship. Friendship is a dangerous word for young 
 ladies; it is love full-fledged, and waiting for a fine day 
 to fly. 
 
 "I was not so young when my father died, but that I 
 perfectly remember him, and had very early a horror of 
 matrimony from the sight of domestic broils: this feel- 
 ing came over me very strongly at my wedding. Some- 
 thing whispered me that I was sealing my own death- 
 warrant. I amagreatbelieverin presentiments; Socrates' 
 demon was not a fiction ; Monk Lewis had his monitor; 
 and Napoleon many warnings. At. the last moment 1 
 would have retreated if I could have done so; I called to 
 mind a friend of mine, who had married a young, beauti- 
 ful, 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 resolved to attend to his 
 advice, I betted Hay fifty guineas to one that I should 
 always remain single. Six years afterwards I sent him 
 the money. The day before I proposed to Lady Byron, 1 
 had no idea of doing so. 
 
 "It had been predicted by ^Irs. Williams, that twenty- 
 seven was to be a dangerous age for me; the fortune- 
 telling witch was right,it was destined 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 Milbanke. 
 
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XI 
 
 . "There is a singular history attached to the ring-; the 
 very day the match was concluded, a ring of my mothers 
 that had been lost was dug up by thegardener at Newstead. 
 I thought it was sent on purpose for tlie wedding; but 
 my mother's marriage had not been a fortunate one, and 
 this ring was doomed to be the seal of aa unhappier 
 union still. 
 
 "After the ordeal was over, we set oif for a country- 
 seat of Sir Ralpli's, and I was surprised at the arrange- 
 ments for the journey, and somewhat out of liumour 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 subaiit, but it was not w ith a very good grace. 
 
 "I have been accused of saying, on getting into tlie 
 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 tlie maid (I mean the 
 lady's); she iiad spirit enough to have done so, and 
 would properly have resented the aflrout. 
 
 "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 
 hpney-moon, which 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 liad known 
 to be all birds of the same nest. Fancy the scene of con- 
 fusion that ensued. 
 
 "The world says I married Miss Milbanke for her 
 fortune, because she was a great heiress. All I have ever 
 received or am likely to receive (and tiiat has been tw ice 
 paid back too), was 10,000 Lst. .My own income at this 
 period was small and somewhat bespoke. Newstead was 
 a very unprofitable estate, and brought me in a bare 
 1500 Lst. a year; the Lancashire property was liampered 
 with a law-suit, which has cost me 14000 Lst., and is not 
 yet finished. 
 
 "I heard afterwards that Mrs. Charlmont had been the 
 means of poisoning Lady Noel's mind against me; that 
 she had employed herself and others in watching me in 
 London, and had reported having traced me into a house 
 in Portland-Place. There was one act unworthy of any 
 one but sucii 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 married woman with whom I had been intimate 
 before my marriage. The use that was made of the latter 
 was most unjustiUable, whatever may be thought of the 
 breach of conhdence that led to their discovery. Lady 
 Byron sent them to the husband of the lady, who had the 
 good sense to take no notice of their contents. The 
 gravest accusation that has been made against me is that 
 of having intrigued with Mrs, Mardyn in my own house, 
 introduced her to my own table; there never was a more 
 unfounded calumny. Being of the Committee of Drury- 
 Laue Theatre, I have no doubt that several actresses 
 called on me; but as to Mrs. Mardyn, who was a beautiful 
 woman, and migiit have been a dangerous visitress,I was 
 scarcely acquainted (to speak) widi iier. I might even 
 make a more serious charge against— — than employing 
 spies to watch suspected 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 some- 
 what importunate, if not impertinent; but what should 
 I have thougiit if I had known that tiiey were sent to 
 provide proofs of my insanity .' I have uo doubt that my 
 
 answers to these emissaries' interrogations were not very 
 rational or consistent, for my imagination was heated by 
 other things; but Dr. Baillie could not conscientiously 
 make me out a certificate for Bedlam, and perhaps the 
 lawyer gave a more favourable report to his employers. 
 The doctor said afterwards he had been told that I always 
 looked dow a when Lady Byron bent her eyes on me, and 
 exhibited otiier symptoms equally infallible, particularly 
 those that marked the late king's case so strongly. 1 do 
 not, however, tax Lady Byron with this transaction: 
 probably she was not privy to it; she was the tool of 
 others. Her mother always detested me, she had not 
 even the decency to conceal it in her own house. Dining 
 one day at Sir Ralph's (who was a good sort of man, and 
 of whom you may form some idea, when I tell you that 
 a leg of mutton was always served at his table, that he 
 might cut the same joke upon it), I broke a tooth, and 
 was 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, but could never express 
 them; wrote poetry too, but it was only good by accident; 
 her letters were always enigmatical, 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, tliat a person may be better know n in the first houi 
 than in ten years. She had the habit of drawing people's 
 characters after she had seen them once or twice. She 
 wrote pages on pages about my character, but it was as 
 unlike as possible. She was governed by what slie called 
 fixed rules and principles, squared mathematically. 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 
 accepted me, then she separated herself from me — so 
 much for consistency. I need not tell you of the oblo(iuy 
 and opprobrium that were cast upon my name when our 
 separation was made public ; I once made a list from the 
 journals of the day of the different worthies, ancient and 
 modern, to whom I was compared: I remember a few, 
 Nero, Apicius, Epicurus, Caligula, Heliogabalus, Henry 
 
 the Eighth, and lastly, the — . All my former friends, 
 
 even my cousin George Byron, who had been brought 
 up with me, and whom I loved as a brother, took my 
 wife's part: he followed 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 sufi'ering angel, an 
 incarnation of all the virtues and perfections of tlie sex. 
 I was abused in the public prints, made the common 
 talk of private companies, hissed as I went to the House 
 of Lords , insulted in the streets , afraid to go to the 
 theatre, whence the unfortunate Mrs. Mardyn had been 
 driven with insult. The Examiner was the only paper 
 that dared say a word in my defence, and Lady Jersey 
 the only person in the fashionable world that did not look 
 upon me as a monster. 
 
 "In addition to all these mortifications, my affairs were 
 irretrievably involved, and almost so as to make me w hat 
 they wished. I was compelled to part with Newstead, 
 which I never could have ventured to sell in my mother's 
 lifetime. As it is, 1 shall never forgive myself for having 
 done so, though I am told that the estate would not now 
 bring half as much as I got for it : this does no* at all 
 reconcile me to having parted with the old Abbey. I did 
 not make up my mind to this step but from the last 
 necessity; 1 had my wife's portion to repay, and was 
 determined to add 10,000 Lst. 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 tiian eigiiteen months after my mar- 
 riage, I left England, an involuntary exile, intending it 
 should be for ever." 
 
xn 
 
 LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 We sliall here avail ourselves of some observations 
 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 keen discrimination, of considerable weight. 
 
 "The charge against Lord Byron," says this writer, 
 "is, not that he fella victim to excessive temptations, and 
 a combination of circumstances, which it required a rare 
 and extraordinary degree of virtue, wisdom, prudence, 
 and steadiness to surmount; but that he abandoned a 
 situation of uncommon advantages , and fell weakly, 
 pusillanimously, and selfishly, w hen victory would have 
 been easy, and when defeat was ignominious. In reply 
 to this charge, I do not deny that Lord Byron inherited 
 some very desirable, and even enviable privileges in the 
 lot of life which fell to his siiare. I should falsify my own 
 sentiments if I treated lightly the gift of an ancient Eng- 
 lish peerage, and a name of honour and venerable anti- 
 , quity; but without a fortune competent to tiiat rank, it is 
 11* not 'a bed of roses,' nay, it is attended with many and 
 extreme difficulties, and the difficulties are exactly such 
 as a genius and temper like Lord Byron's were least cal- 
 culated to meet — at any rate least calculated to meet 
 under the peculiar collateral circumstances in which he 
 was placed. His income was very narrow; his Newstead 
 property left iiim a very small disposable surplus; his 
 Lancashire property was, in its condition, 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 tem- 
 per 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 ma- 
 naged it much better; he might have made himself sub- 
 servient to government, and wormed himself into some 
 lucrative place; or he might have lived meanly, con- 
 formed himself stupidly or cringingly to all humours, 
 and been borne onward on the wings of society with little 
 personal expense. 
 
 "Lord Byron was of another quality and temperament. 
 If the world would not conform to him, still less would 
 he conform to the world. He had all the manly, baronial 
 pride of his ancestors, though he had not all their wealth, 
 and their means of generosity, hospitality, and patronage. 
 He had the will, alas ! without the power. 
 
 "With this temper, these feelings, this genius, exposed 
 to a combination of such untoward and trying circum- 
 stances, it would indeed have been inimitably praise- 
 worthy, if Lord Byron could have been always wise, 
 prudent, calm, correct, pure, virtuous, and unassailable :— 
 if he 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 sensibility to every kind and 
 noble passion, yet have remained placid, and unafl'ected 
 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 days of triumph to poison, and gave him a 
 sort of moody, fierce, and violent despair, which led to 
 humours, acts, and words, that mutually aggravated the 
 ill will-and the offences between him and his assailants. 
 There w as a daring spirit in his temper and his talents, 
 which was always inflamed rather than corrected by 
 opposition. 
 
 "In this most unpropitious state of things, every thing 
 that went wrong was attributed to Lord Byron, and, 
 
 *) Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart, who lias written so 
 diffusely and so ably on Lord Byron's genius and 
 character. 
 
 when once attributed, was assumed and argued upon as 
 an undeniable fact. Yet, to my mind, it is quite < lear, — 
 quite unattended by a particle of doubt, — that in many 
 things in which he lias been the most blamed, he was the 
 absolute victim of misfortune; tiiat unpropitious 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 tliat in which Lord Byron met them. 
 
 "It is not easy to conceive a character less fitted to con- 
 ciliate general society by his manners and habits than 
 that of Lord Byron. It is probable that he could make 
 his address and conversation pleasing to ladies when he 
 chose to please; but, to the young dandies of fashion, 
 noble and ignoble, he must have been very repulsive: as 
 long as he continued to be the ton, — the lion, — they may 
 have endured him without opening their mouths, because 
 he had a frown and a lash which they were not willing to 
 encounter ; but w hen his back was turned , and they 
 thought it safe, I do not doubt that they burst out into 
 full cry! I have heard complaints of his vanity, his pee- 
 vishness, his desire to monopolise distinction, his dislike 
 of all hobbies but his own. It is not improbable that 
 there may have been some foundation for these com- 
 plaints: I am sorry for it if there was; I regret such little- 
 nesses. 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, treacherous 
 smiles, llitigs at poetry, shrugs at noble authors , slang 
 jokes, idiotic bets, enigmatical appointments, and boasts 
 of being senseless brutes ! We do not hear repeated the 
 jest of the glory of the Jew, that buys the ruined peer'ti 
 falling castle; the d-d good fellow, that keeps the finest 
 stud and the best hounds in the country out of the snip- 
 pings and odds and ends of his contract; and the famous 
 good match that the duke's daughter is going to make 
 with Dick Wigly, the son of the rich slave merciiant at 
 Liverpool ! We do not hear the clever dry j<'sts w hispered 
 
 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 Irisii Union earls, 
 great borough-holders, and the very grave and sarcasticj 
 
 Lord , who believes that he has the monopoly of all 
 
 the talents and all the political and legislative knowledge 
 of the kingdom, and that a poet and a bellman are only 
 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 thougii it was 
 the land of his nativity, the land of a thousand noble an- 
 cestors, 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 rendered ugly, 
 and where his slightest errors and indiscretions had been 
 magnified into hideous crimes." 
 
 Lord Byron's own opinions on the connubial state are 
 thus related by Captain Parry: — 
 
 "Thereare,"said his lordship,".so many undefinable,and 
 nameless,and not-to-be named causes of dislike,aversion, 
 and disgust, in the matrimonial state, that it is always 
 impossible for the public, or the best friends of the par- 
 ties, to judge between man and wife. Theirs is a relation 
 about which nobody but themselves can form a correct 
 ide?, or have any rightto speak. As long as neither party 
 commits gross injustice towards the other ; as longas nei- 
 ther 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 education, or 
 from the ciiarge 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 
 
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XIII 
 
 otlicrs do not, an objcirt of loathing? Can any thing be 
 more monstrous tlian for tlic public voice to compel 
 individuals who dislike each other to continue their coha- 
 bitation? This is at least tlie efiect of its interfering with 
 a relationship , of w liich 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 forcecontinu- 
 ally aad elfcctively to accomplish tiie same purpose. No- 
 body can escape this force but those who are too high, or 
 those wiio are too low, for public opinion to reach; or 
 those hypocrites who are, before others, the loudest in 
 their approbation of the empty and unmeaning forms of 
 society, that they may securely indulge all their propen- 
 sities in secret. I have suifered amazingly from this inter- 
 ference; for tiiough I set it at defiance, 1 was neither too 
 high nor too low to be reached by it, and I was not hy- 
 pocrite enougli to guard myself from its consequences. 
 
 "What do they say of my family-aftairs in England, 
 Parry? My story, I suppose, like other minor events, 
 interested the people for a day, and was then forgotten ;" 
 I replied, no; lthought,owingtotheverygreatinterestthe 
 public took in him, it was still remembered and talked 
 about. I mentioned that it was generally supposed a 
 difference of religious sentiments between him and Lady 
 Byron had caused the public breach. "No, Parry," was 
 the reply; "Lady Byron has a liberal mind, particularly 
 as to religious opinions; and I wish, wlien I married her, 
 that I had possessed the same command over myself that 
 I now do. Had I possessed a little more wisdom, and 
 more forbearance, we might have been happy. I wished, 
 when I was first married, to have remained in the country, 
 particularly till my pecuniary embarrassments were 
 over. I knew the society of London; I knew the cha- 
 racters of many of those who are called ladies, with whom 
 Lady Byron would necessarily have to associate, and 1 
 dreaded iier contact with them. But I have too much of 
 my mother about me to be dictated to: I like freedom 
 from constraint; I hate artificial regulations: my con- 
 duct 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 phy- 
 sician prescribed. She was not sufl'ered 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 tliem waking. 
 It was an existence I could not support." Here Lord 
 Byron broke off abruptly, saying, "I hate to speak of my 
 family-affairs; though I have been compelled to talk 
 nonsense concerning them to some of my butterfly visit- 
 ors, 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, and with what contemplations he 
 dwelt among its scenery,his own poetry soon exhibited to 
 tlie world. His third canto of Childe Harold, his Manfred, 
 and his Prisoner of Chillon were composed at the Cam- 
 jxigno Diodati, at Coligny, a mile from Geneva. 
 
 Tiicse productions evidently proved that the unfor- 
 tunate events which had induced Lord Byron to become 
 a voluntary exile from his native land, however they 
 miglit have exacerbated his feelings, had in no measure 
 chilled his poetical fire. 
 
 The anecdotes that follow are given as his lordship 
 related them to Captain Medwin : 
 
 "Switzerland is a country I have been satisfied with 
 seeing once ; Turkey I could live in for ever. I never 
 forget my predilections. I was in a wretched state of 
 hialth, and worse spirits, when I was at Geneva; but 
 quiet and the lake, physicians better than Polidori, soon 
 
 set me up. I never led so moral a life as during my resi- 
 dence 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. 1 was waylaid in my 
 evening drives — I was accused of corrupting all the^n- 
 settes in the rue Basse. I believe that they looked upon 
 me as a man-monster worse than tha piqueur. 
 
 "1 knew very few of the Genevese. Hentsch was very 
 civil to me ; and I have a great respect for Sismondi. I 
 was forced to return the civilities of one of their profess- 
 ors 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 returning 
 in time for dinner. I understand that I offended them 
 mortally. Polidori did the honours. 
 
 "Among our countrymen I made no new acquaint- 
 ances; Shelley, Monk Lewis, andHobliouse were almost 
 the only English people I saw. No wonder; I showed a 
 distaste for society at that time, and went little among 
 the Genevese; besides, I could not speak French. What 
 is become of my boatman and boat? I suppose she is 
 rotten; she was never worth much. When I went the 
 tour of the lake in her with Siielley and Hobhouse, she 
 was nearly wrecked near the very spot where Saint- 
 Preux and Julia were in danger of being drowned. It 
 would have been classical to liave been lost there, but 
 not so agreeable. Shelley was on the lake much oftener 
 than I, at all hours of the night and day : he almost lived 
 on it; his great rage is a boat. We are both building now 
 at Genoa, I a yacht, and he an open boat. 
 
 "Somebody possessed Madame de Stael with an opi- 
 nion of my immorality. I used occasionally to visit her at 
 Coppet; and once she invited me to a family-dinner, 
 and I found the room full of strangers, who had come to 
 stare at 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 before this 
 crowd, to which I only made her a low bow." 
 
 His lordship's travelling equipage was rather a sin- 
 gular one, and afibrded a strange catalogue for the Do- 
 gana : seven servants,fivecarriages,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 live stock ; these, and 
 all his books, consisting of a very large library of mo- 
 dern works (for he bought all the best that came out), 
 together with a vast quantity of furniture, might well be 
 termed, with Cajsar, "impediments." 
 
 From about the commencement of the year 1817 to 
 that of 1820, LordByron'sprincipalresidence was Venice. 
 Here he (iontinued to employ himself in poetical compo- 
 sition with an energy still increasing. He wrote the La- 
 ment of Tasso , the fourth canto of Childe Harold, the 
 dramas of Marino Faliero, and the Two Foscari; Bcppo, 
 Mazeppa, and tlie earlier cantos of Don Juan. 
 
 Considering these only with regard to intellectual acti- 
 vity and force, there can be no dilference of opinion ; 
 though there may be as to their degree of poetical ex- 
 cellence, the class in the scale of literary merit to which 
 they belong, and their moral, reIigious,and political tend- 
 encies. The Lament of Tasso , w hich in every line 
 abounds in the most perfect poetry, is liable to no coun- 
 tervailing objection on the part of the moralist. 
 
 In the tiiird canto of the "Pilgrimage," the discontented 
 and repining spirit of Harold had already become much 
 softened : 
 
 Joy was not always absent from his face, [grace. 
 But o'er it in such scenes would steal with tranquil 
 
 He is a being of still gentler mould in the fourth canto; 
 his despair has even sometimes assumed a smilingness, 
 
XIV 
 
 LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 and the lovely and lively creations of the poet's brain are 
 less painfully alloyed, and less suddenly checked by the 
 gloomy visions of a morbid imaj5:ination. He represented 
 himself, from the beginning, as a ruin; and when we lirst 
 gazed upon him, we saw iudeed in abundance tiie black 
 traces of recent violence and convulsion. The editice was 
 not rebuilt; but its hues were softened by the passing 
 vvingsof Time, and tlie calm slow ivy had found leisure 
 to wreatli the soft green of its melancholy among tlie 
 fragments of the decay. In so far the pilgrim became 
 wiser, as he seemed to think more of others and with a 
 greater spirit of humanity. There was something tiendish 
 in the air with which he surveyed the first scene of his 
 wanderings; and no proof of the strengtii of genius was 
 ever exhibited so strong and unquestionable as the sud- 
 den and entire possession of the minds of men by such a 
 being as he then appeared to be. He looked upon a bull- 
 fight and a field of battle with no variety of emotion. 
 Brutes and men were, in his eyes, the same blind, stupid 
 victims of the savage lust of power. He seemed to shut 
 his eyes to every thing of that citizenship and patriotism 
 w iiich ennobles the spirit of the soldier, and to delight in 
 scattering the dust and ashes of his derision over all the 
 most sacred resting-places of the soul of man. Even then, 
 we must allow, the original spirit of the Englishman and 
 the poet broke triumphantly, at times, through the chill- 
 ing mist in which it liad been spontaneously enveloped. 
 In Greece, above all, the contemplation of Actium, Sala- 
 mis, Marathon, Thermopyiie, and Plataja, subdued the 
 prejudicesof him w'lio had gazed unmoved, or with dis- 
 dain, upon fields of more recent glory. -The nobility of 
 manhood appeared to delight this moody visitant ; and 
 be accorded, without reluctance, to the shades of long 
 departed heroes that reverent homage which , in the 
 strange mixture of envy and scorn w herewith the contem- 
 plative so often regard active men, he had refused to the 
 living, or to the newly dead. 
 
 But there would be no end of descanting on the cha- 
 racter of the Pilgrim, nor of the moral refiections which 
 it a\vakens; we therefore take leave of Childe Harold in 
 his own beautiful language: 
 
 Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — 
 A sound which makes us linger; — yet, farewell ! 
 Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
 Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
 A thought w hich once was his, if on ye swell 
 A single recollection, not in vain 
 He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell; 
 Farewell! ****** 
 * ******* 
 
 Alas! we must now say farewell "for ever." 
 
 Manfred was the first ofLord Byron's dramatic poems, 
 and, we think, the finest. The spirit of his genius seems 
 there wrestling w ith the spirit of his nature, the struggle 
 being for the palm of sublimity. Manfred has always ap- 
 peared to us one of the most genuine creations of the 
 noble bard's mind. The melancholy is more heartfelt; 
 the poet does not here seem to scowl his brows, hut they 
 drop under the weiglit of his thoughts; his intellect, ti>o, 
 is strongly at work in it, and the stern haughtiness of the 
 principal character is altogether of an intellectual cast: 
 the conception of this character is Miltonic. The poet 
 has made him worthy to abide amongst those "palaces 
 of nature," those "icy halls," "where forms and falls the 
 avalanche." Manfred stands up against the stupendous 
 scenery of the poem, and is as lofty, towering and grand 
 as the mountains: when we picture him in imagination 
 he assumes a siiape of height and independent dignity, 
 shining in its own splendour amongst the snowy summits 
 which lie was accustomed to climb. The passion, too, in 
 this composition, is fervid and impetuous, but at the 
 same time deep and full, which is not always tije case in 
 Byron's productions; itis serious andsincere throughout. 
 
 The music of the language is as solemn and as touching as 
 that of the wind coming through the bending ranks of the 
 inaccessible Alpine forests; and the mists and vapours 
 rolling down the gullies and ravines that yawn horribly 
 on the eye, are not more wild and striking in their ap- 
 pearance than are the supernatural creations of the poet's 
 fancy, whose magical agency is of mighty import, but is 
 nevertheless continually surmounted by the liigh intel- 
 lectual power, invincible will, and intrepid philosophy 
 of Manfred. 
 
 The first idea of the descriptive passages of this 
 beautiful poem will be easily recognised in the following 
 extract from Lord Byron's travelling -memorandum- 
 book. 
 
 "Sept. 22, 1816. Left Thun in a boat, which carried us 
 the length of this lake in three hours. The lake small, but 
 the banks fine— rocks down to the water's edge — landed 
 at New house. Passed Interlacken— entered upon a range 
 of scenes beyond all description or previous conception. 
 Passed a rock bearing an inscription — two brothers — 
 one murdered the other — just the place for it. After a 
 variety of windings came to an enormous rock — arrived 
 at the foot of tlie mountain (the Jungfrau) — glaciers — 
 torrents — one of these 900 feet visible descent — lodge 
 at the curate's — set out to see the valley — heard an 
 avalanciie fall, like thunder! — glaciers enormous — storm 
 comes on — thunder and lightning, and hail! all in per- 
 fection and beautiful. The torrent is in shape, curving 
 over the rock, like the tail of the w hite horse streaming 
 in the wind — just as might be conceived would be that 
 of llie 'Pale Horse,' on which Death is mounted in the 
 Apocalypse. It is neither mist nor water, but a some- 
 thing between both ; its immense height gives it a wave, 
 a curve, a spreading here, a coudensiou there— wonder- 
 ful — indescribable. 
 
 "Sept. 2.3. Ascent of the Wingren, the Dent (Vargcnt 
 shining like truth on one side, on the other the clouds 
 rose from the opposite valley, curling up perpendicular 
 precipices, lihi: the foam of the ocean of hell during a 
 springtide! It was white and sulphury, and immeasu- 
 rably 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 Greenderwold; mounted and 
 rode to the higher glacier — twilight, but distinct — very 
 fine — glacier like a frozen hurricane — starlight beauti- 
 ful — the whole of the day was fine, and, in point of 
 weather, as the day in which Paradise was made. Passed 
 whole woods of withered pines — all withered — trunks 
 stripped and lifeless — done by a single winter." 
 
 Of Lord Byron's tragedies we shall merely remark, 
 with reference to the particular nature of their tragic cha- 
 racter, that the eflect of tliem all is rather grand, terrible, 
 and terrific, than mollifying, subduing, or patiietic. 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: like the 
 dolphin sporting in its native waves , at every turn, 
 however grotesque, displaying a new hue and a new 
 beauty, so the noble author there shows an absolute 
 control over his means, and at every cadence, rhyme, or 
 construction, however whimsical, delights us with novel 
 and magical associations. We wish, we heartily wish, that 
 the line poetry which is so richly scattered through the 
 sixteen cantos of this most original and most astonish- 
 ing production, had not been mixed up with very much 
 that is equally frivolous as foolish; and sincerely do we 
 regret, tliat the alloying dross of sensuality sliould run so 
 freely through the otherwise rich yein of the author's 
 verse. 
 
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XV 
 
 Whilst at Venice, Byron displayed a most 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 contained, and the proprietor 
 reduced with a large family to tlie greatest indigence and 
 want. W^hen Lord Byron ascertained the afllicting cir- 
 cumstances of that calamity, he not only ordered a new 
 and superior liabitation to be immediately built for the 
 suflerer, the w hole expense of wiiich was borne by his 
 lordship, but also presented the unfortunate tradesman 
 with a sum equal in value to the whole of his lost stock 
 in trade and furniture. 
 
 Lord Byron avoided as much as possible any inter- 
 course with his countrymen at Venice; this seems to 
 have been in a great measure necessary, in order to pre- 
 vent the intrusion of impertinent curiosity. In an appen- 
 dix to one of his poems, written with reference to a book 
 of travels, the author of which disclaimed any wisii to be 
 introduced to the noble lord, he loftily and sarcastically 
 chastises the incivility of such a gratuitous declaration, 
 expresses his "utter abhorrence of any contact with the 
 travelling English;" and thus concludes: "Except Lords 
 Lausdowne, Jersey, and Lauderdale, Messrs. Scott, 
 Hammond, Sir Humphrey Davy, the late Mr. Lewis, 
 W. Bankes, M. Hoppner, Thomas M oorc, Lord Kinnaird, 
 his brother, Mr. Joy, and Mr. Hobhouse, 1 do not recol- 
 lect 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, 1 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 Ravenna, towards the close of tlie year 1819. 
 Here he wrote the Prophecy of Dante, which exhibited a 
 new specimen of the astonishing variety of strength and 
 expansion 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 reasons which render Sardana- 
 palus 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 
 wliich has subjected its noble author to the severest de- 
 nunciations, 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 occa- 
 sioned. Lord jiyron observed, in a letter to his publisher, 
 "If 'Cain' be blasphemous, 'Paradise Lost' is blasphe- 
 mous, 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 tliat of Lucifer 
 in the mystery? 'Cain' is nothing more than a drama, not 
 apiece of argument: if Lucifer and Cain speak as the 
 lirst rebel and first miicderer 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 instead, on purpose to avoid shocking any feelings 
 on the subject, by falling short of what all uninspired men 
 must fall short in, viz. giving an adequate notion of the 
 effect of the presence of Jehovah. The old mysteries in- 
 troduced him liberally enough, and all this I avoided in 
 the new one." 
 
 An event occurred at Ravenna during his lordship's 
 stay there, which made a deep impression on him, and to 
 which he alludes in the fifth canto of Don Juan. The mi- 
 litary commandant of the place, who, though suspc(;ted 
 of being secretly a Carbonaro, was too powerful a man to 
 be arrested, was assassinated opposite to Lord Byron's 
 palace. His lordship had iiis foot in the stirrup at the 
 
 usual hour of exercise, when his horse started at the 
 report of a gun: on looking up, Lord Byron perceived a 
 man throw down a carbine and run away at full speed, 
 and another man stretched upon the pavement a few 
 yards from himself; it was the unhappy commandant. 
 A crowd was soon collected, but no one ventured to offer 
 the least assistance. Lord Byron directed his servant to 
 lift up the bleeding body , and carry it into his palace ; 
 though it was represented to him that by doing so he 
 would confirm the suspicion, which was already enter- 
 tained, of his belonging to the same party. Such an ap- 
 prehension could have no eflect on Byron's mind when 
 an act of humanity was to be performed; he assisted in 
 bearing the victim of assassination into the house, and 
 putting him on a bed. He was already dead from several 
 wounds : "he appeared to have breathed his last without 
 a struggle," said his lordship, when afterwards recount- 
 ing the ali'air. "I never saw a countenance so calm. His 
 adjutant followed the corpse into the house; I remember 
 his lamentation over him: — 'Povero diavolo! non aveva 
 fatta male, anch^adun cane.'" The following were the 
 noble writer's poetical reflexions (inDon Juan) on view- 
 ing the dead body : 
 
 " I gazed (as oft I gazed the same) 
 
 To try if I could wrench aught out of death. 
 
 Which should confirm, or shake, or make a failh ; 
 
 But it was all a mystery : — here we are. 
 
 And there we go: — but where? 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 dead? 
 
 We whose minds compreliend all things ? — No more : 
 
 But let us to the story as before." 
 
 That a being of such glorious capabilities should abs- 
 tractedly, and without an attempt to tlirow the respon- 
 sibility on a fictitious personage, liave avowed such start- 
 ling doubts, was a daring which, whatever might then 
 have been his private opinion, he ought not to have 
 hazarded. 
 
 "It is diflicult," observes Captain Medwin, "to judge, 
 from the contradictory nature of his writings, w hat 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 Captain, "we 
 found him, as was sometimes the case, silent, dull, and 
 sombre. At length he said: 'Here is a little book some- 
 body has sent me about christianit)', that has made me 
 very uncomfortable; 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 tlie History of the De- 
 cline 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 ben 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 
 w hy 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 that he has changed his 
 mode of thinking very much since he wrote the notes to 
 "Queen Mab," which I was accused of having a hand in. 
 I know, however, that I am considered an infidel. My 
 wife and sister, when they joined parties, sent me prayer- 
 books. There was a Mr. Mulock, who went about the 
 continent preaching orthodoxy in politics and religion, 
 
XVIII 
 
 LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 has been a great resource to me, though I am not so fond 
 of her as of Ada: and yet I mean to make tlieir fortunes 
 equal — there will be enough for them both. I liave 
 desired in my will that Allegra shall not marry an English- 
 man. 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 vvitii 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: perhaps I am wrong in letting 
 Lady Byron liave entirely her own way in her education. 
 I hear that my name is not mentioned in her presence; 
 that a green curtain is always kept over my portrait, as 
 over something forbidden; 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 brougiit up to it. 
 Lady Byron is conscious of all this, and is afraid that I 
 shall some day c^arry off her daughter by stealth or force. 
 I miglit claim her of the Chancellor , witiiout having 
 recourse to either one or the other; but I had rather be 
 unliappy myself than make her mother so; probably I 
 shall never see her again." Here he opened his w ritiiig- 
 desk, and showed me some hair, which he told me was 
 his child's. 
 
 Several j-ears ago, Lord Byron presented his friend, 
 Mr. Thomas Moore, with his "Memoirs," written by 
 himself, w ith an understanding that they w ere not to be 
 pubiisiied until after his death. Mr. Moore, with the 
 consent and at the desire of Lord Byron, sold the manu- 
 script 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 pro- 
 perty 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 previous perusal 
 and consultation among the parties. The majority of the 
 persons present disagreed with this opinion, and it was 
 the onli/ pomt upon which there did exist any difference 
 between us. The manuscript was accordingly torn and 
 burnt before our eyes, and 1 immediately paid to Mr. Mur- 
 ray, in the presence of the gentlemen assembled, two 
 thousand guineas, with interest, 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 consi- 
 derations, which it is unnecessary here to explain, I have 
 respectfully, but peremptorily, declined their offer." 
 
 Before we close the details of what may be termed Lord 
 Byron's poetical life — before we enter on the painfully 
 interesting particulars connected with the last and noblest 
 part he performed in his brilliant but brief career — we 
 beg leave to introduce the following .summary of his 
 character: 
 
 There seems to have been something of a magical 
 antidote in Lord Byron's genius to tiie strange propen- 
 sities, to evil arising both from his natural passions and 
 temper, and the accidental unpropitious circumstances 
 of his life. In no man were good and evil mingled in such 
 strange intimacy, and in such strange proportions. His 
 passions were extraordinarily violent and tierce; and his 
 temper, uneasy, bitter, and capricious. His pride was 
 deep and gloomy, and his ambition ardent and uncon- 
 trollable. All these were exactly such as the fortuitous 
 position of his infancy, boyhood, and first manhood, 
 tended to aggravate by discouragements, crosses, and 
 mortifications. He was directly and immediately sprung 
 from a stock of old nobility, of an historic name, of 
 
 venerable antiquity. All his alliances, including his father, 
 had moved in high society. But this gay father died, im- 
 provident or reckless of the future, and left him to waste 
 his childhood in poverty and dereliction, in tiie remote 
 town of Aberdeen, among the few maternal relations who 
 yet would not utterly abandon his motiier's shipwrecked 
 fortunes. At the age of six years he became presumptive 
 heir to thefamily peerage, and at the age of ten the peerage 
 devolved on him. He then was sent to the public school 
 of Harrow; but neither his person, his acquired habit%- 
 his scholarship, nor his temper, fitted him for this strange 
 arena. A peer, not immediately issuing from tiie fashion- 
 able circles, and not as rich as foolish boys suppose a 
 peer ougiit to be, must have a wonderful tact of society, 
 and a managing, bending, intriguing temper, to play his 
 part with eclat, or with comfort, or even without degra- 
 dation. AH the treatment which Lord Byron now received 
 confirmed the bitterness of a disposition and feelings 
 naturally sour, and already augmented by chilling so- 
 litude, or an uncongenial sphere of society. 
 
 To a mind endowed with intense sensibility and unex- 
 tinguishable ambition, these circumstances operated in 
 cherishing melancholy, and even misantiirop}'. They 
 bred an intractability to the light humours, the heartless 
 cheerfulness, and all the artillery of unthinking emptiness 
 by whi(;h the energies of the bosom are damped and 
 broken. There were implanted within him the seeds of 
 profound reflexion and emotion, which grew in him to 
 such strength, that the tameness, the petty passions, and 
 frivolous desires of mankind in their ordinary intercour- 
 ses of pleasure and dissipation, could never long retain 
 him in their chains without w eariness and disgust, even 
 when they courted, dandled, flattered, and admired him. 
 He was unskilled in their pitiful accomplishments, and 
 disdained the trifling aims of their vanity, and the tests 
 of excellence by w hich they were actuated, and by which 
 they judged. He never, therefore, enjoyed their blan- 
 dishments, and, ere long, broke like a giant from their 
 bonds. 
 
 There can be no doubt, that disappointments, working 
 on a sombre temper, and the consequent melancholy and 
 sensitiveness aiding, and aided by, the spells of the muse, 
 were Lord Byron's preservatives; at least, that they pro- 
 duced redeeming splendours, and moments of pure and 
 untained intellect, and exalting ebullitions of grand or 
 tender sentiment, or noble passion, which, by fits at 
 least, if not always, adorned his compositions, and will 
 for ever electrify and elevate his readers. 
 
 Had Lord Byron succeeded in the ordinary way to his 
 peerage, accompanied by the usual circumstances of pros- 
 perity and ease, — had nothing occurred capable of sti- 
 mulating to strong personal exertions, the mighty seeds 
 within him had probably been worse than neutral — they 
 had worked to unqualified mischief! In many cases this 
 is not the efl'ect of prosperity ; but Lord Byron's qualities 
 were of a very peculiar cast, as well as intense and unri- 
 valled in degree. 
 
 When, in the spring of 1816, Lord Byron quitted Enfif- 
 land,to return to it no more, he had a dark, perilous, and 
 appalling prospect before him. The chances against the 
 due future use of his miraculous and fearful gifts of 
 genius, poisoned and frenzied as they were by blighted 
 hopes and all the evil incidents w hich had befallen him, 
 were too numerous to be calculated without overwhelm- 
 ing dismay! Few persons, of a sensibility a little above 
 the common, would have escaped the pit of black and 
 unmitigated despondence! But Lord Byron's elasticity of 
 mind recovered itself, and soon rose to far higher con- 
 ceptions and performances than before. He passed the 
 summer upon the banks of the lake of Geneva! With 
 what enthusiasm he enjoyed and with what contem- 
 plations he dwelt among its scenery, his own poetry soon 
 exhibited to tiie w orld ! He has been censured for his 
 peculiarities, his unsocial life, and his disregard of the 
 habits, the decorums, and the civilities of the world, and 
 
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XIX 
 
 of the rank to wliichlie belonged. He might have pleaded, 
 that the world rejected him, and lie the world; but the 
 charge is idle in itself, admitting it to have originated 
 with his own will. A man lias a right to live in solitude if 
 hechuses it; and, above all, he who gives such fruits of 
 his solitude! 
 
 In the autumn of 1822, Lord Byron quitted Pisa, and 
 went to Genoa, where heremained throughoutthe winter. 
 A letter written by his lordship, while at Genoa, is sin- 
 gularly honourable to him, and is the more entitled to 
 notice, as it tends to diminish the credibility of an as- 
 sertion made since his death, that he could bear no rival 
 In fame, but instantly became animated with a bitter jea- 
 lousy and hatred of any person who attracted the public 
 attention from himself. If there be a living being towards 
 whom, according to that statement. Lord Byron would 
 have experienced such a sentiment, it must be the pre- 
 sumed autlior of "Waverley." And yet, in a letter to 
 Monsieur Beyle, dated May 29, 182.'J, the following are 
 the just and liberal expressions used by Lord Byron, in 
 adverting to a pamphlet which had been recently pub- 
 lished by Monsieur Beyle. 
 
 "There is onepart of your observations intbepamphlet 
 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. I have known 
 Walter Scott long and well, and in occasional situations 
 which call forth the real character, and I can assure you 
 that his character is worthy of admiration; — that, of all 
 men, he is the most open, the most honourable, the most 
 amiable. With his politics I have nothing to do: they 
 dift'er from mine, which renders it difficult for me to speak 
 of them. But he is perfectly sincere in them, and sincerity 
 may be humble, but she cannot be servile. I pray you, 
 therefore, to correct or soften that passage, ifou may, 
 perhaps, attribute this officiousness of mine to a false 
 affectation of candour, as I happen to be a writer also. 
 Attribute it to what motive you please, but believe the 
 truth. I say that Walter Scott is as nearly a thorough good 
 man as man can be, because I know it by experience to 
 be the case." 
 
 The motives which ultimately induced Lord Byron to 
 leave Italy, and join the Greeks, struggling for emanci- 
 pation, arc sufliciently obvious. It was in Greece that 
 ins high poetical faculties had been first fully developed. 
 Greece, a land of the most venerable and illustrious 
 history, of peculiarly grand and beautiful scenery, inha- 
 bited by various races of the most wild and picturesque 
 manners, was to liim the land of excitement, — never- 
 cloying, never-wearying, never-changing excitement. It 
 was necessarily the chosen and favourite spot of a man of 
 powerful and original intellect, of quick and sensible 
 feelings, of a restless and untameable spirit, of various 
 information, and who, above all, was satiated with com- 
 mon enjoyments, and disgusted with what appeared to 
 him to be tlie formality, hypocrisy and sameness of daily 
 life. Pwelling upon that country, as it is clear from all 
 Lord Byron's writings he did, with the fondest solicitude, 
 and being, as he was well known to be, an ardent, tiiough, 
 perhaps, not a very systematic lover of freedom, he could 
 be no unconcerned spectator of its recent revolution : and 
 as soon as it seemed to him that his presence might be 
 useful , he prepared to visit once moi-e the shores of 
 Greece. It is not improbable, also, that he had become 
 ambitious of a name as distinguished for deeds as it was 
 already by his writings. A glorious and novel career appa- 
 rently presented itself, and he determined to try the event. 
 
 Lord Byron embarked at Leghorn, and arrived 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 tiie express purpose of taking him to Greece. His 
 lordship had never seen any of tlie vok^anic mountains, 
 and for this purpose the vessel deviated from its regular 
 
 course, in order to pass the island of Stromboli, and lay 
 ofl'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 disap- 
 pointed poet was obliged to proceed, in no good humour 
 with the fabled forge of Vulcan. 
 
 Greece, though witliafairprospectofultimatetriumpli, 
 was at that time in an unsettled state. The third cam- 
 paign had commenced, with several instances of distin- 
 guished success — her arms were every where victorious, 
 but her councils were distracted. Western Greece was 
 in a critical situation, and although tlie heroic Marco 
 Botzaris had not fallen in vain, yet the glorious enter- 
 prise in which he perished only checked, and did not 
 prevent the advance of the Turks towards Anatolica and 
 Missolonghi. This gallant chief, worthy of the best days 
 of Greece, hailed with transport Lord Byron's arrival in 
 that country, and his last act before proceeding to the 
 attack, in which he fell, was to write a warm invitation 
 for his lordship to come to Missolonghi. In his letter, 
 which he addressed to a friend at Missolonghi, Botzaris 
 alludes to almost the first proceeding of Lord Byron in 
 Greece, which was the arming and provisioning of forty 
 Suliotes, whom he sent to join in the defence of Misso- 
 longhi. 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 very generous offer to 
 the government. He says, in a letter, "I offered to ad- 
 vance 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 wisii to confer with me pre- 
 viously, which is, in fa(;t, 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 dillicult part to play : however, 
 I will have nothing to do with the factions, 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 Browne, 
 with a letter to tiie Greek government, in order to collect 
 intelligence as to the real state of things. His lordship's 
 generosity was almost daily exercised in his new neigh- 
 bourhood. He provided for many Italian families in 
 distress, and even indulged the people of the country in 
 paying for the religious ceremonies which they deemed 
 essential to their success. 
 
 In the mean while. Lord Byron's friends proceeded to 
 Tripolitza, and found Colocotroni (the enemy of Mauro- 
 cordato, w ho had been compelled to flee from the pre- 
 sidency) 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 lan- 
 guage he held. He declared that he had told Mauro- 
 eordato that, unless he desisted 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 Maurocordato, were to take charge of Missolonghi, 
 which, at tiiat time (October, 182.3), was in a very cri- 
 tical state, being blockaded both by land and sea. "There 
 have been," says Mr. Trelawnej', "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. 
 
XX 
 
 LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 A few thousand dollars would provide sliips 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 Misso- 
 longhi was still more decidedly confirmed by a letter 
 which he received from Maurocordato. 
 
 Maurocordato was at this time endeavouring to collect 
 a fleet for the relief of Missolonghi, and Lord Byron ge- 
 nerously oflered to advance four hundred thousand 
 piastres (about 12,000 Lst.) to pay for fitting it out. In 
 a letter in which he announced this his noble intention, 
 he alluded to the dissensions in Greece, and stated, that 
 if these continued, all hope of a loan in England, or of 
 assistance, or even good wishes from abroad, would be 
 at an end. 
 
 "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 assistance which the Greeks 
 could expect from abroad, an assistance which might be 
 neither trifiing nor worthless, will be suspended or 
 destroyed; and, what is worse, the great powers of 
 Europe, of whom no one was an enemy to Greece, but 
 seemed in(;lined to favour her in consenting to the 
 establishment of an independent power, will be per- 
 suaded tiiat the Greeks are unable 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 de- 
 ceived as to the real state of Greek aliairs. The rest, 
 gentlemen, depends on you; you have fouglit gloriously ; 
 act honourably towards your fellow-citizens and towards 
 the world, and then it will no more be said, as has been 
 repeated for two thousand years with the Roman histo- 
 rian, that Philopoemen was the last of the Grecians. Let 
 not calumny itself (and it is dillicult to guard against it 
 in so difficult a struggle) compare the Turkish Pacha 
 with the patriot Greek in peace, after you have extermi- 
 nated him in war." 
 
 The dissensions among the Greek chiefs evidently gave 
 great pain to Lord Byron, whose sensibility was keenly 
 aifected by the slightest circumstance which he consi- 
 dered likely to retard the deliverance of Greece. "For 
 my part," heobservesinanotherof his letters, "I will stick 
 by the cause w hile a plank remains which can be honour- 
 ably clung to; if I quit it, it will be by the Greeks' conduct, 
 and not the Holy Allies, or the holier Mussulmans." In 
 a letter to his banker at Cephalonia, he says: "I hope 
 tilings here will go well, some time or other; I will stick 
 by the cause as long as a cause exists." 
 
 His playful humour sometimes broke out amidst the 
 deep anxiety he felt for the success of the Greeks. He 
 ridiculed with great pleasantry some of the supplies 
 which had been sent out from England by the Greek 
 committee. In one of his letters, also, after alluding to 
 his having advanced 4000 Lst, and expecting to be called 
 on for 4000 Lst. more, he says: "How can I refuse, if 
 they (the Greeks) will fight, and especially if I should 
 happen to be in their company ? I therefore request and 
 require that you should apprise my trusty and trust- 
 worthy trustee and banker, and crown and sheet-anchor, 
 Douglas Kinnaird the honourable, that he prepare all 
 monies of mine, including the purchase-money of Roch- 
 dale manor, and mine income for the year A. D. 1824, to 
 answer and anticipate any orders or drafts of mine, for 
 tlje good cause, in good and lawful money of Great 
 Britain, etc. etc. etc. May you live a thousand years! 
 wliichis nine hundred and ninety-nine longer than the 
 Spanish Cortes constitution." 
 
 All being read}', two Ionian vessels were ordered, and, 
 embarking his horses and eflects, Lord Byron sailed from 
 
 Argostoli on the 29th of December. At Zante, his lord- 
 ship took a considerable quantity of specie on board, and 
 proceeded towards Missolonghi. Two accidents occurred 
 in this short passage. Count Gamba, who had accom- 
 panied his lordship from Leghorn, had been charged 
 with the vessel in w hich the horses and part of the money 
 were embarked. When off Chiarenza, a point which lies 
 between Zante and the place of their destination, they 
 were surprised at daylight on finding themselves under^ 
 the bows of a Turkish frigate. Owing, however, to tlie^ 
 activity displayed on board Lord Byron's vessel, and her 
 superior sailing, she escaped, while the second was fired 
 at, brought to, and carried into Patras. Count Gamba 
 and his companions being taken before Yusuft" Pacha, 
 fully expected to share the fate of some unfortunate men 
 whom that sanguinary chief had sacrificed the preceding 
 year at Prevesa, and their fears would most probably 
 have been realised, had it not been for the presence of 
 mind displayed by the Count, who, assuming an air of 
 hauteur and indiilerence , accused tiie captain of the 
 frigate of a scandalous breach of neutrality, in firing at 
 and detaining a vessel under English colours, and con- 
 cluded by informing Yusulf , that he might expect the 
 vengeance of the British government in thus interrupting 
 a nobleman who was merely on his travels, and bound to 
 Calamos. The Turkish chief, on recognising in the 
 master of the vessel a person who had saved his life in 
 the Black Sea fifteen years before, not onl}' consented to 
 the vessel's release, but treated the whole of the pas- 
 sengers 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 lake shelter at the Scropes, a cluster of rocks 
 within a few miles of Alissolonglii. W hile detained here, 
 he was in considerable danger of being captured by 
 the Turks. 
 
 Lord Byron was received at Missolonghi witii enthu- 
 siastic 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 Maurocordato, and all the authorities, 
 with the troops and the population, met him on his land- 
 ing, and accompanied him to the house which had been 
 prepared for him, amidst the shouts of the multitude and 
 the discharge of cannon. 
 
 One of the first objects to which he turned his attention 
 was to mitigate the ferocity with which the war had been 
 carried on. The very day of his lordship's arrival was 
 signalised by his rescuing 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 sending him to Patras. 
 Nor had his lordship been long at Missolouglii, before an 
 opportunity presented 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 prisoners thenceforward taken on both 
 sides would be treated with humanity. This act was 
 followed by another equally praise-worthy, which proved 
 how anxious Lord Byron felt to give a new turn to the 
 system of warfare hitherto pursued. A Greek cruizer 
 having captured a Turkish boat, in which there was a 
 number of passengers, chiefly women and children, they 
 were also placed in the hands of Lord Bjron, at his par- 
 ticular request; upon which a vessel was immediately 
 hired, and the whole of them, to the number of twenty- 
 four, were sent to Prevesa, provided with every requisite 
 for their comfort during the passage. The Turkish 
 governor of Prevesa thanked his lordship, and assured 
 him, that he would take care equal attention should be 
 in future shown to the Greeks who might become 
 prisoners. 
 
LAKE'tt LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XXI 
 
 Anotlier graod object witli Lord Byron, and one w hich 
 the never ceased to forward witli the most anxious solici- 
 tude, 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 
 i^^reat extent: much good was, however, done. 
 
 Lord Byron landed at Missolonghi animated with mi- 
 litary ardour. After -paying the lleet, which, indeed, had 
 only come out under the expectation of receiving its 
 arrears from the loan which he promised to make to the 
 provisional government, he set about forming a brigade 
 ofSuliotes. Five hundred of these, the bravest and most 
 resolute of the soldiers of Greece, were taken into his pay 
 on the 1st of January, 1824. An expedition against Le- 
 pauto was proposed, of which the command was given to 
 Lord Byron. This expedition, iiowever, had to experience 
 delay and disappointment. The Suliotcs, conceiving 
 tliat they had found a patron whose wealth was inex- 
 haustible, and whose generosity was boundless, deter- 
 mined to make the most of the occasion, and proceeded 
 to the most extravagant demands on their leader for 
 arrears, and under other pretences. These mountaineers, 
 untameable in the field, and unmanageable in a town, 
 were, at this moment, peculiarly disposed to be obstinate, 
 riotous, and mercenary. They had been chielly instru- 
 mental in preserving Missolonghi w lien besieged the pre- 
 vious autumn by the Turks; had been driven from their 
 abodes; and the whole of their families were, at this 
 time, in the town, destitute of either home or suflicient 
 supplies. Of turbulent and reckless character, they kept 
 the place in awe; and Maurocordato having, unlike the 
 other captains, no soldiers of his own, was glad to find a 
 body of valiant mercenaries, especially if paid for out of 
 the funds of another ; and, consequently, was not disposed 
 to treat them with harshness. Within a fortniglit 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 tiie 
 delay of a favourite scheme, but he saw, with the utmost 
 cliagrin, 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 Lepanto being thus 
 .suspended, at a moment when Lord Byron's entlmsiasm 
 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 disappoint- 
 ment 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, witii wiiioh he was at- 
 tacked on the 15th of February. His lordship was sitting 
 in the apartment of Colonel Stanhope, talking in a jocular 
 manner with Mr. Parry, the engineer, when it was ob- 
 served, from occasional and rapid changes in his counte- 
 nance, that he was sutlering under some strong emotion. 
 On a sudden he complained of a weakness in one of iiis 
 legs, and rose, but finding himself unable to walk, he 
 cried out for assistance. He then fell into a state of ner- 
 vous and convulsive agitation, and was placed on a bed. 
 For some minutes his countenance was much distorted. 
 He however quickly recovered his senses, ids speech 
 returned, and he soon appeared 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 attempt- 
 ing 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 bleed- 
 ing, cold bathing, perfect relaxation of mind; and he 
 gradually recovered. An accident, however, happened a 
 few days after his first illness, which was ill calculated to 
 aid the efforts of his medical advisers. A Suliote accom- 
 panied by another man, and the late Marco Botzaris' 
 
 little boy, walked into the Seraglio, which place, before 
 Lord Byron's arrival, had been used as a sort of fortress 
 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, 
 w ho required it for a laboratory. The sentinel on guard 
 ordered the Suliote to retire, which being a species of 
 motion to w hich Suliotes are not accustomed, the man 
 carelessly advanced ; upon w hich 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 tiie guard-room. The 
 Suliote was then disposed to depart, and would have 
 done so if the Serjeant would have permitted him. Un- 
 fortunately, 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 Hat part of it; whereupon 
 the enraged Greek Hew upon him, with a pistol in one 
 hand and the sabre in the other, and at the same moment 
 nearly cut olf the Captain's right arm, and siiot 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 distinguished 
 bravery. Tiiis was a serious aftair, and great apprehen- 
 sions were entertained that it would not end here. The 
 Suliotes refused to surrender 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 Byron'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 temples the day after, and there was some 
 difficulty in stopping it; but I have been up dally, and 
 out in boats or on horseback. To-day I have taken a 
 warm bath, and Uveas temperately as well can be, without 
 any liquid but water, and w ithout any animal food." After 
 adverting to some otiier subjects, the letter thus conclu- 
 des: "Matters are here a little embroiled with the Su- 
 liotes, foreigners, etc.; but I still hope better things, and 
 will stand by the cause as long as my health and circum- 
 stances will permit me to be supposed useful." 
 
 Notwithstanding Lord Byron's improvement in health, 
 his friends felt, from the first, that he ought to try a change 
 of air. Missolonghi is a flat, marshy, and pestilential place, 
 and, except for purposes of utility, never would have 
 been selected for his residence. A gentleman of Zante 
 wrote to him early in March, to induce him to return to 
 that island for a time. To his letter the following answer 
 was received: — 
 
 "lam extremely obliged by your offer of your country- 
 house, as for all other kindness, in ease ray health should 
 require my removal ; but 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 dissensions, and defects 
 of the Greeks themselves: but allowance must be made 
 for them by all reasonable people." 
 
 It may be well imagined, after so severe a fit of illnes.s, 
 and that in a great measure brought on by the conduct of 
 tiie troops he had taken into his pay, and treated with tlie 
 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 ta bear the fatigue 
 of a campaign in Greece. The Suliotes, however, showed 
 
XXII 
 
 LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 some signs of repentance, and oflered to place themselves 
 at his lordship's disposal. Jiut still they had an objection 
 to the nature of the service : "they would not light against 
 stone walls \" It is not surprising tiiat the expedition to 
 Lepanto was no longer thought of. 
 
 In conformity with our plan, we here add a selection of 
 anecdotes , connected with Lord liyron's residence at 
 Missolonghi. They are principally taken from Capt. 
 Parry's "Last Days of Lord Byron;" a work which 
 seems to us, from its plain and unvarnished style, to bear 
 the stamp and impress of truth. 
 
 In speaking of the Greek Committee one day, his lord- 
 ship said — "1 conceive that I have been already grossly 
 ill-treated by the committee. In Italy, Mr. Blaquierc, 
 their agent, informed me that every requisite supply would 
 be forwarded witii all dispatch. 1 was disposed to come 
 to Greece, but I hastened my departure in consequence 
 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, w hich gave me no 
 information whatever. If I ever meet with him, 1 shall 
 not fail to 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 oT. They w ould not have delayed 
 the supplies a day, nor have sent out German oflicers, 
 poor ftilows, to starve at Missolonghi, but for my assist- 
 ance. 1 am a plain man, and cannot comprehend the 
 use of printing-presses to a people who do not read. Here 
 the committee have sent supplies of maps, I suppose, 
 that I may teach the young mountaineers geograpiiy. 
 Here are buglehorns, without bugle-men, and it is a 
 chance if we can lind 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 the lever of a 
 printing-press. Heavens! one would think the committee 
 meant to inculcate patience and submission, and to con- 
 demn resistance. Some materials for constructing forti- 
 fications 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 labourers. Their secretary, 
 Mr. Bowriug, was disposed, I believe, to claim the pri- 
 vilege of an acquaintance 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 1 scrawled some 
 nonsense in reply to his nonsense; but 1 fancy I shall 
 get no more such epistles. When I came to theconclusion 
 of the poetry-part of my letter, I wrote, "so much for 
 blarney, now for business." I have not since heard in the 
 same strain from Mr. Bowring." 
 
 "My future intentions," continued he, "as to Greece, 
 may be explained in a few w ords : 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 in- 
 come, 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, sliallhavea 
 schooner built for me, or I will buy a vessel; tiie Greeks 
 shall invest me with the character of their ambassador or 
 agent; I will go to the United States, and procure that 
 free and enlightened government to set the example of 
 recognising the federation of Greece as an independent 
 state. This done, England must follow the example, and 
 then the fate of Greece will be permanently 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 tliis was to be his 
 last project in favour of Greece. Into it no motive of 
 personal ambition entered , more than that just and 
 proper one, the basis of all virtu?, and tlie distinguished 
 characteristic of an honourable mind — the hope of 
 gaining the approbation of good men. As an author, he 
 liad already attained the pinnacle of popularity and of 
 fame; but tliis did not satisfy his noble ambition. He 
 hastened to Greece, w ith a devotion to liberty, and a ze^ 
 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 disinter- 
 ested statesman. He was her unpaid, but the blessings of 
 all Greece, and the high honour his own country-men 
 bestow on his memory, bearing him in their hearts, prove 
 that he was not her unrewarded champion." 
 
 Lord Byron's address was the most atiable and court- 
 eous perhaps ever seen; his manners, when in a good 
 humour, and desirous of being well with his guest, were 
 wiiuiiug, fascinating in the extreme, and though bland, 
 still spirited, and with an air of frankness and genero- 
 sity — qualities in which he was certainly not deficient. 
 He was open to a fault — a characteristic probably the 
 result of his fearlessness and independence of the world ; 
 but so open was he, that his friends were obliged to be 
 upon their guard with him. He was the worst person in 
 the world to confide a secret to ; and if any charge against 
 any body was mentioned to him, it was probably the first 
 communication he made to the person in question. He 
 hated scandal and tittle-tattle — loved the manly straight- 
 forward course : he would harbour no doubts, and never 
 live with another with suspicions in his bosom — out came 
 the accusation, and he called upon the individual to clear, 
 or be ashamed of, himself. He detested a lie — nothing 
 enraged him so much: he was by temperament and 
 education excessively irritable, and a lie completely un- 
 chained him — his indignation knew no bounds. He had 
 considerable tact in detecting untruth; he would smell it 
 out almost instinctively; he avoided the timid driveller, 
 and generally chose his companions among the lovers and 
 practisers of sincerity and candour. A man tells a false- 
 hood, and conceals the truth, because he is afraid that 
 the declaration of the tiling as it is will hurt him. Lord 
 Byron was above all fear of this sort : he flinched from 
 telling no one what he thought to his face; from his in- 
 fancy he had been afraid of no one. Falsehood is not the 
 vice of the powerful: the Greek slave lies, the Turkish 
 tyrant is remarkable for his adherence to truth. The 
 anecdote that follows, told by Parry, is highly charac- 
 teristic : — 
 
 "When the Turkish fleet was lying ofl' Cape Papa, 
 blockading Missolonghi, I w as one day ordered by Lord 
 Byron to accompany him to the month of the harbour to 
 inspect the fortifications, 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 Maurocordato and 
 his attendants. As I was viewing , on one hand , the 
 Turkish fleet attentively, and reflecting on its powers, and 
 our means of defence; and looking, on the other, at 
 Prince Maurocordato and his attendants, perfectly un- 
 concerned, smoking their pipes and gossiping 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 contempt and indignation. 'What is the mat- 
 ter,' 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 Vasaladi, by means of two piiinaces, 
 any night they pleased; they have only to approach it 
 witii muflled 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, properly armed with 
 
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 !J4-poundcrs, they mjg^lit batter both Missolonghi and 
 Anatolica to the ground. And there sits the old gentle- 
 woman, Prince Maurocordato and his troop, to whom I 
 applied an epithet I will not here repeat, as if tliey were 
 all perfectly safe. They know their powers of defence 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 tiic destruction 
 of those stupid Turkish rascals. The Greeks and Turks 
 are opponents wortiiy, by their imbecility, of each other.' 
 t 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, betook on himself the task of pacifying 
 both the prince and me, and though I was at iirst very 
 angry, and the prince, I believe, very much annoyed, he 
 succeeded. Maurocordato afterwards showed no dissa- 
 tisfaction with me, and I prized Lord liyron's regard too 
 much, to remain long displeased with a proceeding which 
 was only an unpleasant manner of reproving us both." 
 
 "On one occasion (which we before slightly alluded 
 to) he had saved twenty-four Turkish women and chil- 
 dren from slavery and all its accompanying horrors. I was 
 summoned to attend him and receive his orders, that 
 every thing should be done which might contribute to 
 their comfort, tie was seated on a cushion at the upper 
 end of the room, the women and children were standing 
 before him, with their eyes fixed steadily on him, and on 
 his riglit hand was his interpreter, who was extracting 
 from the women a narrative of their sufl'erings. One of 
 them, apparently about thirty years of age, possessing 
 great vivacity, and whose manners and dress, though she 
 was then dirty and disligured, indicated that she was 
 superior in rank and ciondition to her companions, w as 
 spokeswoman for the whole. I admired thegood order the 
 others preserved, never interfering with the explanation 
 or interrupting the single speaker. I also admired the 
 rapid manner in which the interpreter explained evtry 
 tiling 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 
 1 thought he was ready to weep. But he had on all oc- 
 casions a ready and peculiar knack in turning conver- 
 sation 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 
 something quickly to his interpreter, who immediately 
 repeated it to the women. All eyes were instantly lixed 
 on me, and one ofthe party, a young and beautiful woman, 
 spoke very warmly. Lord Byron seemed satisfied, and 
 said they migiit 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 manner, 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 conceal his emotion." 
 
 "One of Lord Byron's household had several times 
 involved himself and his master in perplexity and trouble, 
 by his unrestrained attachment to women. In Greece this 
 had been very annoying, and induced Lord Byron to 
 tiiink 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, 
 had rather by signs than by words, for the pair did not 
 understand each otiier'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 enrag- 
 ed Suliote, a husband provided for the occasion, accom- 
 panied by half a dozen of his comrades, 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 sitting at table in the 
 evening, we were suddenly alarmed by a noise and a 
 shaking ofthe house, somewhat similar to that which we 
 had experienced 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 immoderately; we 
 were re-assured by this, and soon learnt that the whole 
 was a method he had adopted to sport with our fears." 
 
 "The regiment, or rather the brigade, we formed, can 
 be described only as Byron himself describes it. There 
 was a Greek tailor, who had been in the British service 
 in the Ionian Islands, where he had married an Italian 
 woman. This lady, knowing something of the military 
 service, petitioned Lord Byron to appoint her husband 
 master-tailor of the brigade. The suggestion was useful, 
 and this part of her petition was immediately 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 stipu- 
 lated for free quarters and rations for them, but rejected 
 all claim for pay. They were to be free of all incumbran- 
 ces, and were to wash, sew, cook, and otherwise provide 
 for the men. The proposition pleased Lord Byron, and, 
 stating the matter to me, he said he hoped I should have 
 no objection. I had been accustomed to see women ac- 
 company the English army, and I knew that, though 
 sometimes an incumbrance, they were on the whole more 
 beneficial than otherwise. In Greece there were many 
 circumstances w hich 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 prin- 
 cipally Greeks, Italians, Maltese, and Negresses. '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 Falsfaft's : 
 there are English, Germans, French, Maltese, Ragusians, 
 Italians,Neap()litans,Transylvanians, Russians, Suliotes, 
 Moreotes, and Western Greeks in front, and, to bring 
 up the rear, the tailor's wife and her troop. Glorious 
 Apollo! no general had ever before such an army.' " 
 
 "Lord By run had a black groom with him in Greece, an 
 American by birth, to whom he was very partial. He al- 
 ways insisted on this man's calling himMassa, whenever 
 he spoke to him. On one occasion, the groom met with 
 two women of his t)wn complexion, w ho had been slaves 
 to the Turks and liberated, but had been left almost to 
 starve w hen the Greeks had risen on their tyrants. Being 
 ofthe same colour was a bond of sympathy between them 
 and the groom, and he applied to me to give both these 
 women (juarters in the Seraglio. I granted the applica- 
 tion, and mentioned it to Lord Byron, who laughed at 
 the gallantry of his groom, and ordered that he should be 
 brought before him at ten o'clock the next day, to answer 
 for his presumption in making such an application. At 
 ten o'clock, accordingly, he attended his master with 
 great trembling and fear, but stuttered so when he at- 
 tempted to speak, that he could not make himself under- 
 stood; Lord Byron endeavouring, almost in vain, t© 
 preserve his gravity, reproved him severely for his pre- 
 sumption. Blacky stuttered 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 
 tiien he pronounced in a solemn tone of voice, while 
 Blacky stood aghast, expecting some severe punishment, 
 the following doom : 'My determination is , that the 
 
XXIV 
 
 LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 children born of tlicse black women, of vvliicli you may 
 be tbe fatlier, shall be my property, and I will maintain 
 tliem. What say you?' 'Go — Go — God bless you, 
 niassa, may you live great while,' stuttered out the 
 {jroom, 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, wiiich he gave his superin- 
 tendant 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 .... 15 
 
 Wine 7 
 
 Fish 15 
 
 Olives • 3 
 
 1:0 
 
 This was his dinner; breakfast consisted of a single dish 
 of tea, without milk or sugar. 
 
 The circumstances that attended the death of this il- 
 lustrious and noble-minded man, are described in the 
 following plain and simple manner by his faithful valet 
 and constant follower, Mr. Fletcher: — 
 
 *'My master," says Mr. Fletcher, "continued liis usual 
 custom of riding daily when the weather 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 complained 
 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, on the next morning, tliat 
 illness appeared to be increasing. He was very low, and 
 complained ofnot having had any sleep during the niglit. 
 His lordship's appetite was also quite gone. I prepared 
 a little arrow-root, of which he took three or four spoon- 
 fuls, saying it was very good, but he could take no more. 
 It was not till tlie third day, the 12th, that I began to be 
 alarmed for my master. In all his former colds he always 
 slept well, and was never afl'ected 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 13th. On the following 
 day, I found my master in such a state, that I could not 
 feel happy witiiout supplicating that he would send to 
 Zante for Dr. Thomas. After expressing my fears lest his 
 lordship should get worse, he desired 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 an- 
 swered, 'Then, my lord, have other advice by all means.' 
 'They tell me,' said his lordship, 'that it is only a com- 
 mon cold, which, you know, 1 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 supplications that 
 Dr. Thomas should be sent for, on the 15th, and was 
 again assured that my master would be better in two or 
 three days. After these confident assurances, 1 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 tiie best adapted for his complaint, conclu- 
 ding tliat, as he had nothing on his stomach, the only 
 ell'ect would be to create pain; indeed, this must have 
 been the case with a person in perfect health. The w hole 
 nourishment taken by my master, for the last eight days, 
 consisted of a small quantity of broth, at two or three 
 difi'erent times, and two spoonfuls of arrow-root on the 
 18th, the day before his death. The lirst time I heard 
 of there being any intention of bleeding his lordship-, 
 was on the 15th, when it was proposed by Dr. Bruno, 
 but objected to at lirst by my master , who asked 
 Mr. Millingen if there was any great reason for taking 
 blood/ The latter replied that it might be of service, 
 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 inilamed 
 appearance. Dr. Bruno now began to say, that he had 
 frequently urged my master to be bled, but that he always 
 refused. A long dispute now arose about the time that had 
 been lost, and tiie necessity of sending for medical aid to 
 Zante; upon which I was informed, 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 lord- 
 ship 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 necessary it was to i 
 comply with the doctor's wishes. To this he replied by 
 saying, he feared they knew nothing about his disorder ; ; 
 and tlien, stretching out his arm, said, 'Here, take my 
 arm and do whatever you like.' His lordship continued 
 to get weaker, and on the 17th he was bled twice in the 
 morning, and at two o'clock in the afternoon; the bleeding 
 at both 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 supportin 
 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 w ithout sleep and then 
 he must go mad without any one being able to save him ; 
 and I would ten times sooner slioot 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 ]8th, when 
 he said, 'I fear you and Tita will be ill by sitting conti- 
 nually night and day.' I answered, 'We shall never leave 
 your lordship till you are better.' As my master had a 
 slight lit of delirium on the 16th, I took care to remove 
 the pistol and stiletto, which had hitherto been kept at his 
 bedside in the night. On the 18th his lordship addressed 
 me frequently, 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 othei 
 doctors here.' I did not lose a moment in obeying mv 
 master's 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 i.' 
 the matter with me.' Although his lordship did not ap 
 pear to think his dissolution was so near, I could perceive 
 he was getting weaker every hour, and lie even began t( 
 have occasional fits of delirium. He afterwards said, *J 
 now begin to think I am seriously ill, and in case I shouk 
 betakenoffsuddenly,Iwish to give you several directions 
 which I hope you will be particular 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 t( 
 
XXVII 
 
 A CHARACTER OF LORD BYRON, 
 
 BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 AwrosT the general calmness of the political at- 
 mosphere, we have been stunned from another quarter 
 by one of those dea(h-notes which are pealed at intervals, 
 as from an arcliangel's trumpet, to awaken the soul of a 
 whole people at once. Lord Byron, who has so long and 
 so amply lilled the highest plafte in the public eye, has 
 sliared the lot of Jiumanity. HiSTLordship died at Misso- 
 longhi on the 19th of April. That mighty genius which 
 walked amongst men as something superior to ordinary 
 mortality, and whose powers w ere beheld with wonder, 
 and something approaching to terror, as if we knew not 
 whether they were of good or of evil, is laid as soundly 
 to rest as the poor peasant whose ideas never went beyond 
 his daily task. The voice of just blame and of malignant 
 censure are at once'silenced ; and we feel almost as if the 
 great luminary of heaven had suddenly disappeared from 
 the sky, at the moment when every telescope was levelled 
 for the examination of the spots which dimmed its bright- 
 ness. It is not now the question what were Byron's faults, 
 what his mistakes? but, how is the blank which helms 
 left in British literature to be filled up? Not, we fear, in 
 one generation, which, among many highly gifted per- 
 sons, has produced none who approach Byron in origin- 
 ality, the first attribute of genius. Only thirty six years 
 old: — so much already done for immortality, — so much 
 time remaining, as it seems to us short-sighted mortals, 
 to maintain and to extend his fame, and to atone for 
 errors in conduct and levities in composition; who will 
 not grieve that such a race has been shortened, though 
 not always keeping the straight path— such a light extin- 
 guished, though sometimes flaming to dazzle and to be- 
 wilder ? One word on this ungrateful subject ere we 
 quit it for ever. 
 
 The errors of Lord Byron arose neither from depravity 
 of heart, — for nature had not committed the anomaly of 
 uniting to such extraordinary talents an imperfect moral 
 sense, — nor from feelings dead to the admiration of 
 virtue. No man had ever a kinder heart for sympathy, or 
 a more open hand for the relief of distress; and no mind 
 was ever more formed for the enthusiastic admiration of 
 noble actions, provided he was convinced that the actors 
 had proceeded upon disinterested principles. Lord Byron 
 was totally free from the curse and degradation of lite- 
 rature, — its jealousies, we mean, and its envy. But his 
 wonderful genius was of a nature which disdained 
 restraint even when restraint was most wholesome. When 
 at school, the tasks in which he excelled were those only 
 which he undertook voluntarily; and his situation as a 
 young man of rank, with strong passions, and in the un- 
 controlled enjoyment of a considerable fortune, added to 
 that impatience of strictures or coercion wliich was 
 natural to him. As an Author, he refused to plead at the 
 bar of criticism ; as a man, he would not submit to be 
 
 morally amenable to the tribunal of public opinion. Re- 
 monstrances from a friend, of whose intentions and kind- 
 ness he was secure, had often great weight with him; but 
 there were few who could venture on a task so diflicult. 
 Reproof he endured w ith impatience, and reppoach har- 
 dened him in his error, — so that he often resembled the 
 gallant war-steed, who rushes forward on the steel that 
 wounds him. In the most painful crisis of his private life 
 he evinced this irritability and impatience of censure in 
 such a degree, as almost to resemble the noble victim of 
 the bull-fight, which is more maddened by the squibs, 
 darts, and petty annoyances of the unworthy crowds 
 beyond the lists, than by the lance of his nobler, and, so 
 to speak, his more legitimate antagonist. In a word, much 
 of that in which he erred was in bravado and scorn of his 
 censors, and was done with the motive of Dry den's despot, 
 "To show his arbitrary power." 
 _ It is needless to say that his was a false and prejudiced 
 view of such a contest; and if the noble Bard gained a 
 sort of triumph, by compelling the world to read his 
 poetry, thougli mixed with baser matter, because it was 
 his, he gave in return an unworthy triumph to the un- 
 worthy, besides deep sorrow to those whose applause, in 
 his cooler moments, he most valued. 
 
 It was the same with his politics, which on several oc- 
 casions assumed a tone menacing and contemptuous to 
 the constitution of his country ; while in fac.t,Lord Byron 
 was in his own heart sufficiently sensible, not only of his 
 privileges as a Briton, but of the distinction attending his 
 higli birth and rank, and was peculiarly sensitive of those 
 shades which constitute what is termed the manners of a 
 gentleman. Indeed, notwithstanding his having employed 
 epigrams and all the petty war of wit, when such would 
 have been much better abstained from, he would have 
 been found, had a collision taken place between the 
 aristocratic parties in the State, exerting all his energies 
 in defence of that to which he naturally belonged. His 
 own feeling on these subjects he has explained in the very 
 last canto oi Don Juan; and they are in entire harmony 
 with the opinions which we have seen expressed in his 
 correspondence, at a moment w hen matters appeared to 
 approach to a serious struggle in his native country. 
 
 We are not, however, Byron's apologists, for now, 
 alas! he needs none. His excellencies will now be uni- 
 versally acknowledged, and his faults (let us hope and 
 believe) not remembered in his epitaph. It will be recol- 
 lected what a part he has sustained in British literature 
 since the first appearance of Childe Harold, — a space 
 of nearly sixteen years. There has been no reposing 
 under the shade of his laurels, no living upon the resource 
 of past reputation; none oi X\\at coddling and petty pre- 
 caution, whicii little authors call "taking care of their 
 fame." Byron let his fame take care of itself. His foot 
 
XXVIII 
 
 GOETHE UND BYRON. 
 
 was always in the arena, liis shield hung- always in the 
 lists; and although his own gigantic renown increased 
 the difficulty of the struggle , since he could produce 
 nothing, however great, which exceeded the public esti- 
 mates of his genius, yet he advanced to the honourable 
 contest again and again and again, and came always oif 
 with distinction, almost always with complete triumph. 
 As various in composition as Shakspeare himself (this 
 will be admitted by all who are acquainted with his Don 
 Juan) he has embraced every topic of human life, and 
 sounded every string on the divine harp, from its slight- 
 est to its most powerful and heart-astounding tones. 
 There is scarce a passion or a situation which has escaped 
 his pen ; and he miglit be drawn, like Garrick, between the 
 weepingand the laughing Muse, although his most power- 
 ful efforts have certainly been dedicated to Melpomene. 
 His genius seemed as prolific as various. The most pro- 
 digal use did not exhaust his powers, nay, seemed rather 
 to increase their vigour. Neither Childe Harold, nor any 
 of the most beautiful of Byron's earlier tales, contain 
 more exquisite morsels of poetry than are to be found 
 scattered tiirough the cantos of Don Juan, amidst verses 
 which the author appears to have thrown off with an effort 
 
 as spontaneous as that of a tree resigning its leaves to the 
 wind. But that noble tree will never more bear fruit or 
 blossom! It has been cut down in its strength, and the 
 past is all that remains to us of Byron. We can scarce 
 reconcile ourselves to the idea — scarce think that the 
 voice is silent for ever, which, bursting so often on our 
 ear, was often heard with rapturous admiration, some- 
 times with regret, but always with the deepest interest: 
 All that's bright must fade, 
 The brightest still the fleetest. 
 With a strong feeling of awful sorrow we take leave of 
 the subject. Death creeps upon our most serious as well 
 as upon our most idle employments ; and it is a reflection 
 solemn and gratifying, that he found our Byron in no 
 moment of levity, but contributing his fortune, and ha- 
 zarding his life, in behalf of a people only endeared to 
 him by their past glories, and as fellow-creatures suflering 
 under the yoke of a heathen oppressor. To have fallen 
 in a crusade for freedom and humanity, as in olden times 
 it would have been an atonement for the blackest crimes, 
 may in the present be allowed to expiate greater follies 
 than even exaggerated calumny has propagated against 
 Byron. 
 
 GOETHE UND BYRON. 
 
 Zwischen den beiden Dichtern bcstand ein Verhaltniss, 
 durch desscn zarte Andeutung der Ueberlebende dem 
 Abgcschiedenen ein wurdiges Denkmal gesetzt hat. 
 
 "Der deutsche Dichter, bis ins hohe Alter bemiiht, 
 die Verdienste friihcrer und mitlebender Manner sorg- 
 faltig und rein anzuerkennen , indem er dies als das 
 sicherste Mittel eigener Bildung von jeher betrachtete, 
 musste wohl auch auf das grosse Talent des Lords, bald 
 nach dessen erstcmErscheinen, aufmerksam werden, wie 
 er denn auch die Fortschritte jener bedeutenden Lei- 
 stungi^n und eines ununterbrochenen Wirkens unab- 
 lassig begleitete. Hierbei war denn leic^ht zu bemerken, 
 dass die allgemeine Anerkennung des dichterischen Vcr- 
 dienstes mit Vermehrung und Steigerung rasch auf ein- 
 ander folgender Productioneu in gleichem Maase fort- 
 wuchs. Auch ware die diesseitige frohe Thcilnahme hieran 
 hiJchst vollkoramen gewesen, hatte nicht der genialeDich- 
 ter durch leidenschaftlicheLebensweise und inneres Mis- 
 behagen sich selbst ein so geistreiches als granzenloses 
 Hervorbringen und seinen Freundcn den reizenden Ge- 
 nuss an seinem hohen Daseyn einigermassen verkiim- 
 mert. Der deutsche Bewunderer jedoch, hierdureh nicht 
 geirrt , folgte mit Aufmerksamkeit einem so seltenen 
 Lcben und Dichten in aller seiner Excentricitat, die frei- 
 lich um desto auflallender seyn musste, als ihres Gleichen 
 in vergangenen Jahrhunderten nicht wohl zu entdecken 
 gewesen und uns die Elemente zur Berechnung eiuer 
 solchen Bahn vollig abgingcn. Indessen waren die Be- 
 miihungen des Deutschen dem Englander nicht unbe- 
 kannt gebliebcn, der davon in seinen Gedit;hten unzwei- 
 deutige Bcweisc darlegtc, nicht weniger sich durch Rei- 
 sende mit manchem freundlichen Gruss vcruehmen liess. 
 
 Sodann aber folgte, iiberraschend, gleichfalls durch Ver- 
 mittlung, das Originalblatt einer Dedication des Trauer- 
 spiels Sardanapalus in den ehrenreichsten Ausdriicken 
 und mit der freundlichen Anfrage, ob solche gedachtemi 
 Stiick vorgedruckt werden konnte. Der deutsche mit sich 
 selbst und seinen Leistungen im hohen Alter wohlbe- 
 kannte Dichter durfte den Inhalt jener Widmung nur 
 als Aeusserung eines trefllichen , hochfiihlenden , sich 
 selbst seine Gegenstande schaflenden, unerschcipflichen 
 Geistes mit Dank und Bescheidenheit betrachten ; auch 
 fiiiilte er sich nicht unzufrieden, als, bei mancherlei \ er- 
 spatung, Sardanapal ohne ein solches Vorwort gedruckt 
 wurde, und fand sich schon gliicklich im Besitz eines 
 lithographirtenFac simile, zu hcichst werthemAndenken. 
 Doch gab der edie Lord seinen Vorsatz nicht auf, dem 
 deutschen Zeit- und Geist-Genossen eine bedeutende 
 Freundlichkeit zu erweisen; wie denn das Trauerspiel 
 Werner ein hbchst scliiitzbares Denkmal an der Stirne 
 fiihrt, Hiernach wird man denn wohl dem deutschen 
 Dichtergreise zutrauen, dass er, einen so griindlich g^u- 
 ten Willen, welcher uns auf dieser Erde selten begegnet, 
 von einem so hoch gefeierten Manne ganz unverliofll er- 
 fahrend, sich gleichfalls bereitete mit Klarheit und Kraft 
 auszusprechen, von welcher Hochachtung er fiir seinen 
 uiiiibertroflenen Zeitgenossen durchdrungen, von wel- 
 chem theilnehmenden Gefiihl fur ihn er belebt sey. Aber 
 die Aufgabe fand sich so gross , und erschien immer 
 grosser, jemehr man ihr naher trat; denn was soil man 
 von einem Erdgebornen sagen, dessen Verdienste durch 
 Betrachtung und Wort nicht zu erschopfen sind? Als 
 daher ein junger Mann, Herr Sterling, angenehm von 
 Person und rein von Sitten, im Friihjahr 1823 seinen 
 
LORD BYRON'S LAST LINES. 
 
 xxrx 
 
 Wcg von Genua gerade nacli Weimar nahm, und auf 
 einem kleinen Blatte wcnig cigenhandige Worte des 
 verehrteu Mannes als Emplelilung iiberbraehte, als nuu 
 bald darauf das Gerucht verlautete, der Lord werde 
 seinen grossen Sinn, seine mannigfaltigen Krafte, an er- 
 habenget'iihrliche Thaten iiber Meer vcrwenden, da war 
 nieht langer zu zaudern und eilig nachsteheudes Gedicht 
 gescliriebeu : 
 
 Ein freundlich Wort kommt, eines nach dem andern, 
 Von Siiden her und bringt uns frohe Stunden; 
 
 Es ruft uns auf zum Edelsten zu wandern, 
 
 Nicht ist der Geist, docli ist der Fuss gebunden. 
 
 Wie soil ich dem, den ich so lang' begleitet, 
 Nun etwas Traulich's in die Feme sagen? 
 
 Ihm, der sich selbst im Innersten bestreitet, 
 Stark angcwohnt, das tiefste Weh zu tragen. 
 
 Wohl sey ihm docb, wenn er sich selbst empfindet! 
 
 Er wage selbst sich hochbegluckt zu nennen, 
 Wenn Musenkraft die Schmerzen iiberwindet; 
 
 Und wie ich ihn erkanut, mbg' er sich kennen. 
 Weimar, den 22. Juny, 1823. • 
 
 Es gelangte nach Genua, fand ihn aber nicht mehr da- 
 selbst; schon war der treffliche Freund abgesegelt und 
 schien einem jeden schon weit entfernt; durch Stiirme 
 jedoch zuriickgehalten , landetc er in Livorno, wo ihn 
 das herzlich gesendetegerade nocii traf,um es im Augen- 
 
 blicke seiner Abfahrt, den 24. July 1823, mit einem rei- 
 nen schbn-gefiihlten Blatt erwiedern zu konnen; als 
 werthestes Zeugniss eines wiirdigen Verhaltnisses unter 
 den kostbarsten Documenten vom Besitzer aufzube- 
 wahren. So sehr uns nun ein solches Blatt erfreuen und 
 riihren und zu der schonsten Lebenshoflhuug aufregen 
 musste, so erhalt esgegenwartig durch das unzeitige Ab- 
 leben des hohen Schreibenden den grbssten schmerz- 
 lichsten Werth, indem es die allgemeine Trauer der 
 Sitten- und Dichterwelt iiber seinen Verlust fur uns 
 leider ganz insbesondere scharft, die wir nach vollbrach- 
 tem grossen Bemiihen hoffen durften, den vorziiglichsten 
 Geist, den gliicklich erworbenen Freund und zugleich 
 den menschlichsten Sieger , persbnlich zu begrussen. 
 Nun aber erhebt uns die Ueberzeugung , dass seine 
 Nation aus deni, theilweise gegen ihn aufbrausenden, 
 tadeinden, scheltenden Taumel plbtzlich zur Niichtern- 
 heit erwachen und allgemein begreifen werde, dass alle 
 Schalen und Schlacken der Zeit und des Individuums, 
 durch welche sich auch der beste liiudurch und heraus 
 zu arbeiten hat,nur augenblicklich,verganglich und hin- 
 fallig gewesen, wogegeu der staunung'swiirdige Ruhm, ' 
 zu dem cr sein Yaterland fiir jetzt und kunftig erhebt, 
 in seiner Herrlichkeit granzenios und in seinen Folgen 
 unberechenbar bleibt. Gewiss, diese Nation, die sich so 
 vieler grosser Namen riihmen darf, wird ihn vcrklart zu 
 denjenigen stellen, durch die sie sich immerfort selbst zu W 
 ehren hat." 
 
 LORD BYRON'S LAST LINES. 
 
 "Tis time this heart should be unmoved 
 
 Since others it has ceased to move; 
 Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
 
 Still let me love. 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf; 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone : 
 The worm, the canker and the grief, 
 Are mine alone. 
 
 The fire that in my bosoms preys 
 
 Is like to some volcanic isle; 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
 A funeral pile. 
 
 The hope, the fears, the jealous care. 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 And power of love I cannot share. 
 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 'tis not thus — it is not here — 
 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now 
 Where glory seals tlie hero's bier, 
 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field. 
 Glory and Greece around me see ; 
 The Spartan borne upon his shield 
 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 
 
 Awake my spirit! think through whom 
 My life-blood tracks its parent lake — 
 
 And then strike home! 
 
 Tread those reviving passions down, 
 
 Unworthy Manhood! Unto thee 
 Indiflerent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regretst thy youth — why live? — 
 
 The land of honourable death 
 Is here — up to the field, and give 
 
 Away thy breath! 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than found — 
 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
 
 And take thy rest. 
 Missolonghi, January the 22, 1824. 
 
i^l 
 
 X. \M^ 
 
 X^^Hm^.KSt'^- 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ta Vv-lM-vi- ^^^' 
 
 ^ The Life of the Author . . . I— XXXII 
 
 "■"N^ Childe Harold's Pilgrimage .... 1 
 
 *M The Giaour 4© Monody on Sheridan's Death 
 
 ^^ The Bride of Abydos . . . . . . 61 /Hebrew Melodies 
 
 ^S-The Corsair -^ Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 
 
 / Lara 9bN ^English Bards and Scoteh Reviewers 
 
 . The Siege of Corinth 102 
 
 ^ Parisina 112"^ 
 
 The Prisoner of Chillon . . . . .118 
 
 ^Mazeppa 122 >kMiscelIaneous Poems 
 
 Beppo 130 
 
 ^ Don Juan . . . . . . . .139 
 
 ^The Island . .311 
 
 X^Manfred 325 
 
 Marino Faliero . 339 
 
 Cain 375 
 
 Heaven and Earth 397 
 
 The Two Foscari 409 
 
 Sardanapalus 433 
 
 Werner 465 
 
 The Deformed Transformed .... 603 
 
 The Lament of Tasso 519 
 
 The Prophecy of Dante 521 
 
 The Dream 528 
 
 Darkness 530 
 
 Prometheus 531 
 
 Churchill's Grave 532 
 
 . 532 
 
 . 534 
 
 . 539 
 
 . 541 
 
 The Curse of Minerva 551 
 
 The Age of Bronze 554 
 
 The Vision of Judgment 5©I 
 
 • .570 
 Waltz, an Apostrophic Hymn . . . .617 
 
 Francesca of Rimini 620 
 
 Hints from Horace 621 
 
 Hours of Idleness 629 
 
 Translations and Imitations 638 
 
 Fugitive Pieces . 644 
 
 Morgan te Maggiore 652 
 
 The Blues, a Literary Eclogue .... 659 
 
 A Fragment 663 
 
 Letter on Bowles' Strictures on Pope . . . 665 
 
 A Second Letter on Bowles' Strictures on Pope . 675 
 
 Review of Wordsworth's Poems .... 686 
 
 Letter to the Editor of "My Grandmother'sReview" 687 
 
 Parliamentary Speeches 690 
 
 Extract from Moore's Notice of Byron's Life . 698 
 
 Notes to Childe Harold's Pilgrimage . . . 699 
 
 Notes to tlie Giaour 734 
 
 Notes to the Bride of Abydos . . . .' 730 
 
 Notes to the Corsair 738 
 
 Note to Lara 740 
 
 Notes to the Siege of Corinth . . . .741 
 
 Notes to Parisina ....... 742 
 
 Notes to the Prisoner of Chillon .... 743 
 
 Notes to Don Juan 744 
 
 Notes to the Island 757 
 
 Notes to Manfred 761 
 
 Notes and Appendix to Marino Faliero . . 761 
 
 Appendix to the Two Foscari .... 765 
 
 Notes to Sardanapalus 771 
 
 Note to the Deformed Transformed 
 
 Note to the Lament of Tasso 
 
 Notes to the Prophecy of Dante . 
 
 Notes to the Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 
 
 Notes to English Bards and Scotch Reviewers 
 
 Notes to the Curse of Minerva 
 
 Notes to the Age of Bronze . 
 
 Notes to the Vision of Judgment . 
 
 Notes to the Miscellaneous Poems 
 
 Notes to the Waltz .... 
 
 Notes to the Hours of Idleness 
 
 Extract from the Edinburgli-Review, Nro. 22, for 
 
 January 1808 
 
 Note to the Letter on Bowles' Strictures on Pope 
 
 771 
 771 
 771 
 
 772 
 773 
 777 
 
 778 
 778 
 778 
 779 
 780 
 
 780 
 
 782 
 
LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XXV 
 
 execute them much better himself tlmn I could. To this 
 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,' 
 baid his lordship, and immediately after, 'Now pay 
 [attention!' His lordship commenced by saying, 'You 
 will be provided for.' 1 begged him, however, to proceed 
 witii 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 blessing — and my 
 dear sister Augusta and her children ; and you will go to 
 Lady Byron, and say — tell her every thing, — you are 
 friends with her.' His lordship seemed to be greatly 
 allccted at this moment. Here my master's voice failed 
 liini, so that I could only catch a word at intervals; but 
 In; 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 
 iiis lordship in a state of the greatest perplexity, that I 
 had not understood a word of what he said; to which he 
 replied, *0h, my God! then all is lost, for it is now too 
 late ! Can it be possible you have not understood me V — 
 'No, my lord,' said I, 'but I pray you to try and inform 
 me once more.' 'How can I?' rejoined 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 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 consul- 
 tation was now held (about noon), when it was deter- 
 mined to administer some Peruvian bark and wine. My 
 master had now been nine days witiiout 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 required 
 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 expecting to find him 
 refreshed on his return , — but it was the commence- 
 ment of the lethargy preceding his death. The last words 
 I heard my master utter were at six o'clock on the evening 
 of the 18th, 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 appeared, 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 stiflf. The 
 rattling and choaking in the throat took place every half- 
 hour, and we continued to raise Jiis 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 sliut them, but 
 without showing any symptom 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 !' " 
 
 It would be vain to attempt a description of the uni- 
 versal sorrow that ensued at Missolonghi. Not only Mau- 
 rocordato and his immediate circle, but the whole city 
 and all its inhabitants were, as it seemed, stunned by this 
 blow ; it had been so sudden, so unexpected. His illness, 
 indeed, had been known, and for the last three days none 
 of his friends could walk in the streets witiiout anxious 
 inquiries from every one of "How is my lord?" 
 
 On the day of this melancholy event, Prince Mauro- 
 cordato issued a proclamation expressive of tlie deep 
 
 and unfeigned grief felt by all classes, and ordering every 
 public demonstration of respect and sorrow to be paid to 
 the memory of the illustrious deceased, by iiring minute- 
 guns, closing all the public offices and shops, suspending 
 the usual Easter festivities, and by a general mourn- 
 ing and funeral prayers in all tiie churches. It was resol- 
 ved that the body should be embalmed, and after the 
 suitable funeral honours had been performed, should be 
 embarked forZante, — thence to be conveyed to England. 
 Accordingly the medical men opened the body and em- 
 balmed it, and having enclosed the heart, and brain, and 
 intestines in separate vessels, they placed it in a chest 
 lined with tin, as there were no means of procuring a leaden 
 coffin capable of holding the spirits necessary for its pre- 
 servation on the voyage. Dr. Bruno drew up an account 
 of the examination of the body, by which it appeared his 
 lordship's death had been caused by an inflammatory 
 fever. Dr. Meyer, a Swiss physician, who was present, 
 and had accidentally seen Madame de Stael after her 
 deatli, stated that the formation of the brain in both these 
 illustrious persons was extremely similar, but that Lord 
 Byron had a much greater quantity. 
 
 On the 22d of April, 1824, in the midst of his own 
 brigade, of the troops of thegovcrnment,and ofthe whole 
 population, on the shoulders of the officers of his corps, 
 relieved occasionally by other Greeks, the most precious 
 portion of his honoured remains were carried to the 
 church, where lie the bodies of Marco Botzaris and of 
 General Normann. There they were laid down : 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 wretciiedness and desolation of 
 tiie place itself; the wild and half-civilized warriors pre- 
 sent; their deep-felt, unaffected grief; the fond recol- 
 lections; the disappointed hopes; the anxieties and sad 
 presentiments which might be read on every counte- 
 nance - all contributed to form a scene more moving, 
 more truly aftecting than perhaps was ever before wit- 
 nessed round the grave of a great man. 
 
 When the funeral service was over, the bier was left in 
 the middle of the church, where it remained until the 
 evening of the next day, and w as guarded by a detach- 
 ment of his own brigade. The church was incessantly 
 crowded by those who came to honour and to regret the 
 benefactor of Greece. In the evening ofthe 23d, the bier 
 was privately carried back by his officers to his own 
 house. The coffin was not closed tillthe29th ofthe month. 
 
 Immediately after his death, his countenance had an 
 air of calmness, mingled with a severity, that seemed 
 gradually to soften, and the whole expression was truly 
 suUimc. 
 
 On May 2d, the remains of Lor d Byron were embarked, 
 under a salute from the guns ofthe fortress. "How difler- 
 ent," exclaims Count Gamba, "from that which had 
 welcomed the arrival of Byron only four months ago !" 
 After a passage 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 May the 10th, Colonel Stanhope 
 arrived at Zante, from the Morea, and, as he Avas on liis 
 way back to England, he took charge of Lord Byron's 
 remains, and embarked with them on board the Florida. 
 On the 25th 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 Thursday, July 1st. 
 
 John Cam Hobhouse, esq. and John Hanson, esq., 
 Lord Byron's executors, after having proved his will, 
 claimed the body from the Florida, and under their 
 directions it was removed to the house of Sir Edward 
 Knatchbull, No. 29, Great George-street, Westminster. 
 
 TT 
 
XXVI 
 
 LAKE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 It was announced from time to time tliat the body of 
 Lord BjTon was to be exhibited in state, and the pro- 
 gress of tlie embellishments of the poet's bier was re- 
 corded in tlie pages of a hundred publications. They 
 were at length completed, and to separate the curiosity 
 of the poor from the admiration of the rich, the latter 
 were indulged with tickets of admission, and a day was 
 set apart for them to go and wonder over tiie decked 
 room and the emblazoned bier. Peers and peeresses, 
 priests, poets, and politicians, came in gilded chariots and 
 in hired hacks to gaze upon the splendour of the funeral 
 preparations, and to see in how rich and how vain a 
 shroud the body of the immortal bard had been hid. 
 Those idle trappings in which rank seems to mark its 
 altitude above the vulgar belonged to the state of the peer 
 rather than to the state of the poet ; genius required no 
 such attractions, and all this magnificence served only to 
 distract our regard from the man whose inspired tongue 
 was now silenced for ever. Who -cared for Lord Byron 
 the peer and the privy counsellor, with his coronet and 
 bis long descent from princes on one side, and from 
 heroes on both? and who did not care for George Gordon 
 Byron the poet, who has charmed us, and will charm our 
 descendants with his deep and impassioned verse? The 
 homage was rendered to genius, not surely to rank — 
 for lord can be stamped on any clay, but inspiration can 
 only be impressed on the finest metal. 
 
 A few select friends and admirers followed Lord Byron 
 to the grave — his coronet was borne before him, and 
 there were many indications of his rank; but, save the 
 assembled multitude, no indications of his genius. In 
 conformity with a singular practice of the great, a long 
 train of their empty carriages followed the mourning- 
 coaches — mocking the dead with idle state, and impe- 
 ding with barren pageantry the honester sympathy of the 
 crowd. Where were the owners of those machines of 
 sloth and luxury — where were the men of rank among 
 whose dark pedigrees Lord Byron threw the light of his 
 genius, and lent the brows of nobility a halo to which 
 
 they were strangers ? Where were the great whigs ? 
 where were the illustrious tories? could a mere difference 
 in matters of human belief keep those fastidious persons 
 away? But, above all, wKere were the friends with whom 
 wedlock had united him ? On his desolate corpse no wife 
 looked, no child shed a tear. We have no wisii to set our- 
 selves up as judges in domestic infelicities, and we are 
 w illing to believe they were separated in such a way as 
 to render conciliation hopeless ; but who could stand and 
 look on his pale manly face, and his dark locks whi«h 
 early sorrows were making thin and grey, without feeling 
 that, gifted as he was, with a soul above the mark of other 
 men, his domestic misfortunes called for our pity as 
 surely as his genius called for our admiration ? 
 
 As the cavalcade proceeded through the streets of 
 London, a fine-looking honest tar was observed to "walk 
 near the hearse uncovered throughout the morning, and 
 on being asked by a stranger whether he formed part of 
 the funeral cortege, he replied he came there to pay his 
 respects to the deceased, with whom he had served in the 
 Levant, when he made the tour of the Grecian Islands. 
 This poor fellow was kindly offered a place by some of 
 the servants who were behind the carriage, but he said 
 he was strong, and had rather walk near the hearse. 
 
 It was not till Friday, July 16th, that the interment 
 took place. Lord Byron was buried in the family-vault, 
 atthevillageofHucknall, eight miles beyond Nottingham, 
 and within two miles of the venerable abbey ofNewstead. 
 He was accompanied to the grave by crowds of persons 
 eager to show this last testimony of respect to his memory. 
 In one of his earlier poems he had expressed a wish that 
 his- dust might mingle with his mother's, and, in com- 
 pliance with this wish, his coffin was placed in the vault 
 next to hers. It was twenty minutes past four o'clock on 
 Friday, July 16th, 1824, when the ceremony was con- 
 cluded, when tiie tomb closed for ever on Byron, and 
 when his friends were relieved from every care concern- 
 ing liim, save tliat of doing justice to his memory, and 
 of cherishing his fame. 
 
 The following inscription was placed on the cotfin: — 
 
 George Gordon Noel Byron, 
 
 Lord Byron, of Rochdale, 
 Born in London, Jan. 22, 1788, 
 died at Missolonghi, in Western Greece, April 19th, 1824. 
 An urn accompanied the coffin, and on it was inscribed : 
 
 Within this urn are deposited the heart, brain, etc. 
 of the deceased Lord Byron. 
 An elegant Grecian tablet of white marble has been placed in the chancel of the Hucknall church. We subjoin 
 a copy of the inscription. 
 
 IN THE VAULT BENEATH, 
 
 WHERE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER ARE BURIED, 
 
 LIE THE REMAINS OF 
 
 GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, 
 
 tORD 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 19tH OF APRIL, 1824, 
 
 ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO RESTORE THAT COUNTRY 
 
 TO HER ANCIENT FREEDOM AND RENOWN. 
 
 HIS SISTER, THE HONOURABLE AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH, 
 PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMORY. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 A KOMAUNT. 
 
 L'univers est une espece de livre dont on n'a lu que la premiere page, 
 quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en ai feuillete nn assez grand nombrc, 
 que j'ai trouve egalement mauvaises. Cet examen nc m'a point t'te 
 iurructneiix. Je haissals ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences des 
 peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vecu, m'ont reconcilio avec elle. 
 Quand je n'uurait tire d'aatre benefice de mes voyages que celni-la, 
 je n'en regretterais ni les frais, ni les fatigues. 
 
 Lb Cosmopolitb. 
 
 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 observations 
 in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary 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 suggested 
 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 appel- 
 lation "Childe,^' as Childe Waters , Childe Childers , is 
 used as more consonant with the old structure of versi- 
 fication 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 JVIinstrclsy, 
 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, and be 
 either droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, 
 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 compositions." Strength- 
 ened in my opinion by such authority , and by the 
 example of some in the liighest 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 indiflferent character of the "vagrant Childe" 
 (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I 
 still maintain to be a fictitious personage ;) it has been 
 stated, that, besides the anachronism, he is very nn- 
 knightly, as the times of the Knights were times of love, 
 honour , and so forth. Now it so happens that the good 
 old times, when "I'amour du bon vieux tems, Tamour 
 antique" flourished , were the most profligate of all pos- 
 sible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this 
 subject may consult St. Palaye, passim, and more par- 
 ticularly vol. II. pag. 69. 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, parlemens d'amour ou de cour- 
 toisie et de gentilesse," had much more of love than of 
 courtesy or gentleness. — See Roland on the same 
 
TO lANTHE. 
 
 subject viith. &U F^kye. — Whatever other objection 
 may be urg'ed to that most unamiable personage Childe 
 Harold, he was so far perfectly knightly in his attri--' 
 butes — "No waiter, but a knight templar." — By the by, 
 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 institution 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 
 Maria 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 ancient 
 and modern times), few exceptions will be found to this 
 
 statement, and I fear a little investigation will teach u! 
 not to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middh 
 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 an^ 
 express less, but he never was intended as an example, 
 further than to show that early perversion of mind anc 
 morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disap- 
 pointment in new ones, and that even the beauties o: 
 nature and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, th< 
 most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so 
 constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded witi 
 the Poem, this character would have deepened as h< 
 drew to the close; for the outline which I once meant t< 
 fill up for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch oj 
 a modern Timon, perhaps a poetipal Zcluco. 
 
 TO lANTHE. 
 
 Not in those climes where I have late been straying. 
 Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd; 
 Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
 Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd. 
 Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd: 
 Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
 To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd — 
 To such as see thee not my words were weak ; [speak? 
 To those who gaze on thee what language could they 
 
 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! — 'tis well for me 
 
 My years already doubly number thine ; 
 
 My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
 
 And safely view thy ripening beauties shine; 
 
 Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline. 
 
 Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed. 
 
 Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
 
 To those whose admiration shall succeed, [decreed. 
 
 But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours 
 
 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 whicli 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 ray strain I would commend. 
 
 But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 
 
 Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
 
 And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
 
 On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
 
 Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
 
 My days once number'd, should tliis homage past 
 
 Attract thy fairy-fingers near the lyre 
 
 Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
 
 Such is the most my memory may desire ; [require ? 
 
 Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 A ROMAUNT. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 1. 
 
 Oh, thou ! in Hellas dcem'd of heavenly birth, 
 Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will! 
 Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth. 
 Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill : 
 Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
 Yes ! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine. 
 Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; 
 Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
 To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 
 
 2. 
 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. 
 
 3. 
 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 coflin'd clay, 
 Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme. 
 Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 
 
 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 befell ; 
 
 He felt the fulness of s"^iiety : 
 
 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. V 
 Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whoscJdss 
 Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
 Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss. 
 And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste. 
 Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste. 
 
 6. 
 
 And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
 
 And from his fellow-bacchanals would flee ; 
 
 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
 
 But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee : 
 
 Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie. 
 
 And from his native land resolved to go. 
 
 And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
 
 With pleasure drugg'd he almost longed for woe, [below. 
 
 And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades 
 
 7. 
 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 come agen. 
 If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 
 
 8. 
 Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood 
 Strange pangs would 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 this grief mote be, which he could not control. 
 
 9. 
 
 And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
 
 He gather'd revellers from far and near. 
 
 He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
 
 The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
 
 Yea ! none did love him — not his lemans dear — v 
 
 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, [spair. 
 
 And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might de- 
 
 10. 
 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 liis breast a breast of steel ; 
 Ye, who have known what 'tis to doat upon 
 A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
 Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. 
 
 1 * 
 
4 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 II. 
 
 His liouse, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
 
 Tlie laughing dames in wliom 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, [lin(% 
 
 And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central 
 
 12. ^^ 
 
 The sails were fiU'd, and fair the light winds blew. 
 As glad to waft him from his native homej 
 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, 
 
 13. 
 
 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, 
 
 Thus to the elements he pour'd his last Good Night. 
 
 Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 
 
 Fades o'er the waters blue; 
 The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar 
 
 And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
 Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 
 
 Wc follow in his flight; 
 Farewell awhile to him and thee. 
 
 My native Land — Good Night ! 
 
 A few short hours and He will rise 
 
 To give the Morrow birth; 
 And I shall hail the main and skies, 
 
 But not my mother Earth. 
 Deserted is my own good hall, 
 
 Its hearth is desolate; 
 Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 
 
 My dog howls at the gate. 
 
 Come hither, hither, my little page! 
 
 Why dost thou weep and wail? 
 Or dost thou dread the billow's rage. 
 
 Or tremble at the gale ? 
 But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; 
 
 Ouf ship is swift and strong : 
 Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 
 
 More merrily along. — 
 
 Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 
 
 I fear not wave nor wind ; 
 Yet marvel not. Sir Childe, that I 
 
 Am sorrowful in mind; 
 For I have from my father gone, 
 
 A mother whom I love, 
 And have no friend, save these alone. 
 
 But thee — and one above. 
 i 
 
 My father bless'd me fervently. 
 
 Yet did not much complain ; 
 But sorely will my mother sigh 
 
 Till I come back again. — 
 Enough, enough, my little lad ! 
 
 Such tears become thine eye ; 
 If I thy guileless bosom had 
 
 Mine own would not be dry. 
 
 Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman. 
 
 Why dost thou look so pale ? 
 Or dost thou dread a French focman ? 
 
 Or shiver at the gale ? — 
 Decmst thou I tremble for my life ? 
 
 Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
 But thinking on an absent wife 
 
 Will blanch a faithful cheek. 
 
 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, 
 
 Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
 But I, who am of lighter mood. 
 
 Will laugh to flee away. 
 
 For who would trust the seeming sighs 
 
 Of wife or paramour ? 
 Fresh feres will dry the bright blue 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. 
 
 And now I'm in the world alone, 
 
 Upon the wide, wide sea : 
 But why should I for other* groan, 
 
 When none will sigh for me? 
 Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 
 
 Till fed b^ stranger hands ; 
 But long ere I come back again. 
 
 He'd tear me where he stands. 
 
 With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 
 
 Athwart the foaming brine ; 
 Nor care what land thou bearst me to, 
 
 So not again to mine. 
 Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves I 
 
 And when you fail my sight. 
 Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 
 
 My native Land — Good Night! 
 
lANTO I. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 14. 
 
 Oh, Christ ! it is a 
 What Heaven hat 
 Wliat fruits of fra. 
 What goo^v pros 
 But man \^ild 
 And when the 
 'Gainst those W 
 
 )ii, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
 Lnd winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
 'our days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
 ifew shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
 k.nd Cintra's mountain greets them on their vray, 
 iud Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
 lis fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
 \.nd soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
 ^.ud steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. 
 15. 
 sight to see 
 
 for this delicious land! 
 ush on every tree! 
 r the hills expand ! 
 with an impious hand : 
 fts his fiercest scourge 
 ransgress his liigh command, 
 With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 
 Gaul's locust-host, and earth from fellest foemcn purge. 
 
 16. 
 What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold! 
 Her image floating on that noble tide, 
 Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold. 
 But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
 Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
 And to the Lusians did her aid afl'ord : 
 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. 
 
 17. 
 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 ; 
 Nc personage of high or mean degree 
 Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, [unhurt. 
 
 Though shcnt with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd ; 
 
 18. 
 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? 
 
 19. 
 The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, 
 The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
 ^rhe mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd. 
 The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, 
 The tender azure of the unrufllcd 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, 
 Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 
 
 20. 
 
 Then slowly climb the many-winding w ay, 
 And frequent turn to linger as you go. 
 From loftier rocks new loveliness survey. 
 And rest ye at our "Lady's house of woe ;" 
 Where frugal monks their little relics sliow, 
 And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
 Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo ! 
 Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell. 
 In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. 
 
 21. 
 And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
 Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path: 
 Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 
 These arc memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
 For wheresoe'cr 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, 
 
 22. 
 On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
 Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; 
 But now the wild flowers round them only breathie; " 
 Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there. 
 And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair : 
 There thou too, Vathek I England's wealthiest son. 
 Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware i J 
 When wanton Wealth her mightiest decxlsiiath done, 
 Meek Peace voluptuous Inres was ever wOntto shun. 
 
 23. 
 Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, 
 Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow : 
 Uut 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 ! 
 
 24. 
 Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! 
 Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye! 
 With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
 A little fiend that scoff's incessantly. 
 There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by 
 His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
 Where blazoned glare names known to chivalry, 
 And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
 Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his souL 
 
 25. 
 Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
 That foil'd the kniglits in Marialva's dome: 
 Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled. 
 And turned a nation's shallow joy 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 conquering, not the conquered host, 
 Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitaniai*s coast! 
 
 \ 
 
6 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 26. 
 
 And ever since that martial synod met, 
 
 Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name; 
 
 And folks in office at the mention fret, 
 
 And fain would blush, if blush 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, [year ? 
 
 Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming 
 
 27. 
 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, misspent in maddest whim ; 
 But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. 
 
 28. 
 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 hfm l^any changing scenes must roll 
 Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, 
 Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. 
 
 29. 
 Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 
 Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen; 
 And church and court did mingle tlieir 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. 
 
 30. 
 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. 
 
 31. 
 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 Iambs defend: 
 For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
 And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes. 
 
 ides , 
 rook, 
 ant sides. 
 
 32. 
 
 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, ^-- 
 
 Nc horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall. 
 
 Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul ; 
 
 33. 
 But these between a silver strea 
 And scarce a name distinguish 
 Though rival kingdoms press j^ 
 Here leans the idle shepherd > 
 And vacant on the rippling wi 
 That peaceful still 'twixt bitter(j 
 For Pi;oud each peasant as the i 
 Well doth the Spanish hind the 
 'Twixt him and Lusiau slave, the lowest of the low. 
 
 34. 
 But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd 
 Dark Goadiana 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 bleediug stream, by floating hosts opprcss'd. 
 
 35. 
 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? 
 Where are those bloody banners which of y ore 
 Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
 And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
 Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale , 
 WhileAfric's echoes thriU'd with moorish matrons' wail. 
 
 36. 
 Teems not each ditty with tlie 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 thee great? 
 Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, [wrong: 
 When Flattery sleeps with thee, »and History does thee 
 
 37. 
 Awake , ye sons of Spain ! awake ! adv^fee I 
 Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, crtfes, 
 But wields not, as of old , her thirsty lance. 
 Nor shaken her crimson plumage in the skies : 
 Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. 
 And speaks in thunder tlirough yon engine's roar : 
 In everj^ peal she calls — "Awake ! arise !" 
 Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore , 
 When her war-song was Jieard on Andalusia's sliorc? 
 
 J 
 
CANTO I, 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 38. 
 
 Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? 
 Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
 Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
 Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
 Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? — the fires of death , 
 The bale-fires flash on high: — from rock to rock 
 Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; 
 Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
 Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 
 
 39. 
 Lo ! where the Giant on the moimtain stands , 
 His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
 With death-shot glowiag in his fiery hands , 
 And eye that scorcheftffll it glares upon ; 
 Restless it rolls, no^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. 
 
 40. 
 By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
 (For one who hath no friend, no brother there") 
 Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery. 
 Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
 What gallant war-hounds rouse them from 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 awaj^ 
 And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 
 
 41. 
 Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
 Three tong^ues 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. 
 
 42. 
 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? 
 
 43. 
 Oh , Albuera! glorious field of grief ! 
 As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim pricked 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 
 A ad tears of triumph their reward prolong ! , 
 
 Till others fall where otlier chieftains lead 
 Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng , 
 And shine in worthless lays , the theme of transient song ! 
 
 44. 
 
 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 'twere 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. ^^ 
 
 45. mf 
 
 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. 
 
 46. 
 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 Lewdnes walks her midnight-rounds: 
 Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
 Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. 
 
 47. 
 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, monarchs ! 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. 
 
 48. 
 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 Rev!" 
 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. 
 
 49. 
 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 greensward'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. 
 
8 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO 1. 
 
 50. 
 
 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:,' 
 
 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, wrapt beneath the cloke, % [smoke. 
 
 Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's 
 
 61. 
 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'er-flow'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, 
 
 52. 
 Portend the deeds to come: — but he whose nod 
 Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway 
 A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; 
 A little moment deigneth to delay: 
 Soon 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 shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd, 
 
 53. 
 And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave, I 
 To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign?^ 
 No step between submission and a grave?' 
 The rise of Rapine and the fall of Spain? 1- 
 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, 
 
 [of steel r 
 
 The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart 
 
 64. 
 Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused. 
 Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
 And, all unsex'd, the Anlace hath espoused, 
 Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? 
 And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
 Appall'd, an owlet's larum ehill'd with dread. 
 Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, 
 The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead [tread. 
 Stalks with ADnerva's step where Mars might quake to 
 
 65. 
 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. 
 
 56. 
 
 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? 
 
 57. 
 Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
 But form'd for all tlie witching arts of love : 
 Though thus in arms they emulate her sons. 
 And in the horrid phalanx darc^o move, 
 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove 
 Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
 In softness as in firmness far above 
 Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
 Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great. 
 
 58. 
 The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressed 
 Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch : 
 Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, 
 Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
 Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
 Hatli 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 ? [weak; 
 How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and 
 
 59. 
 Match me, ye climes, which poets love to laud ; 
 Match me, ye harams of the land, where now 
 I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
 Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow; 
 Match me those Hourics, 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. 
 
 60. 
 Oh, thou Parnassus ! wliom I now survey, 
 Not in the phrenzy of a dreamer's eye. 
 Not in the fabled landscape of a lay. 
 But soaring snow-clad through thy native skj'. 
 In the wild pomp of mountain-majesty ! 
 What marvel if I thus essay to sing? 
 The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
 Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, [wing. 
 Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her 
 
 61. 
 Oft have I drcam'd of Thee ! whose glorious name 
 Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
 And now I view thee, 'tis, 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 TIu c ! 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 CHJLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 62. 
 Happier in this than miglitiost bards have been^ j„ 
 Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, "««4, 
 Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene,! 
 Which others rave of, though tliey know it notf^'^ 
 Though here no more Apollo Jiaunts his grot, "^ 
 And thou, the Muses' seat, art now tlieir grave, . 
 Some gentle Spirit still pervades the spot, 
 Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in tlie cave, 
 And glides with glassy foot o'er you melodious wave. 
 
 63. 
 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. 
 
 64. 
 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, tlian Andalusia's maids, 
 Nurst 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. 
 
 65. 
 Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
 Her strcngtli, her wealth, her site of ancient days; 
 But Cadiz, rising on tlie 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. 
 
 66. 
 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, 'V 
 ^To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 7. 
 And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white i"^- 
 Though not to one dome circumscribeth she "^ 
 Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 'v> 
 A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. ? 
 
 67. 
 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. 
 
 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 snufls the spouting gore 
 
 Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn; 
 
 The throng'd Arena shakes with shouts for more; 
 
 Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn. 
 
 Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n aflFects to mourn. 
 
 69. 
 The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. 
 London ! right well thou knowst 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. 
 
 70. 
 Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair. 
 Others along the safer Turnpike fly ; 
 Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, 
 And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
 Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! the reason why ? 
 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
 Grasp'^in the holy hand of Mystery, 
 In whose dread name both men an(I maids are sworn. 
 And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till mora. 
 
 71. 
 All have their fooleries — not alike are thine. 
 Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea! 
 Soon as the matin-bell proclaimeth nine, 
 Thj' saint adorers count the rosary: 
 Much is the Virgin teazed 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. 
 
 72. ^ . 
 
 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. 
 
 73. 
 Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds. 
 With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lanoc. 
 Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds. 
 And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
 Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance : 
 Ifjn 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. 
 
 1* 
 
10 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 74. 
 
 In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
 
 But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
 
 Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
 
 Tiic lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
 
 The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
 
 Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart liis 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. 
 
 75. 
 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. 
 
 76. 
 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 cleaM 
 He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; [woes. 
 Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his 
 
 77. 
 
 Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail. 
 
 Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; 
 
 Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
 
 Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
 
 One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse; 
 
 Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears. 
 
 His gory chest unveils life's panting source; 
 
 Though death-struck still his feeble frame he rears; 
 
 Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears. 
 
 78. 
 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 tlie 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, [sand ! 
 Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the 
 
 79. 
 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 ej'es — 
 Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
 Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 
 
 80. 
 Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
 The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
 Nurtured in blood betimes, his Jieart 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, [must flow. 
 For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream 
 
 81. 
 But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts, 
 His wither'd centinel. 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 Spanisli girls were seen 
 (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage). 
 With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 
 While on the gay dance shoneNight's lover-lovingQueen ? 
 
 82. ^ 
 
 Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, \\ 
 Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dreamj 
 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. 
 
 83. 
 Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind. 
 Though now it moved liim as it moves the wise; 
 Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
 E'er dcign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes: 
 But Passion raves herself to rest, or flies ; 
 And Vice, tliat 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 curst Cain's unresting doom. 
 
 84. 
 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 liis 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, 
 Pour'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 ! 1 cannot smile again ; 
 Yet heaven avert that ever thou 
 
 Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 
 
 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 sootlie ? 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 11 
 
 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 : 
 
 It is that weariness which springs 
 
 From all I meet, or hear, or see: 
 To me no pleasure Beauty brings; 
 
 Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 
 
 It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
 The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
 
 That will not look beyond the tomb, 
 But cannot hope for rest before. 
 
 What Exile from himself can flee? 
 
 To zones, though more and more remote, 
 Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be. 
 
 The blight of life — the demon. Thought. 
 
 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 'tis mine to go. 
 
 With many a retrospection curst; 
 And all my solace is to know, 
 
 Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 
 
 What is that worst? Nay do not ask — 
 
 In pity from the search forbear : 
 Smile on — nor venture to unmask 
 
 Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 
 
 85. 
 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 die; 
 A traitor only fell beneath tlie feud : 
 Here all were noble, save Nobility; 
 None hugg'd a Conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry ! 
 
 86. 
 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 tlie struggle, baffled in the strife, 
 War, war is still the cry, "War even to the knife!" 
 
 87. 
 Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
 (Jo, 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 ! 
 
 88. 
 
 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 unwortny of the prey-bird's maw. 
 
 Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaehing stain, 
 
 Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe; 
 
 Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! 
 
 89. 
 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. 
 Fallen nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she frees 
 More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : 
 Strange retribution ! now Columbia's ease 
 Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustained, 
 While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained. 
 
 90. 
 Not all the blood at Talavera shed. 
 Not all the marvels of Barossa's tight, 
 Not Albuera, lavish of the dead. 
 Have won for Spain her well asserted right. 
 When 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 ! 
 
 91. 
 And thou, my friend ! — since unavailing woe 
 Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain — 
 Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
 Pride might forbid even Friendship to complain ; 
 But thus unlaurel'd 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? 
 
 92. 
 Oh, known the earliest, and estcem'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 aAvaking 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. 
 
 93. 
 Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: 
 Ye who of him may further seek to know. 
 Shall find some tidings in a future page. 
 If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
 Is this too much ? stern Critic! say not so: 
 Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
 In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : 
 Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, [quell'd. 
 
 Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were 
 
12 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 I. 
 
 Come, blue-cyed maid of heaven! — but thou, alas! 
 
 Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
 
 Goddess of Wisdom ! here tliy temple was, 
 
 And is, despite of war and wasting fire. 
 
 And J'cars, tliat 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. 
 
 2, 
 Ancient of days! august Athena! where. 
 Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? [were: 
 Gone — glimmering through the dream of things that 
 First in the I'ace 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, gray flits the shade of power. 
 
 3. 
 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 : 
 'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other creeds 
 Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
 Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds; [reeds. 
 
 Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on 
 
 4. 
 Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
 Is't not enough, unhappy thing! to know 
 Thou art? Is tliis a boon so kindly given. 
 That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, 
 Thou knowst not, reckst 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 tliousand homilies. 
 
 5. 
 Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound; 
 Far on the solitary shore he sleeps: 
 He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around; 
 But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
 Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
 Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
 Remove yon skull from out the scattcr'd heaps : 
 Is that a temple where a God may dwell? 
 Why even the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell ! 
 
 6. 
 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? 
 
 7. 
 Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! 
 AH that we kno\v is, notiiing can be known. 
 Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ? 
 Each hath his pang, but feeble suiferers groan ! 
 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. 
 
 8. 
 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, Samian sage, and all who taught the right! 
 
 9. 
 There, thou! — whose love and life together fled 
 Have left me hereto love and live in vain — 
 Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, 
 When busy Memory flashes on m}' brain ? 
 Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
 And woo the vision to my vacant breast: 
 If aught of young Remembrance then remain. 
 Be as it may Futurity's behest. 
 For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest! 
 
 10. 
 Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
 The marble column's yet unshaken base; 
 Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne; 
 Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
 That 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. 
 
«ANTO U. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 13 
 
 11. 
 
 But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
 
 On high, where Pallas liiiger'd, loth to tlee 
 
 The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
 
 The last, the worst, dull spoiler, Avho 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. 
 
 12. 
 But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, 
 To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared : 
 Cold as tlie crags upon his native coast. 
 His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
 Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
 Aught to displace Athena's poor remains : 
 Her sons,too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
 Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains. 
 And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains. 
 
 13. 
 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. 
 
 14. 
 Where was thine Aegis, Pallas ! that appall'd 
 Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? 
 Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain enthrall'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 wandcr'd on the Stygian shore. 
 Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 
 
 15. 
 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 
 Tliy 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, [abhorr'd ! 
 And snatch' d thy shrinking Gods to northern climes 
 
 16. 
 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. 
 
 17. 
 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. 
 
 18. 
 And oh, the little warlike world within! 
 The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, 
 The hoarse command, the busy humming din. 
 When, at a word, the tops are 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. 
 
 19. 
 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 [ncr\'e. 
 From Law, however stern, which tends their strength to 
 
 20. 
 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 Avaste 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! 
 
 21. 
 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. 
 
 22. 
 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. 
 
14 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO IL 
 
 23. 
 
 'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
 
 Wc once have loved, though love is at an end: 
 
 Tlie heart, lone mc urner of its baffled zeal, 
 
 Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 
 
 Who witli 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! once more who would not be a boy? 
 
 24. 
 Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
 To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere ; 
 Tlie 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 possessed 
 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. 
 
 25. 
 To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
 To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
 Wiiere tilings that own not man's dominion dwell, 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
 To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
 With the wild flock that never needs a fold; 
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean : 
 This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold [unroll'd. 
 
 Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores 
 
 26. 
 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, followed, sought and sued: 
 This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! 
 
 27. 
 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 hoar 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. 
 
 28. 
 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 lind, 
 Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
 The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
 As breezes rise and fall and billows swell. 
 Till on some jocund morn — lo, land! and all is well. 
 
 29. 
 
 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 clifts a fruitless watch to keep 
 
 For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
 
 Here, too, his boy essayed the dreadful leap 
 
 Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide; [sigh'd. 
 
 While thus of both bereft the nymph-queen doubly 
 
 30. 
 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. 
 
 31. 
 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 liim as his worshipper no more, 
 And ne'er again the boy liis bosom sought: 
 Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
 Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er. 
 
 32. 
 Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze. 
 One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw. 
 Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
 Which others hail'd with real, or mimic awe, 
 Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law ; 
 All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims: 
 And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
 Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, [dames. 
 Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely aiiger 
 
 33. 
 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: 
 But Harold on such arts no more relied; 
 And had he doated on those eyes so blue, 
 Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. 
 
 34. 
 Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast. 
 Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs; 
 What careth she for hearts wlien 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; [hopes. 
 Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 15 
 
 36. 
 
 Tis an old lesson ; Time approves it true, 
 And those who know it best, deplore it most; 
 When all is won that all desire to woo, 
 The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
 Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, 
 Tjiese 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. 
 
 36. 
 
 Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
 For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
 lAnd 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 ared, 
 To teach man what he might he, or he ought, 
 If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 
 37. . 
 
 Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, y 
 
 tniough alway changing, in her aspect mild; \ 
 
 From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
 iHer never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child. 
 Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild^ 
 Where nothing polisli'd dares pollute her path : 
 To me by day or night she ever smiled, 
 Though I have mark'dhcrwhennoneotherhath, [wrath. 
 And sought her more and more, and loved her best in 
 
 38. 
 Land of Albania! where Iskander rose. 
 Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise. 
 And he, his name-sake, whose oft-baflled foes 
 Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize; 
 Land of Albania! let me bend mine eyes 
 On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men I 
 The cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
 And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen. 
 Through many a cypress-grove within each city's ken. 
 
 39. 
 Childe Harold sail'd and pass'd the barren spot, 
 Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave; 
 And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot. 
 The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's giave. 
 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. 
 
 40. 
 'Twas 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; 
 Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
 (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
 In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, [wight. 
 
 But loathed the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at martial 
 
 41. 
 
 But when he saw the evening-star above 
 
 Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe. 
 
 And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. 
 
 He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : 
 
 And as the stately vessel glided slow 
 
 Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
 
 He watch'd the billows* melancholy flow, 
 
 And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont. 
 
 More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid front. 
 
 42. 
 Morn dawns ; and with it stem Albania's hills 
 Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
 Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
 Array'd in many a dun and purple streak. 
 Arise; and, as the clouds along them break, 
 Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
 Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
 Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
 And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. 
 
 43. 
 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, [heat. 
 
 Beat back keen w inter's blast, and welcomed summer's 
 
 44. 
 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? 
 
 45. 
 Ambracia's gulph behold, where once was lost 
 A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing! 
 In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
 Did many a Roman chief and Asian king 
 To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring: 
 Look where the second Gagsar's trophies rose ! 
 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 ? 
 
 46. 
 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, 
 Tho' classic ground and consecrated most, 
 To match some spots thatlurk within this lowering coast. 
 
16 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO I 
 
 47. 
 
 Ho pass'd bleak Pindus, Aclierusia's lake, 
 % i And left the primal city of the land, 
 
 ji\ * And onwards did his further journey take 
 ' ' To greet Albania's chief, whose dread command 
 Is lawless law; for with a bloody hand 
 He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
 Yet here and there some daring- mountain-band 
 Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
 Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 
 
 48. 
 Monastic Zitza ! from thy shady brow, 
 ipy Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! 
 Where'er we gaze, around, above, below. 
 What raiijbow-tiuts, what magic charms are found ! 
 Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound. 
 And bluest skies that harnlonize the whole : 
 Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
 Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll [soul. 
 
 Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the 
 
 49. 
 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, 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. 
 
 60. 
 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. 
 
 51. 
 Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
 Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 
 Chimajra's alps extend from left to right: 
 Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; 
 Flocks plaj% trees wave, streams tlow, the mountain-fir 
 Nodding above: behold black Acheron! 
 Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
 
 Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon, [none! 
 
 Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for 
 
 62. 
 Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view; 
 Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
 V'eil'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 wite capote 
 Doth lean his boyish form along the rock. 
 Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 
 
 63. 
 
 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: 
 Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? [stroke 
 When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath th 
 
 64. 
 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: 
 Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
 ^Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
 And woods along the banks are waving high. 
 Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
 Or with the moon-beam sleep in midnight's solemn tranct 
 
 66. 
 The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, 
 And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ; 
 The shades of wonted night were gathering yet. 
 When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
 Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
 The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
 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 lengthening gler 
 
 66. 
 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; 
 Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
 Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 
 
 57. 
 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 spurr'd his steed away : 
 The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
 Here mingled in their many-hued array, [of day 
 
 While the deep war-drum's sound announced the closi 
 
 58. 
 The wild Albanian kirtled 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. 
 
CANTO U. 
 
 CHILDB HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 17 
 
 59. 
 
 ''/i 
 
 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, and some that play, 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, [great!" 
 "There is no god but God ! — to prayer — lo ! God is 
 
 60. 
 Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
 Through the long day its penance did maintain: 
 But when the lingering twilight-iiour was past, 
 Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
 Now all was bustle, and the menial train ^ 
 Prepared and spread the plenteous board witKiin j' 
 The vacant gallery now seemed made in vain, 
 But from the chambers came the mingling din. 
 As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 
 
 61. 
 Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, 
 And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
 She yields to one her person and her heart, 
 Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove: 
 For, not unhappy in her master's love. 
 And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
 Blest cares ! all other feelings far above! 
 Herself more sweetly rears tlie babe she bears. 
 Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. 
 
 62. 
 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, 
 An 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, 
 
 63. -./ 
 
 It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
 111 suits the passions which belong to youth; 
 Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd. 
 So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
 But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
 Beseeming all men ill, but most- the man 
 In years, have mark'd him with a tyger's tooth ; 
 Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, 
 In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood Jbegan. 
 
 64. 
 '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 Avith 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, [destroys. 
 
 And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both 
 
 65. 
 
 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? 
 Thdr native fastnesses not more secure 
 Than they in doubtful time of troublous need: 
 Their wrath how deadly I but their friendship sure, 
 When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed. 
 Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 
 
 66. 
 Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower 
 Thronging to war in splendour and success; 
 And after view'd them, when, wij;hin their power, 
 Himself awhile the victim of distress; 
 That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press : 
 But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 
 When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less, 
 And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof — 
 In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof! 
 
 67. 
 It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
 Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
 When all around was desolate and dark ; 
 To land was perilous, to sojourn more; 
 Yet for awhile the mariners forbore, 
 Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk ; 
 At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore 
 That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
 Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. 
 
 68. 
 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 tlie 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. 
 
 69. 
 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 he did greet white Achelous' tide. 
 And from his further bank ^tolia's wolds espied. 
 
 70. 
 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, 
 FormanyajoycouldhefromNight's soft presence glean. 
 
 3 
 
18 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRBIAGE. 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 71. 
 
 On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
 
 The feast was done, the red wine circliiig fast, 
 
 And he that unawares had there ygazcd 
 
 With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
 
 For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past 
 
 The native revels of the troop began; 
 
 Each Palikar his sabre from him cast. 
 
 And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
 
 Yelling their uncouth dirge, longdaunced the kirtled clan. 
 
 72. 
 
 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 streamed. 
 While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half 
 screamed : 
 
 Tambourgi! 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 Jive? 
 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. 
 
 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 sliore. 
 
 I ask not tlie pleasures that riches supply. 
 My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy; 
 Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, 
 And many a maid from her mother 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 her cliamber her many-toned lyre, 
 And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 
 
 Remember tlie moment when Previsa fell. 
 The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell ; 
 The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared. 
 The wealthy we slaughtered, the lovely we spared. 
 
 I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
 He neither must know who would serve the Vizier: 
 Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
 A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 
 
 Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, [dread ; 
 Let the yellow-hair'd Giaours view his horsetail with- 
 When his Delhis come dashing in blood o'er the banks. 
 How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 
 
 Selictar ! unsheathe then our chief's scimitar : 
 Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. 
 Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
 Shall view us as victors, or view us no more! 
 
 ^v^>-" 
 
 73. 
 
 Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth ! 
 
 Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
 
 Who noAV shall lead thy scatter'd children forth. 
 
 And long accustomed bondage uncreate ? 
 
 Not such thy sons who whilome did await. 
 
 The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
 
 In bleak Thermopyla?'s sepulchral strait — 
 
 Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume. 
 
 Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call (hec from the tomb? 
 
 74. 
 
 Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle's brow 
 
 Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
 
 Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour w hich 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 scourgcofTurkishhand,[raanned. 
 
 From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed un- 
 
 76. 
 
 In all, save form alone, how changed ! and who 
 
 That marks the fire still sparkling iii.each eye. 
 
 Who but would deem their bosoms burned anew 
 
 With thy unquenchcd 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. 
 
 Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
 Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? 
 By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? 
 Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no ! 
 True, they may lay your proud despoilcrs 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 r 
 Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 19 
 
 77. 
 
 The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
 
 The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; 
 
 And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
 
 Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; 
 
 Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest 
 
 The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, 
 
 May 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. 
 
 78. 
 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 niglitly 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. 
 
 79. 
 And whose more rife with merriment than thine, 
 Oh Stamboul! once the empress of their reign? 
 Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, 
 And Greece her very altars eyes in vain ; 
 (Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain ! ) 
 Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng. 
 All felt the common joy they now must feign, 
 Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song, 
 As wooed the eye, and thrilled the Bosphorus along. 
 
 80. 
 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, 
 'Twas, 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. 
 
 81. 
 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 tlie 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! 
 
 82. 
 But, midst the throng in merry masquerade. 
 Lurk there no hearts tliat throb with secret pain. 
 Even through the closest searment half betrayed? 
 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 laugliter idly loud. 
 And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud! 
 
 83. 
 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 bondman'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 tliat sublime record 
 Of hero-sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde! 
 
 84. 
 When risetli Lacedemon's hardihood. 
 When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
 When Athens' children are with hearts endued. 
 When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men. 
 Then raayst 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 shattered splendour renovate, 
 Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate ? 
 
 85. 
 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, 
 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 ; 
 
 86. 
 Save where some solitary column mourns 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave: 
 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 gray 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 !' 
 
 87. 
 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 free-born w anderer of thy mountain-air ; 
 Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds. 
 Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; 
 j^rt, Glorj, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 
 
 88. 
 Where'er we tread 'tis 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 crushed thy temples gone: 
 Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 
 
 m 
 
20 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 89. 
 The sun, the soil, but not tlie slave, the same; 
 Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
 Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
 The battle-field, where Persia's victim liorde 
 First bow 'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
 As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
 When Marathon became a magic word; 
 Which uttered, to the hearer's eye appear 
 The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career, 
 
 90. 
 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 remainetli here? 
 What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 
 Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 
 The rifled urn, tlie violated mound, [around. 
 
 The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns 
 
 91. 
 Yet to the remnants of thy spkndour past 
 Sliall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng; 
 Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
 Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; 
 Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
 Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore; 
 Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
 Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
 As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 
 
 92. 
 The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
 If augiit that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; 
 He that is lonely hither let him roam, 
 And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
 Greece is no liglitsome land of social mirth ; 
 But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, 
 And scarce regret the region of his birtli. 
 When w andcring slow by Delphi's sacred side. 
 Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. 
 
 93. 
 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 ! 
 
 94. 
 
 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 stich 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 miglit approve, 
 
 And none are left to please when none are left to love. 
 
 95. 
 Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
 Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me ; 
 Who did for me what none beside have done, 
 Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. ^ 
 
 What is my being? thou hast ceased to be! 
 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 returned to find fresh cause to roam 
 
 96, 
 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 couldst have of mine, stern Death! thou hast; 
 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 snatched the little joy that life had yet to lend. 
 
 97. 
 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. 
 
 98. 
 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 jlow, 
 Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoyed. 
 And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloyed. 
 
CANTO III. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 1 -*V.. 
 
 21 
 
 ^ 
 
 AJ^' 
 
 .14'- 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 ^ >^ 
 
 Alin que cette application vons format de penser a autre chose; il n'y a ^^ 
 en verite de remede que cehii-la et le temps. 
 
 Lettie du Jioi de Pruaw a d'Alcmherlj Sept. y, ly^S. 
 
 '-^I 
 
 1. 
 
 Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
 
 Ada! sole daughter of my house and licart ? 
 
 When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
 
 And then we parted, — not as now wc part, 
 
 But with a hope. — Awaking with a start. 
 
 The waters heave around me ; and on higli 
 
 The winds lift up their voices : I depart. 
 
 Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, [mine eye. 
 
 When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
 
 2. 
 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 strained 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 [prevail. 
 Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
 
 3. 
 In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
 The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; 
 Again I seize the theme then but begun. 
 And bear it with 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. 
 
 4. 
 Since my young days of passion — joy, or pain, 
 Percliance 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 
 iForgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
 J 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 
 Witli airy images, and sliapcs which dwell 
 Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. 
 
 / 
 
 e. 
 
 'Tis to create, and in creating lite 
 
 A being more intense, that we endow 
 
 With form our fancv, gaining as we give 
 
 The life we image, even as I do now. 
 
 What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou, 
 
 Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, 
 
 Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
 
 Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 
 
 And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' deartli 
 
 7. 
 Yet must I think Ifess wildly : — I have thought 
 Too long and darkly, till my brain became. 
 In its own eddy boiling and o'crwrought, 
 A whirlinggulf of phatitasy and flame: 
 And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
 My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late! 
 Yet am I changed ; thougli still enough the same 
 In strength to bear what time can not abate. 
 And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 
 
 8. 
 Something too much of this : — but now 'tis past, 
 And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
 Long absent Harold re-appears at last ; v 
 
 He of tb<? 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 : yeajs steal 
 Fire from the mind as vigour from"thGltlhb ; 
 And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 
 
 His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found 
 The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd again. 
 And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
 And decm'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! 
 Still^rooad l)im 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. 
 
 10. 
 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 mi/id. 
 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. 
 
 
^&>^:< 
 
 22 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 II. 
 
 a 
 
 But who can view the ripeii'd rose, nor seek 
 
 To wear it? who can curiously behold 
 
 The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, 
 
 Nor feel the heajt can never all grow old ? 
 
 Who can contempfatc Tame through clouds unfold 
 
 The star which risps ct'er her steep, nor climb? 
 
 Harold, once more within #ie vortex, roU'd 
 
 On w ith the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
 
 Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond pnnae. 
 
 —- ■ rz: ■'--^— 
 
 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. 
 
 13. 
 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, cxtend.s, 
 , He had the passion and the power to roam; 
 % Tlie desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
 I^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. 
 
 14. 
 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 fliglit 
 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 
 
 15. 
 But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
 Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
 Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing. 
 To whom the boundless air alone were home: 
 A^^Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
 -^ As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
 His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
 Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
 Of his impeded soul would through his bosom cat. 
 
 16. 
 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, thougli 'twere wild, — as on the plunder'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. 
 
 [brink. 
 
 17. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 18. 
 And Harold stands upon this plac of skulls. 
 The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! 
 How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
 Its gifts, transferring fame as fleetkig too! 
 I n "pride of pla ce" 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. 
 
 19. 
 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 tlie Lion down, shall we 
 Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze 
 And servile knees to thrones ? "So; prove before ye praise ! 
 
 20. 
 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 ffer vineyards; in vain years 
 Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
 Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
 Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
 Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
 Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord, 
 
 21. 
 There was a sound of revelry by night, 
 
 nd Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
 
 er Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
 
 he 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 ; 
 
 ut hush ! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 
 22. 
 Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind, 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
 On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
 No sleep till morn when Youth and Pleasure meet 
 To chase the glowing Hours w itli flying feet — 
 But, 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 ! 
 
CANTO III. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 23 
 
 23. 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that hig-h hall 
 
 Sate Brunswick's fated clueftaiu; 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 strctch'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. 
 
 34. 
 Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 Ami f>1n;>o^f;f n]| pf^|p^ wKiVTi hiif an lionr ag^n 
 Blus h'd at the praise of thc jr f>wn InvolinG-sa ; 
 An3there were sudden partings, sucIj as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and clioking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
 Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise? 
 
 25. 
 And therfe was mounting in hot liaste : 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 ! 
 
 26. they come !" 
 
 And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose I 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
 Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : — 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. 
 Savage and shrill ! But with the breath wliieli 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, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! 
 
 27. 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass. 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Whicli 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. 
 
 28. 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
 l^e midnight brought the signal-sound of strife. 
 The morn the marshalling in arras, — 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 
 
 29. 
 
 Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps tlian 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, 
 
 They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant , 
 
 i 
 
 30, Howard ! 
 
 There have been tears and breaking hearts for tliee. 
 And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
 But wlien 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 to those she could not brinjf. 
 
 31. 
 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 
 Forgetful ness were mercy for their sake ; 
 The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 
 Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame 
 May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
 The fever of vain longing, and the name 
 So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 
 
 32. 
 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 halJ 
 In massy hoariness; the ruined wall 
 Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; 
 The bars survive the captive they entral ; 
 The day drags through though storms keep out the sun; 
 And thus the heart will bieak, yet brokenly live on : 
 
 33. 
 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. 
 Shewing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 
 
 34. 
 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 [three-score? 
 Such hours 'gainst years of life — say, would he name 
 
 1/ 
 
 ^ 
 
24 
 
 *^V^ ^ 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 35. 
 
 The Psalmist number'd out the years of man: 
 
 They are enoug'h; and if thy tale be true. 
 
 Thou, who didst grudge liim even that fleeting span, 
 
 More than enough, tliou 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 countrj'men were waning on that day !" 
 
 And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 
 
 36. 
 There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of meil, 
 Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
 One moment ot the mightiest, and again 
 On little objects with like firmness fixt, 
 Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
 Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; 
 For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seekst 
 Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, 
 And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene! 
 
 37. 
 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 min-ds 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, till thou wert 
 A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
 To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
 Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. 
 
 38. 
 Oh, more or less than man — in high or low, 
 Battling with nations, flying from the field; 
 Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
 More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield; 
 An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 
 But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 
 However deeply in men's spirits skill'd. 
 Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, 
 Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. 
 
 39. 
 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 eye; — y 
 
 When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child, ^ 
 He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. "' 
 
 40. ■■: 
 
 Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them '^ 
 
 Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
 That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
 Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, not so ^^ 
 To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, ^ > 
 
 And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
 Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : 
 'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
 So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. 
 
 41. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Butmen's thoughts werethesteps 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. 
 
 42. 
 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 nartpw 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. 
 
 43. 
 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 unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule-: 
 
 44. 
 Their breath is agitation, and their life 
 A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
 And yet so nursed and bigotted 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. 
 
 45. 
 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. 
 Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
 Contending tempests on his naked head, 
 And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 
 
 46. 
 Away with these! true wisdom's world will be 
 Within its own creation, or in thine, 
 Maternal Nature ! for who teems like thee. 
 Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine,? 
 There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
 A blending of 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. 
 

 -i ♦S#?^^*^CklLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 T''^ 47. 
 
 And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
 Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
 All tcnantless, 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 sliroud, ^ 
 And those which waved are sliredless dust ere now, 
 And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 
 
 48. 
 Beneath these battlements, within those walls, 
 Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
 Each robber-chief upheld his armed halls, 
 Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
 Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
 What want these outlaws conquerors should have, 
 But History's purchased page to call them great? 
 A wider space, an ornamented g^ave ? [brave. 
 
 Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as 
 
 49. 
 In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
 What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
 And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
 Witli emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
 Through all the mail of iron-hearts would glide; 
 But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
 Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
 And many a tower, for some fair mischief won, 
 Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 
 
 60. 
 But Thou, exulting and abounding river ! 
 Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
 Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever 
 Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
 Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
 With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
 Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
 Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to me [be. 
 Even now what wants thy stream ?— that it should Lethe 
 
 51. 
 A thousand battles have assaii'd thy banks. 
 But tliese 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. 
 
 52. 
 Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
 Yet not insensibly to all which here 
 /Awoke tlie jocund birds to early song 
 In glens which might have made even exile dear : 
 Thougli 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 wouldstcal with transient trace. 
 
 25 
 
 63. 
 
 Nor was all love shut from him, though his day-s y" 
 
 Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
 
 It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
 
 On such as smile upon us ; the heart must ^ 
 
 Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust /lA^'^*' "' 
 
 Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, . ." ; ,.-,i. 
 
 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. 
 
 54. 
 And he had learn'd to love — I know not why. 
 For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
 The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
 Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
 To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
 With scorn of man, it little boots to know; 
 But thus it Avas; 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. 
 
 -■Ur-'-'- 65. 
 
 And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
 
 Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
 
 Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed, 
 
 T7iat love was pure, and, far above disguise. 
 
 Had stood the test of morial enmities 
 
 Still undivided, and cemented more 
 
 By periT^ dreaded most in female eyes; 
 
 But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
 
 \v ell to that heart might his these absent greetings pour ! 
 The castled crag of Drachcnfels 
 Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
 Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
 Between the banks which bear the vine ; 
 And hills all rich with blossom'd trees. 
 And fields which promise corn and wino. 
 And scatter'd cities crowning these. 
 Whose far white walls along them shine. 
 Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
 With double joy wert thou with me'. 
 And peasant-girls, with deep blue eyes. 
 And hands which offer early flowers, 
 Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
 Above, the frequent feudal towers 
 Through green leaves lift their walls of gray. 
 And many a rock which steeply lours, 
 And noble arch in proud decay, 
 Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
 But one thing want these banks of Rhine, — ^ ■ 
 
 Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! ^^ 
 
 I send the lilies given to me ; • ;^t '' 
 
 Though long before thy hand they touch, 
 I know that they must withered be, 
 But yet reject them not as such; 
 For I have cherished them as dear, 
 Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
 And guide thy soul to mine even here. 
 When thou beholdst them drooping nigh, 
 And knowst them gather'd by the Rhine, 
 And ofler'd from my heart to thine ! 
 
 2* 
 
26 
 
 rV*-*^-- ' 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 The river nobly foams and flows, 
 The charm of this enchanted ground, 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 Some fresher beaut}^ varying round ; 
 The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
 Through life to dwell delighted here; 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 To nature and to me so dear, 
 Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
 Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 
 56. 
 Bj' 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. 
 
 67. 
 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'erstcpt 
 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. 
 
 58. 
 Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shatter'd wall 
 Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
 Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
 Rebounding idly on her strength did light; 
 A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
 Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain: 
 But Peace destroy'd what War could never blight. 
 And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain — 
 On which the iron-shower for years had pour'd in vain. 
 
 59. 
 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. 
 
 60. 
 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 chcrish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 
 'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise; 
 More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine, 
 But none unite in one attaching maze 
 The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days, 
 
 61, 
 
 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 offaces happy as the scene. 
 
 Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, [fall. 
 
 Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near them 
 
 62. 
 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 [below. 
 
 How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man 
 
 63. 
 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 tomblcss host, 
 A bony heap, through ages to remain. 
 Themselves their monument; — the Stygian coast [ghost. 
 Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wandering 
 
 64. 
 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-entail'd Corruption ; they no land 
 Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
 Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 
 
 65, 
 
 By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
 
 A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days, 
 
 'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
 
 And looks as with the wild-bewilder'd gaze 
 
 Of one to stone converted by amaze. 
 
 Yet still with consciousness, and there it stands 
 
 Making a marvel that it not decays. 
 
 When the coeval pride of human hands, 
 
 LeveU'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. 
 
 66. 
 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 tlien 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. 
 
CANTO III. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 27 
 
 ^1^ 
 
 67. 
 
 But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
 And names that must not witlier, though the earth 
 Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
 The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth; 
 The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
 Sould be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
 And from its immortality look forth 
 In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, 
 Imperishably pare beyond all things below. 
 ■^ 68. ^-— 
 
 Lake Lemau woos me with its crystal face, 
 The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
 The stilness of their aspect in eacJj trace 
 Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue : 
 There is too much of man here, to look through 
 With a fit mind the might which I behold; 
 But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
 Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old. 
 Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. 
 
 69. 
 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 
 O f our infection, till too late and long 
 We may deplore and struggle with the coil. 
 In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong [strong. 
 'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are 
 
 70. 
 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. 
 
 71. 
 Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
 And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
 B y the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone^ 
 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 ? 
 
 72. ^ 
 
 _I^live not in nays^, butlbecome 
 Portion of that arQuad-me ; and to me, 
 vHighjneuntains are a feeling, but the hum 
 bf human cities fol-fure: 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. 
 
 73. 
 
 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 suff"er, 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, [cling. 
 
 Spuming the clay-cold bonds which round our being 
 
 74. 
 And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
 From what it hates in this degraded form, 
 Reft of its carnallife, save v.'hat shall be 
 Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
 When elements to elements conform. 
 And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
 Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? 
 The bodiless thouglit? the Spirit of each spot? 
 Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? 
 
 N^ 75. 
 
 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, [glow ? 
 
 Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not 
 
 76. 
 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 lire, 
 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 ; 'twas a foolish quest, 
 The which to gain and keep lie sacrificed all rest. 
 
 77. 
 Here the self-torturing sophist, wild B!?ui§Q3lU 
 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. 
 
 78. 
 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 o fideaL beauty. which became 
 In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
 Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. 
 
28 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO in 
 
 79. 
 This brcatlied itself to Jife in Julia, this 
 Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ; 
 Tliis 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, 
 T-hap vulgar n ainds may be with a ll they seej^psi^ Pfit. 
 
 80. 
 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 tlie kind, 
 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
 But he 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, 
 
 81. ^ 
 
 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 tiame. 
 Nor ceased to- burn till kingdoms were no more : 
 Did he not this for France? wlilch 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, [fears. 
 
 Konscd up to too much wrath whicli follows o'ergrown 
 
 82. 
 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, L^fv(.*<ii,A-'- 
 Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
 Upon the same foundation, and renew 
 Dungeons and thrones, Avliich the same hour re-fili'd. 
 As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 
 
 83. 
 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; 
 Wliat marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey ? 
 
 84. 
 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 comcth, and will come, — the power 
 To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 
 
 85. 
 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
 With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
 Which warns me, with its stilness, 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, [moved. 
 That I with stern delights should e'er have been so 
 
 86. J'^ 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
 Mellowed 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; 
 
 87. 
 He is an evening-reveller, Avho 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 tlie 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. 
 
 88. 
 Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
 If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
 Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
 That in our aspirations to be great. 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
 And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
 A beauty and a mystery, and create 
 In us sucli love and reverence from afar, [a star. 
 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves 
 
 89. 
 All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
 But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
 And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — 
 All heaven and earth are still: from the high host 
 Of stars, to the JuU'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. 
 
 90. 
 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
 In solitude, where we are least alone; 
 A truth, which tiirough 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 Cytherca's zone, 
 Binding all things with beauty; — 'twould disarm 
 The spectre Dcatii, had he substantial power to harm. 
 
CANTO HI. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 9L 
 
 /■ 
 
 Not vainly did the early Persian make 
 His altar the high placesand the peak 
 nFopi-fli-r.'yry^;?;inf]r_mnj][]|t ains. and t hus take_ 
 A fit and unvvall'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! 
 
 92. 
 The skv is chanp;ed! — and such a chanefc! Ohjj itftit. 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wond'rous strong, 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light , a 
 
 Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, /oj 
 
 from peak to peak, the rattling crags among Aj 
 
 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! 
 
 93. "* 
 
 And this is in the night: — Most glorious night! 
 Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee! '-M «^ 
 'How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, M 
 JAnd the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
 •And now again 'tis 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. 
 
 94. 
 Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
 Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
 In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
 That they can meet no 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 bloom, and then departed : — 
 Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
 Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 
 
 95. 
 Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, 
 The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: 
 For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
 And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to iiand, 
 Flashing and cast around : of all the band, 
 Tlie briglitest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
 His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
 Tliat in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
 There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 
 
 96. 
 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. 
 Rut where of ye, oil tempests! is tiic goal? 
 Are ye like those within the human breast? 
 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest? 
 
 
 jy y 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 n 
 
 29 
 
 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 Lightn^g, I would speak; 
 But as it is, I live and die unheard, 
 sWith a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword^ 
 ^^ 98. 'V^, 
 
 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 
 The 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. 
 
 99. -■ 
 
 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 
 
 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, [mocks. 
 
 Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woes, then 
 
 100. 
 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. 
 
 101. 
 All things are here of him; from the black pines. 
 Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
 Of torrents, where be listeneth, to the vines 
 Which slope his green path downward to the shore, 
 W^here the bow'd waters meet him, and adore. 
 Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the wood. 
 The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar. 
 But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, 
 Oil'cring to him, and his, a populous solitude. 
 
 102. 
 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. 
 
30 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO in 
 
 103. 
 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 'tis 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 ! 
 
 104. 
 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
 Peopling it with aflections; but he found 
 It was the scene which passion must allot 
 To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground 
 Where early Love his Psyclie's zone unbound. 
 And hallow'd it with loveliness : 'tis lone, 
 And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound. 
 And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone 
 Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throne. 
 
 105. " 
 
 Lausanne! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes 
 Of names which unto you bcqueath'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 [smile. 
 On man and man's research could deign do more than 
 
 106. 
 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. 
 
 107. 
 The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, i' 
 
 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. I 
 
 108. 
 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, 
 'Twill be to be forgiven, or sutfer what is just 
 
 109. 
 But let me quit man's works, again to read 
 His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
 This pagCj_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 of her embrace compels the powers of air. 
 
 110. 
 Italia! too, Itajia! 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, 
 Wlio 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, 
 Flow^s from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. 
 
 f 1 "***** -'111. 
 
 < 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 
 Wc 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. 
 
 112. 
 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, — remembcr'd or forgot. 
 
 113. 
 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 
 Ofthoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, 
 Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. 
 
 114. 
 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; 
 That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — 
 That goodness is no name and happiness no dream. 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 ^-4:'^ 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. 
 
 31 
 
 115. 
 
 My daughter! Avith thy name this song begnn — 
 My daughter! with thy name thus n\uch shall end — 
 I see tliee 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. 
 
 116. 
 To aid thy mind's developement, — 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 tathis.' 
 
 117. 
 
 Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, 
 
 I know that thou wilt love me; though my name 
 
 Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
 
 With desolation, — and a broken claim: 
 
 Though the grave closed between us, — 'twere the same, 
 
 I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain 
 
 Ml/ blood from out thy being, were an aim, 
 
 And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — [retain. 
 
 Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life 
 
 118. 
 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 mightst have been to me! 
 
 tnou mi 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Roinagna, 
 Qnel moiite che divide, e quel che serra 
 Italia, e uu mare e I'altro, clie la bagna. 
 Ariosto, Satira III. 
 
 Venice, January 2, 1818. 
 
 JOHN HOBHOUSE, esq. 
 
 After an interval of eight years between the compo- 
 sition of the first and last Cantos of Childe Harold , the 
 conclusion of the Poem is about to be submitted to the 
 public. In parting with so old a friend it is not extraor- 
 dinary 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 accom- 
 panied far, whom I have found wakeful over my sickness 
 and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity 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 dedi- 
 cating to you in its complete, or at kast 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 sincerity have ever been 
 permitted to the voice of friendship, 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-Avill as to withstand the shock firmly, 
 that I thus attempt to commemorate your good qualities, 
 or rather the advantages which I have derived from their 
 exertion. Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, 
 the anniversary 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 
 ray 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 various 
 periods, the countries of chivalrj^ 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 recentl}'. 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 
 
32 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 it was produced and the objects it would fain describe; 
 and however unworthy it may be deemed of those ma- 
 gical and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of 
 our distant conceptions and immediate impressions, yet 
 as a mark cf respect for what is venerable, and a feeling 
 for what is glorious, it has been to me a^ource of plea- 
 sure 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 Gold- 
 smith's "Citizen of the World," wliom nobody would 
 believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, 
 and imagined, that I had drawn a distinction between 
 \ the author and the pilgrim; and the very anxiety to 
 preserve this diflerence, and disappointment at finding it 
 unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, 
 that I determined to abandon it altogether — and have 
 done so. The opinions which have been , or may be, 
 formed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference ; 
 the work is to depend on itself, and not on the writer; 
 and the author, wiio has no resources in his own mind 
 beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, which is to 
 arisefromhis literary efforts, deserves the fate of authors. 
 
 In the course of the following Canto it was my intent- 
 ion, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched 
 upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps 
 of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, 
 I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of 
 external objects and the consequent reflections ; and 
 for the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, 
 I am indebted to yourself, and these were necessarily 
 limited to the elucidation of the text. 
 
 It is also a delicate , and no very grateful task, to dis- 
 sert upon the literature and manners of a nation so 
 dissimilar; and requires an attention and impartiality 
 wliich would induce us, — though perhaps no inattentive 
 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 nar- 
 rowly examine our information. The state of literary, 
 as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run, 
 so high , that for a stranger to steer impartially between 
 them is next to impossible. It may be enough then, at 
 least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful 
 language — "Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che 
 vanta la lingua la piu oobile ed insieme la piu dolce, 
 tutte le vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinchc la 
 patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ba perduto I'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 — 
 Jhc World — has but one Canova, 
 
 It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that "La pianta 
 uomo nasce piu robusta in Italia che in qualunque altra 
 terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti chevi si commettono 
 ne sono una prova." Without subscribingto the latter! 
 part of his proposition, a dangerous doctrine, the truth ol 
 wliich 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 ignor- 
 antly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary i 
 capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admissible. 
 their capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions , tlic 
 rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their genius 
 their sense of beauty, and amidst all the disadvantagc- 
 of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles and 
 the despair of ages, their still unquenched "longing after 
 immortality," — 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 melanclioly 
 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, ot 
 France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you 
 yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the better 
 days of our history. Forme, 
 
 Non movero mai corda 
 
 Ove la turba di sue ciancc assorda. 
 
 What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, 
 it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes 
 ascertained that England has acquired something more 
 than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; 
 it is enough for them to look at home. For what the^ 
 have done abroad, and especially in the South, "Verily 
 they will have their reward," and at no very distant 
 period. 
 
 Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable 
 return to that country whose real welfare can be dearer 
 to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in 
 its completed state; and repeat once more how truly I 
 am ever 
 
 Your obliged 
 
 And affectionate friend , 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
 A palace and a prison on each hand : 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
 Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
 
 [isles ! 
 
 Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 m 
 
 2. 
 
 She looks a sea-Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
 
 Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
 
 At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
 
 A ruler of the Avaters and their powers: 
 
 And such she was; — her daughters had their dowers 
 
 From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
 
 Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
 
 In purple was she robed, and of her feast I 
 
 Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increasea. 
 
 3. « 
 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
 And music meets not always now the car: 
 Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. 
 States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die. 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
 The pleasant place of all festivity, 
 The revel of the earth , the masque of Italy ! 
 
 4. 
 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 vanislied sway; 
 Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
 With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
 And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away — 
 The keystones of the arch! tho' all were o'er, 
 For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 5. 
 The beings of the mind arc 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. C 
 
 6. 
 Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
 The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; 
 And this worn feeling peoples many a page. 
 And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye: 
 Yet there are things whose strong reality 
 Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
 More beautiful than our fantastic sky. 
 And the strange constellations which the Muse 
 O'er her wild universe is skilful to difluse;^ 
 
 7. 
 1 saw or dreamed of such, — but let them go — 
 They came like truth, and disappeared like dreams; 
 And whatso'er they were — are now but so : 
 I could replace them if I would; still teems 
 My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
 Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
 Let these too go — for waking Reason deems 
 Such over-weening phantasies unsound. 
 And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 
 
 8. 
 
 I've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
 Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
 Which is itself no changes bring surprise; 
 Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
 A country with — ay, or without mankind; 
 Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
 Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
 The inviolate island of the sage and free. 
 And seek me out a home by a remoter sea? 
 
 9. 
 Perhaps I loved it well : and should I lay 
 My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
 My spirit shall resume it — if wc may 
 Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
 iMy hopes of being remembered in my line 
 fWith my land's language: if too fond and far 
 These aspirations in their scope incline, — • 
 If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
 Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 
 
 10. 
 My name from out the temple where the dead 
 Are honoured by the nations — let it be — ■ 
 And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
 And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
 "Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." 
 Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; 
 The tliorns whicli I have reap'd are of the tree 
 I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed : [a seed. 
 1 should have known what fruit would spring from such 
 
 11. 
 The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; "^^^ttf- 
 
 And, annual marriage now no more renewed, 
 The Buccntaur lies rotting unrestored. 
 Neglected garment of her widowhood! 
 St. Mark yet sees his Lion where he stood . 
 Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, 
 Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued. 
 And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
 When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower. 
 
 12. 
 
 The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
 
 An Emperor tramples where an Ecaperor 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 loosened from the mountain's belt: 
 
 Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 
 
 Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 
 
 13. 
 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? 
 Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and woi|. 
 Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done. 
 Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose! 
 Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun. 
 Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 
 From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 14. 
 
 In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
 Her very by- word sprung from victory, 
 The "Planter of the Lion," which through fire 
 And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea; 
 Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
 And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite; 
 Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
 Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! 
 For ye arc names no time nor tyranny can blight. 
 
 15. 
 Statues of glass — all shivered — 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, i 
 
 Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
 Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. 
 Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 
 
 16. 
 "When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
 And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war, 
 Redemption rose up in tlie Attic Muse, 
 Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
 See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
 Of the o'ermastered victor stops, the reins 
 Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
 Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains. 
 And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. 
 
 17. 
 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 tliy lot 
 Is shameful to ihe 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. 
 
 18. 
 I loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
 Was as a fairy-city of the heart. 
 Rising like water -columns from the sea. 
 Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
 And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, 
 Had stamped her image in me, and even so. 
 Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
 ■Perchance even dearer in her day of woe. 
 Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 
 
 19. '"^ 
 
 I can repeople with the past — and of 
 The present there is still for eye and thought, 
 And meditation chastened 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. 
 Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 
 
 20. 
 
 But from their nature will the tannen grow 
 
 Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered 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 giay granite into life it came, 
 
 And grew a giant-tree ; — the mind may grow the sameji 
 
 21. 
 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 sllould 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. 
 
 22. 
 All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed, 
 Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event. 
 Ends ; — Some, with hope replenished and rebuoy'd, 
 Return to whence they came — with like intent. 
 And weave their web again; some, bow'd and bent, 
 Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time. 
 And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
 Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
 According as their souls were formed to sink or climb* 
 
 23. 
 But ever and anon of griefs 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, 
 Strikingthe electric chain wherewith we aredarkly bound; ' 
 
 24. 
 And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
 Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, I 
 
 But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface 
 The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
 Which out of things familiar, undesigned, 
 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, 
 Themourncd,Hheloved,thelost— too many!— yet how few! 
 
 l,H^lo 
 
 25. 
 
 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; 
 
,L^ - c<^<- 
 
 CANTO IV 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 35 
 
 / 
 
 2B. 
 
 The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! 
 
 And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
 
 Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
 
 Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; 
 
 Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
 
 Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
 
 More rich than other climes' fertility ; 
 
 Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
 
 With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. 
 
 27. 
 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 moimtains; Heaven is free 
 From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
 Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
 Where the Day joins the past Eternity; 
 While, on the otlier hand, meek Dian's crest 
 Floats through the azure air — an island of the blcstl 
 
 28. 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half tlie lovely heaven ; but still 
 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhsetian hill, 
 As Day and Night contending were, until 
 Nature reclaimed her order : — gently flows 
 The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
 The odorous purple of a new-born rose, [glows. 
 
 Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it 
 
 29. 
 
 Filled 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 
 Witli a new colour as it gasps away, 
 The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray. 
 
 30. 
 
 There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air 
 Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
 The bones of I^amal^jover : 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 Avhich bears his lady's name 
 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 
 
 31. 
 They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; 
 The mountain-village where Iiis later days 
 Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride — 
 An honest pride — and let it be their praise. 
 To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
 His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
 And venerably simple, such as raise 
 A feeling more accordant with his strain 
 Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 
 
 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, 
 
 33. 
 Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers. 
 And shining in the brawling brook, whereby, 
 Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
 With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
 Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
 If from society we learn to live, 
 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; 
 It hath no flatterers; vanity can give 
 No hollow aid; alone — man with his God mast strive: 
 
 34. 
 Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 
 The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
 In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
 Of moody texture from their earliest day, 
 And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
 Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
 Which is not of the pangs that pass away; 
 Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
 The tomb a hell, and hell itself a mnrkier gloom. 
 
 35. 
 Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets. 
 Whose symmetry was not for solitude. 
 There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
 Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
 Of Este, which for many an age made good 
 Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
 Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
 Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
 The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before. 
 
 36. 
 And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
 Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
 And see how dearly carn'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 plung'd it. Glory without end 
 Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 
 
 37. 
 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 notliing ; 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 : 
 
36 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 38. 
 
 TJiou! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 
 Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
 Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty: 
 He ! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 
 Which emanated then, and dazzles now 
 In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire. 
 And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 
 No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, 
 That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire ! 
 
 Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his 
 
 In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
 
 Aim'd with her poison'd arrows; but to miss. 
 
 Oh, victor 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 combin'd and countless throng 
 
 Compose a mind like thine ? thougli all in one [sun. 
 
 Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a 
 
 40. 
 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. 
 
 41. 
 The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
 The iron-crown of laurel's mimic'd leaves: 
 Nor was the ominous element unjust. 
 For the true laurel- wreath which Glory weaves 
 Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 
 And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; 
 Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves. 
 Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 
 Whate'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly sacred now. 
 
 42. 
 Italia ! oh Italia ! thou who hast 
 The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
 A funeral dower of present woes and past. 
 On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, 
 And annals graved in characters of flame. 
 Oh God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
 Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
 Thy right, and awe the robbers back who press 
 To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress ; 
 
 43, 
 Then mightst thou more appal ; or, less desired. 
 Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
 For thy destructive cliarms; then, still uutired, 
 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 vanquished, thou the slave of friend or foe. 
 
 44. 
 
 Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 
 
 The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind. 
 
 The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim 
 
 The bright blue waters with a fanning wind. 
 
 Came Megara before me, and behind 
 
 ^gina 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 ; 
 
 45. 
 For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
 Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site. 
 Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd 
 The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light. 
 And the crushed relics of their vanished 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. 
 
 46. 
 Tliat 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 ivas 
 Of then destruction is; and now, alas! 
 Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
 III the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
 The skeleton of her Titanic form, 
 Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still arc warm. 
 
 47. 
 Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
 Thy wrongs should ring, and sliall, 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. 
 
 48. 
 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, redeemed to a new morn. 
 
 49. 
 There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 
 The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
 The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
 Part of its immortality; the veil 
 Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale 
 We stand, and in that form and face behold 
 What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail; 
 And to the fond idolaters of old 
 Envy the innate flash whicli such a soul could mould : 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 37 
 
 60. 
 
 ^ 
 
 We gaze and tarn away, and know not where, 
 
 Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till tlie 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 liave eyes: [prize. 
 
 Blood-puise-and breast confirm the Dardan Shepherd's 
 
 61. 
 Appear'dst tliou not to Paris in this guise? 
 Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, 
 In all thy perfect goddessship, 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 ! while thy lips are 
 With lava-kisses melting while they burn, 
 Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn ? 
 
 62. 
 Glowing and circumfused in speechless love, 
 Their full divinit}' 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, things which grow 
 Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 
 
 53. 
 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. 
 
 54. 
 In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 
 Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
 Even in itself an immortality, - 
 Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
 Tlic particle of those sublimities 
 Which have relaps'd to chaos: — here repose 
 Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, 
 The starry Galileo's, with his woes; 
 Here 3ilachiavelli's earth, return'd to whence it rose. 
 
 56. 
 Tiicse are four minds, which, like the elements. 
 Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! 
 Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents 
 Of tliinc imperial garment, sliall deny. 
 And hath denied, to every other sky. 
 Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay, 
 Is still impregnate with divinity, 
 Wliich gilds it with revivifying ray; 
 Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 
 
 56. 
 
 But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
 I pantt^^ and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, W 
 
 The Bard o?Prosc, creative spirit! he 
 Of the Hundred Tales of love — where di^they lay 
 Their bones, distinguished from our common 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 lilial earth entrust? 
 
 67. 
 
 J^ngratefWFlgrence! Dante sleeps afar, 
 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; 
 Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
 Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
 Their children's children would in vain adore 
 With the remorse of ages; and the crown 
 Which Petrarch's laureate-brow supremely wore, 
 Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. 
 His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — notthine own. 
 
 68. 
 Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
 'HiFHustT— and lies it not her Great among. 
 With many a sweet and solemn Requiem breathed 
 O'er him who formed 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 lohom ! 
 
 69. 
 And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; 
 " ~Tet fof this want more noted, as of yore 
 T he Caesa r's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. 
 Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more: 
 Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
 Fortress oj falling empire! honoured sleeps 
 The immortal exile; — Arqua, too, her store 
 Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps. 
 While Florence vainly begs her banished dead and weeps. 
 
 60. 
 What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 
 Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
 Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
 Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews 
 Which, sparkling to the twilight-stars, infuse 
 Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
 Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
 Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
 Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. 
 
 61. 
 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 accustomed 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, 
 
38 
 
 CHILDE HAJROLD'S PILGKJMAGE 
 
 63. 
 
 Is of another temper, and I roam 
 
 By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
 
 Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; 
 
 For there the Cartliaginian'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 scattered o'w, 
 
 63. 
 Like to a forest felled by mountain-winds ; 
 And such a storm of battle on this day. 
 And such tlie phrenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
 To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
 An earthquake reeled unheededly away ! 
 None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
 And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
 Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; 
 Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet ! 
 
 64. 
 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, recked not of the awe v 
 
 Which reigns when mountains tremble, ajid the birds t 
 Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw vr-^\ 
 
 From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing herds 
 Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no 
 
 65. words. \- 
 
 Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; ^ t 
 
 Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain ' ^ 
 
 Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; 
 Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
 Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en — 
 A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
 A name of blood from that day's sanguine ram ; 
 And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
 Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red. 
 
 66. 
 But thou, Clitumnns ! in thy sweetest wave 
 Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
 The haunt of river-nymph, to gaze and lave 
 Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
 Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
 Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
 And most serene of aspect, and most clear; 
 Surely that stream ivas unprofaned by slaughters — 
 A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters ! 
 
 67. 
 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 scattered water-lily sails [tales. 
 Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling 
 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 06. 
 
 Pass not unblest tl>e Genius of the place ! 
 If through the air a zephyr more serene 
 Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace 
 Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
 If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
 Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
 Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
 With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
 Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 
 
 69. 
 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, hi pitiless horror set, 
 70. 
 ^ud mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
 VReturns in an unceasing shower, which round. 
 
 With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
 vis 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 clifls, which, downward worn and rent 
 With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 
 
 71. 
 To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
 More like the fountain of an infant sea 
 Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
 Of a new world, than only thus to be 
 Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly. 
 With many windings, through the vale : — Look back ! 
 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, 
 
 72. 
 Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge. 
 From side to side, beneath the glittering morn. 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge. 
 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. 
 
 73. 
 Once more upon the woody Apenninc, 
 The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
 Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
 Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
 The thundering lauwine — might be worshipped 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, 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 CHTLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 39 
 
 74. 
 
 N 
 
 Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; 
 
 And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
 
 Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, 
 
 For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
 
 I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye; 
 
 Athos, Olympus, Mtna, Atlas, made 
 
 These hiils seem things of lesser dignity, 
 
 All, save tlie lone Soracte's height, display'd 
 
 Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 
 
 y '^- 
 
 For our remembranc*; 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 abhorred 
 
 Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
 
 The drilled dull lesson, forced down word by word 
 
 In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 
 
 76. 
 Aught that recals the daily drug which turned 
 My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught 
 My mind to meditate what then it learned. 
 Yet such the fixed inveteracy wrought 
 By the impatience of my early thought. 
 That, with the freshness wearing out before 
 My mind could relish what it might have sought. 
 If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
 Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor. 
 
 77. 
 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 
 Oar little life, nor Bard prescribe his art. 
 Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce. 
 Awakening without wounding the touciied heart, 
 Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 
 
 78. 
 Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! 
 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
 Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
 In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
 What arc our w oes 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. 
 
 79. 
 The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, 
 Childless and cbswbIcss, in her voiceless woe ; 
 An empty urn within her withered hands, 
 Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; 
 The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; 
 The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
 Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
 Old Tiber ! through a marble-w ilderncss ? 
 Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distrcs.s ! 
 
 80. 
 
 The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 
 
 Have dealt upon the seven- hilled city's pride ; 
 
 She saw her glories star by star expire, 
 
 And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
 
 Where the car climbed 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? 
 
 81. 
 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 — 
 Wlicn but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 
 
 82. 
 Alas! the lofty city ! and alas! 
 The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day 
 When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
 The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away! 
 Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, 
 And Livy's pictured page! — but these shall be 
 Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
 Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
 That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! 
 
 83. 
 Oh thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune's wheel, 
 Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue 
 Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
 The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
 Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
 O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frown 
 Annihilated senates — Roman, too. 
 With all tliy vices, for thou didst lay down 
 With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 
 
 84. 
 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? 
 Slie who was named Eternal, and array'd 
 Her warriors but to conquer — she who veiled 
 Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
 Until the o'er-canopied horizon failed. 
 Her rushing wings— Oh ! she who was Almighty hailed ! 
 
 85. 
 Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
 The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
 Too swept off senates while he hcw'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 [breath. 
 
 Beheld Jiim win two realms , and, happier, yield his 
 
40 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 86. 
 The third of the same moon whose former course 
 Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day 
 Deposed liira gently from his throne of force, 
 And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
 And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway, 
 And aJl we deem delightful, and consume 
 Our souls to compass through cacli arduous way, 
 Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? 
 Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom! 
 
 87. 
 And thou, dread statue! yet existent in 
 The austerest form of naked majesty, 
 Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, 
 At thy bathed base the bloody Ctesar lie. 
 Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
 An oflering to thine altar from the queen 
 Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die. 
 And thou, too, perish, Pompey? Iiave ye been 
 Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene? 
 
 88. 
 And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! 
 She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
 The milk of conquest yet witln'n the dome 
 Where, as a monument of antique art, 
 Thou standest: — Mother of the mighty heart, 
 Which the great founder sucked from thy wild teat, 
 Scorched by the Roman Jove's etherial dart. 
 And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou yet 
 Guard thine immprtal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? 
 
 89. 
 Thou dost; — but all thy foster-babes are dead — 
 The men of iron; and the world hath reared 
 Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
 In imitation of the things they feared 
 And fought and conquered, and the same course steered. 
 At apish distance; but as yet none have. 
 Nor could, the same supremacy have neared. 
 Save one vain man, who is not in the grave. 
 But, vanquished by himself, to his own slaves a slave — 
 
 90. 
 The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
 Of bastard-Caesar, following him of old 
 With steps unequal; for tlie Roman's mind 
 Was modelled in a less terrestrial mould. 
 With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold. 
 And an immortal instinct which redeemed 
 The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
 Alcides with the distaff' now he seemed 
 At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he. beamed, 
 
 91. 
 And came — and saw — and conquered ! But the man 
 Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
 Like a trained falcon, in the Gallic van, 
 Which he, in sooth, long led to victory. 
 With a deaf heart which never seemed to be 
 A listener to itself, was strangely framed; 
 With but one weakest weakness — vanity, 
 Coquettish in ambition — still he aimed: — 
 At what? can he avouch — or answer what he claimed? 
 
 •^ 92. 
 
 And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
 
 For the sure grave to level him; few years 
 
 Had fixed 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 reilow ! — Renew thy rainbow, God ! 
 
 93. 
 What from this barren being do we reap? 
 Our senses narrow, and our reason frail. 
 Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
 And all things weighed 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, [light. 
 And their free thoughts becrimes, and earthhave too much 
 
 94. 
 And thus they plod in sluggish misery. 
 Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
 Proud of their trampled nature, and so die. 
 Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
 To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
 War for their chains, and, rather than be free. 
 Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
 Within the same arena where they see 
 Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 
 
 96. 
 t speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
 Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd. 
 Averred, and known, — and daily, hourly seen — 
 The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
 And the intent of tyranny avow'd. 
 The Edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
 The apes of him who liumbled once the proud, 
 And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; 
 Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 
 
 96. 
 Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be. 
 And Freedom find no champion and no child 
 Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
 Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled? 
 Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild. 
 Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
 Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
 On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
 Such seeds within her breast, or Europe uo such shore? 
 
 97. 
 But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
 And fatal have her Saturnalia been ^ # 
 To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime; 
 Because the deadly days which 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 [second fall. 
 Which nips life's tree , and dooms man's worst — his 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRBIAGE. 
 
 41 
 
 96i 
 
 Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
 Streams like the thunder-storm ayainst the wind ; 
 'Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and dying, 
 ('The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; 
 j Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
 1 Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
 j But the sap lasts, — and still the seed wq find 
 i Sown deep, even in the bosom of the Nortli ; 
 So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 
 
 There is a stern round tower of other days, 
 
 Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone. 
 
 Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
 
 Standing with half its battlements alone. 
 
 And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
 
 The garland of eternity, where wave 
 
 The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; — 
 
 What was this tower of strength? within its cave 
 
 What treasure lay so locked, so hid? —A woman's grave 
 
 100. 
 But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
 Tombed 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 honoured — and conspicuously there. 
 Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
 Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? 
 
 101. '^iiri/ r, 
 
 i Was she as those who love their lords, or they '■■M)-\)^*«s_ 
 ! 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 [are. 
 
 Love from amongst her griefs? — for such the affections 
 
 102. 
 Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
 With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
 That weighed 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; 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. 
 
 103. 
 Perchance she died in age — surviving all. 
 Charms, kindred, children — with the silver-gray 
 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 ! 
 
 10#. 
 
 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; 
 
 105. V 
 
 And from the planks, far shattered 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 foundered 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. 
 
 106. 
 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 gray and bright. 
 And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
 What are our petty griefs? — let me not number mine- 
 
 107. 
 Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower grown 
 Matted and massed together, hillocks heap'd 
 On what were chambers, arch crushed, 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 ! 'tis thus the mighty falls. 
 
 108. 
 There is the moral of all human tales ; 
 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past: 
 First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, 
 Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarisin at last. 
 And History, with all her volumes vast, 
 Hath biiFone page, — 'jtis better written here, 
 Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amass'd 
 All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, [draw near. 
 Heart, soul, could seek, tongue ask Away with words! 
 
 109. 
 Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, - - for here 
 There is such matter for all feeling: — Man ! 
 Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
 Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
 This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
 The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
 Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
 Till the sun's rays with added flame were fiU'd ! [build ? 
 Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to 
 
 3# 
 
42 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 110. 
 Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 
 Thou nameless column witli the buried base ! 
 What are the laurels of the Csesar's brow? 
 Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
 Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
 Titus or Trajan's ? No — 'tis that of Time : 
 Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
 Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb 
 To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, 
 
 J 111. 
 
 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. 
 
 112. 
 
 /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 ! 
 
 113. 
 The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : 
 Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
 From the first hour of empire in the bud 
 To that when further worlds to conquer failed ; 
 But long before had Freedom's face been veiled. 
 And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
 Till every lawless soldier who assailed 
 Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes. 
 Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 
 
 114. 
 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! While the tree 
 Of Freedom's withered 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. 
 
 115. 
 Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideal breast; whate'cr 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 tlicrc 
 Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
 Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. 
 
 116. 
 
 The mosses of the fountain still are sprinkled 
 
 With 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 margin now no more erase 
 
 Art's Avorks ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
 
 Prisoned 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 
 
 117. 
 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, [skies 
 
 Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its 
 
 118. 
 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 veiled that mystic meeting 
 With her most starry canopy ; and seating 
 Thyself by thine adorer, what befel? 
 This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
 Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell 
 Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 
 
 -5 . '^^- J 
 
 JAA didst thou not, thy breast to his replying. 
 
 Blend a celestial with a human heart? 
 
 And Love, which dies, as it was born, in sighing. 
 
 Share with immortal 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 ! 
 
 120. 
 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 vainlj pants 
 For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 
 
 121. 
 Oh 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 has made thee, as it peopled heaven. 
 Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
 And to a thought such shape and image given, [—and riven. 
 As haunts the unquench'd soul— parch'd— wearied— wru Qg 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 43 
 
 123. 
 
 Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
 lAnd fevers into false creation : — where, 
 ^Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? 
 jIn him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? 
 j Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
 i Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
 I The unreached Paradise of our despair, 
 I Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
 M And over-powers the page where it would bloom again? 
 I 123. 
 
 Who loves, raves — 'tis 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 tlie whirlwind from the oft-sowu winds; 
 The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, [done. 
 
 Seems ever near the prize, — wealthiest when most un- 
 
 124. 
 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, f 
 
 Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — ' 
 
 But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
 Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis 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. 
 "~^ 125. 
 
 Few — none — find what they love or could have loved. 
 Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
 Necessity of loving, have removed 
 Antipathies — but to recur, ere long. 
 Envenomed with irrevocable wrong ; 
 And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
 And miscreator, makes and lielps along 
 Our comtng evils with a crutch-like rod, [trod. 
 
 Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust wc all have 
 
 126. 
 Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in V*^ 
 
 The harmony of things, — this hard decree, 
 This uneradicable taint of sin. 
 This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
 Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches 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. 
 
 127. 
 Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis 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 chained and tortured — cabined, cribbed, 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. 
 
 128. 
 
 Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
 Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
 Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
 Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
 As 'twere 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 
 
 129. 
 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 ruined battlement, 
 For which the palace of the present hour 
 Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 
 
 130. 
 Oh Time! the beautifier of the dead, 
 
 A dorner 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 
 
 My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift : 
 
 131. *'" ^ 
 
 Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
 And temple more divinely desolate. 
 Among thy mightier offerings here arc mine. 
 Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate; — 
 If thou hast ever seen me too elate. 
 Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne 
 Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
 Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
 This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn ? 
 
 132. 
 And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
 Lost the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! 
 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 near — in this 
 Thy former realm I call thee from the dust ! [must. 
 
 Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake ! thou shalt and 
 
 133. 
 It is not that I may not have incurred 
 For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
 I bleed withal, and, had it been conferred 
 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 — tJwu shalt take 
 The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found. 
 
 Which if I have not taken for the sake 
 
 But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 
 
44 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO IV 
 
 134. 
 
 And if my voice br^ak forth, 'tis not that now 
 
 I shrink from what is suffered ; let him speak 
 
 Who hatli 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, 
 
 Tboug-h 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 ! 
 
 135. 
 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 suffered things to be forgiven? 
 Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven, 
 Hopes sapped, 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. 
 
 136. 
 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 Avithout utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
 Dea l roupd^ to hap^ fools its speechless obloquy. 
 
 But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
 My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, [ 
 And my franje perish even in conquering pain, 
 But there is that within me which shall tire 
 Torture and Time, and breathe when 1 expire; 
 Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
 Like the remembered tone of a mute lyre, 
 Shall on their softened spirits sink, and move 
 In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love.' 
 
 138. 
 The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power! 
 Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
 Walkest in the shadow of the midnight-hour 
 With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear; 
 Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
 Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
 Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
 , That we become a part of what has been. 
 And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 
 
 139. 
 And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
 In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, 
 As man was slaughtered 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. 
 
 140. 
 I sec before me the Gladiator lie: 
 He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
 And his drooped 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, [who won 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed jteh wretcl 
 
 141. 
 He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far away; 
 He recked 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 , 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire. 
 Butchered to make a Roman holiday — 
 AH this rushed with his blood — Shall he expire 
 And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 
 
 142. 
 But here, where Murder breathed her bloody stream ; 
 And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 
 And roared or murmured like a mountain-stream 
 Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; 
 Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
 Was death or life, the play-things of a crowd, 
 My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 
 On the arena void — seats crushed — walls bow'd — [loud 
 And galleries , where my steps seem echoes strange!; 
 
 143. 
 A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
 Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared ; 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass 
 And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. , 
 
 Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared? ■ 
 
 Alas ! developed, opens the decay. 
 When the colossal fabric's form is neared : 
 It will not bear the brightness of the day, • 
 
 Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away 
 
 144. 
 But when |he 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 
 The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
 Like laurels on the bald first Cajsar's head ; 
 When the light shines serene but doth not glare, 
 Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
 Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread 
 
 145. 
 "While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; 
 When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 
 And when Rome falls — the World." From our own lane 
 Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
 In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
 Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
 On their foundations, and unaltered all; 
 Rome and her ruin past redemption's skill, [will. 
 
 The world, the same wide den — of thieves, or whatyt 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 45 
 
 146. 
 
 Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
 
 Shrine of alJ saints and temple of all gods, 
 
 From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time; 
 
 Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
 
 Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
 
 His way through tliorns 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 ! 
 
 H7. 
 Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 
 Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
 A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
 To art a model ; and to him who treads 
 Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
 Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
 Who worship, here arc altars for their beads ; 
 And they who feel for genius may repose [close. 
 
 Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them 
 
 148. 
 There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 
 What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again! 
 Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — 
 Two insulated phantoms of the brain: 
 It is not so; I see them full and plain — 
 An old man, and a female young and fair. 
 Fresh as a nursing mother, in wliose vein 
 The blood is nectar : — but what doth she there. 
 With her unmautled neck, and bosom white and bare ? 
 
 149. 
 Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
 Where on the heart and J^rom 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 — [Eve's. 
 What may the fruit be yet? — I know not — Cain was 
 
 150. 
 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 [such tide. 
 Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds no 
 
 151. 
 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. 
 
 152. 
 
 Turn to the Mole which Hadrian reared on high. 
 
 Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles. 
 
 Colossal copyist of deformity, 
 
 Whose travelled phantasy from the far Nile's 
 
 Enormous model doomed 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 Avhich sprung from such a birth! 
 
 153. 
 But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, 
 To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
 Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ; 
 I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
 Its columns strew the wilderness ; and dwell 
 The hyaena and the jackal in their shade: 
 I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
 Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 
 Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 
 
 154. 
 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 arc aisled 
 In this eternal ark of worship undcfiled. 
 
 155. 
 Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
 And why ? it is not lessened; but thy mind. 
 Expanded by the genius of the spot. 
 Has grown colossal, and can only find 
 A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
 Thy hopes of immortality; and thou 
 Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined. 
 See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
 His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 
 
 156. 
 Thou movest — but increasing with the advance. 
 Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise. 
 Deceived by its gigantic elegance; 
 Vastness which grows — but grows to harmonize - 
 All musical in its immensities ; 
 
 Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame 
 The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
 In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame 
 Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must 
 
 157. claim. 
 
 Thou secst not all ; but piece-meal thou must break, 
 To separate contemplation, the great whole; 
 And as the ocean many bays will make. 
 That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
 To more immediate oBjects, and control 
 Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
 Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
 In mighty graduations, part by part, 
 The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 
 
46 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 158. 
 Not by its fault — but thine : Our outward sense 
 Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
 That what we liave of feeh'ng most intense 
 Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
 Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
 Fools our fond gazp, 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* 
 
 169. 
 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, or the mere praise 
 Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
 Wliat former time, nor skill, nor thought could planj 
 The fountain of sublimity displays 
 Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
 Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 
 
 160. 
 Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
 Laocoon's torture-dignifying pain — 
 A father's love and mortal's agony 
 With an immortal's patience blending: — Vain 
 The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain 
 And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp. 
 The old man's clench ; the long envenomed chain 
 Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
 Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 
 
 161. 
 Or view the Lord of the unerring bow. 
 The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
 The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
 All radiant from his triumph in the fight; 
 The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
 With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
 And nostril beautiful disdain, and might, 
 And majesty, flash their full lightnings by. 
 Developing in that one glance the Deity. 
 
 162. 
 But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
 Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
 Longed for a deathless lover from above, 
 And maddened in that vision — are exprest 
 All that ideal beauty ever blessed 
 The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
 When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
 A ray of immortality — and stood, 
 Starlike, around, until they gathered to a god ! 
 
 163. 
 And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven 
 The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
 By him to whom the energy was given 
 Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
 With an eternal glory — which, if made 
 By human hands, is not of human thought; 
 And time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
 One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught [wrought. 
 A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas 
 
 164. 
 
 But where is he ; the Pilgrim of my song, I 
 
 The being who upheld it through the past? | 
 
 Methinks he comcth 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 classed 
 
 I With forms which live and suff'er — let that pass — 
 
 His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass ; 
 
 165. 
 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 gazi'. 
 
 166. 
 And send us prying into the abyss. 
 To gather what we shall be when the frame 
 Shall be resolved to something less than this 
 Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame. 
 And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
 We never more shall hear, — but never more, 
 Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same; 
 It is enough in sooth that once we bore [gore. 
 
 These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat was 
 
 167. 
 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 discrowned, 
 And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief j 
 
 She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief, i 
 
 168. 
 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 bo}'. 
 Death hushed that pang for ever : with thee fled 
 The present happiness and promised joy 
 Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy. 
 
 169. 
 Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
 Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
 Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
 And Freedom's heart, grown licary, cease to hoard 
 Her many griefs for One ; for she had poured 
 Her orisons for thee, and o'er tliy 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! 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 CfllLD^E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 47 
 
 170. 
 
 Of sackcloth was thy wedding-garment made; 
 Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
 The fair-haired 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 deemed 
 Our children should obey her child, and blcss'd 
 Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed 
 Like stars to shepherds' eyes: — 'twas but a meteor beamed. 
 
 171. 
 Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: 
 The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
 Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
 Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
 Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
 Nations have armed in madness, the strange fate 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 
 Against their blind omnipotence'^ weight 
 Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, — 
 
 172. 
 These might have been her destiny; but no, 
 Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair. 
 Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
 But now a bride and mother — and now there! 
 How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
 From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
 Is linked the electric chain of that despair, 
 Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest [best. 
 The land which loved thee so that none could love thee 
 
 173. 
 Lo, Nemi ! navelled in the woody hills 
 So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
 The oak from his foundation, and whicli 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 cherished hate, its surface wears 
 A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake. 
 All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. • 
 
 174. 
 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 rcascending star 
 Rose o'er an empire: — but beneath thy right 
 Tully reposed from Rome; — and where yon bar 
 Of girdling mountains intercepts the siglit 
 The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary bard's delight. 
 
 175. 
 But I forget. — My pilgrim's shrine is won. 
 And he and I must part, so let it be, — 
 His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
 Yet once more let us look upon the sea; 
 The midland ocean breaks on him and me. 
 And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
 Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
 Beheld it last by Calpc's rock unfold 
 Those waves, we foUow'd on till the dark Euxine rolled 
 
 ;■ 
 
 
 176. ^....^ 
 
 Upon the blue Symplcgades : long years — • 
 Long, though not very many, since have done 
 Their work on both : some suflering 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 gladdened by the sun. 
 And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
 As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 
 
 177. 
 Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling-place, 
 With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
 That I might all forget tlie 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. 
 
 178. 
 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, aTTdrnnsjo jp its rprm; 
 
 an the less, butNature 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. 
 
 179. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean — roll ! 
 *Ftai thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; \^ 
 
 Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
 Stops with the shore; -- upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
 Without a grave, unknelled, uncolfined, and unknown. 
 
 180. 
 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 sendst 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. 
 
 181. 
 The armaments which thunderstrike 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. 
 
4S 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CANTO IM 
 
 • 182. 
 
 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. 
 
 183. 
 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-heavingj — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
 The image of eternity — the throne — 
 Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
 Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 
 
 184. 
 And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy broast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
 I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
 Were a delight, and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear. 
 For I was as it were a child of thee, 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 
 
 185. 
 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 extinguished which hath lit 
 My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ. — 
 Would it were worthier! bnf | j^pi not now 
 That w hich I have been — and my visions flit 
 JjCss palpably 'Blilore m? — and the glow 
 Which in my spirit dwelt, is fluttering, faint, and low. 
 
 186. 
 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-shoon and scallop-shell ; 
 Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain. 
 If such there were — with vou, the moral of his strain! 
 
 ^ 
 
 til vo 
 
 '4 
 
49 
 
 THE GIAOUR, 
 
 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 uo balm — and affliction no sting. 
 
 Moors. 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS, esq. 
 
 AS A .SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION 
 OF HIS GENIUS, RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRA- 
 TITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, THIS PRODUCTION IS IN- 
 SCRIBED 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 fc^nale 
 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 theArnauts 
 were beaten back from the Morea , which they had 
 ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian inva- 
 sion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused 
 the plunder ofMisitra, 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. 
 
 No breath of air to break the wave 
 That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
 That tomb 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, 
 Wliich, 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, 
 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, unchilled 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 sliade 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 tlie gay mariner's guitar 
 
 Is heard, and seen the evening-star; 
 
 Then stealing with the muffled oar, 
 
 Far shaded by the rocky shore. 
 
 Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 
 
 And turn to groans his roundelay. 
 
 Strange — that where Nature loved to trace, 
 
 As if for Gods, a dwelling-place. 
 
 And every charm and grace hath mixed 
 
 Within the paradise she fixed. 
 
 There man, enamoured of distress, 
 
 Should mar it into wilderness. 
 
 And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
 
 That tasks not one laborious hour. 
 
 Nor claims the culture of his hand 
 
 To bloom along the fairy-land, 
 
 But springs as to preclude his care, 
 
 And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! 
 
 Strange — that where all is peace beside 
 
 There passion riots in her pride, 
 
 And lust and rapine wildly reign 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 To darken o'er the fair domain. 
 
 It is as though the fiends prevailed 
 
 Against the seraphs they assailed, 
 
 And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell 
 
 The freed inheritors of hell; 
 
 So soft the scene, so formed for joy, 
 
 So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 
 
 He Avho hath bent him o'er the dead 
 Ere the first day of death is fled. 
 The first dark day of nothingness. 
 The last of danger and distress, 
 (Before decay's effacing fingers 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 
 And marked the mild angelic air. 
 The rapture of repose that's there. 
 The fixed, yet tender traits that streak 
 The languor of the placid cheek. 
 And — but for that sad shrouded eye. 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
 And but for that chill changeless brow. 
 Where cold obstruction's apathy 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart. 
 As if to him it could impart 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
 Yes, but for these, and these alone. 
 Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour. 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 
 So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, 
 The first, last look by death revealed ! 
 Such is the aspect of this shore; 
 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
 We start, for soul is wanting there. 
 Hers is the loveliness in death, 
 That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
 But beauty with that fearful bloom. 
 That hue whicli haunts it to the tomb. 
 Expression's last receding ray, 
 A gilded halo hovering round decay. 
 The farewell beam of feeling past away ! 
 Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
 Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth ! 
 
 Clime of the unforgotten brave ! 
 Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
 Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! 
 Shrine of the mighty ! can it be. 
 That this is all remains of thee? 
 Approach, thou craven crouching slave: 
 Say, is not this Thermopylae? 
 These waters blue that round you lave. 
 Oh servile offspring of the free — 
 Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 
 The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
 These scenes, their story not unknown. 
 Arise, and make again your own ; 
 Snatch from the ashes of yojur sires 
 The embers of their former fires; 
 And he who in the strife expires 
 Will add to theirs a name of fear 
 
 That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 
 And leave his sons a hope, a fame. 
 They too will rather die than shame: 
 For Freedom's battle once begun. 
 Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son. 
 Though baffled oft is ever won. 
 Bear witness, Greece, thy living page. 
 Attest it many a deathless age ! 
 While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
 Have left a nameless pyramid. 
 Thy heroes, though the general doom 
 Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
 A mightier monument command. 
 The mountains of their native land! 
 There points thy Muse to stranger's eye 
 The graves of those that cannot die! 
 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, 
 Each step from splendour to disgrace; 
 Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
 Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
 Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way 
 To villain-bonds and despot-sway. 
 
 What can he tell who treads thy shore? 
 No legend of thine olden time. 
 No theme on which the muse might soar. 
 High as thine own in days of yore, 
 When man was worthy of thy clime. 
 The hearts within thy valleys bred. 
 The fiery souls that might have led 
 Thy sons to deeds sublime, 
 Now crawl from cradle to the grave. 
 Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 
 And callous, save to crime; 
 Stained with each evil that pollutes 
 Mankind, where least above the brutes; 
 Without even savage virtue blest, 
 Without one free or valiant breast, 
 Still to the neighbouring ports they waft 
 Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
 In this the subtle Greek is found. 
 For this, and this alone, renowned. 
 In vain might Liberty invoke 
 The spirit to its bondage broke. 
 Or raise the neck that courts the yoke: 
 No more her sorrows I bewail. 
 Yet this will be a mournful tale. 
 And they who listen may believe. 
 Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 
 
 Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing. 
 The shadows of the rocks advancing. 
 Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
 Of island-pirate or Mainote; 
 And fearful for his light caique. 
 He shuns the near but doubtful creek; 
 Though worn and weary with his toil, 
 And cumbered with his scaly spoil. 
 Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 
 Till Port Leone's safer shore 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 51 
 
 Receives him by the lovely light 
 That best becomes an eastern night. 
 
 Who tlmndering comes on blackest steed, ]/ 
 With slackened bit and hoof of speed? 
 Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
 The caverned echoes wake around 
 In lash for lash, and bound for bound; 
 The foam that streaks the courser's side 
 Seems gathered from the ocean-tide : 
 Though weary waves are sunk to rest. 
 There's none within his rider's breast ; 
 And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour ! 
 I know thee not, I loathe thy race, ' , < 
 But in thy lineaments I trace 
 What time shall strengthen, not efface: 
 Though young and pale, that sallow front 
 Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt ; 
 Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 
 As meteor-like thou glidest by. 
 Right well I view and deem thee one 
 Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 
 
 On — on he hastened, and he drew 
 My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
 Though like a demon of the night 
 He passed and vanished from my sight, 
 His aspect and his air impressed 
 A troubled memory on my breast, 
 And long upon my startled ear / 
 
 Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. V 
 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 fixed 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 passed 
 One glance he snatched, as if his last, 
 A moment checked his wheeling steed, 
 A moment breathed him from his speed, 
 A moment on his stirrup stood — 
 Why looks he o'er the olive-wood ? 
 The crescent glimmers on the hill. 
 The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still ; 
 Though too remote for sound to wake 
 In echoes of the far tophaike, 
 The flashes of each joyous peal 
 Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
 To-night, set Rhamazani's sun. 
 To-night, the Bairam-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 either pause or flee ? 
 He stood — some dread was on his face, 
 Soon hatred settled in its place: 
 
 It rose not with the reddening flush 
 
 Of transient anger's hasty blush, 
 
 But pale as marble o'er the tomb, V 
 
 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 cliarger neighed — 
 
 Down glanced that hand, and grasped 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 hurled on high jerreed 
 
 Springs to the touch his startled steed; 
 
 The rock is doubled, and the shore 
 
 Shakes with the clattering tramp no more; 
 
 The crag is won, no more is seen 
 
 His Christian crest and haughty mien. 
 
 'Twas but an instant he restrained 
 
 That fiery barb so sternly reined; 
 
 'Twas but a moment that he stood. 
 
 Then sped as if by death pursued; 
 
 But in that instant o'er his soul 
 
 Winters of memory seemed 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 tjjat most distracts the breast? 
 
 That pause, which pondered o'er his fate, 
 
 Oil, 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 vanished 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; 
 
12 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 
 
 With baffled thirst, and famine grim : 
 
 For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 
 
 Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread. 
 
 'Twas sweet of yore to sec it play 
 
 And chase the sultriness of day, 
 
 As, springing high, the silver-dew 
 
 In whirls fantastically flew, 
 
 And flung luxurious coolness round 
 
 The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 
 
 'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, 
 
 To view the waves of watery light, 
 
 And hear its melody by night. 
 
 And oft had Hassan's childhood played 
 
 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 seemed 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 filled that font is fled — 
 
 The blood that warmed his heart is shed! 
 
 And here no more shall human voice 
 
 Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice. 
 
 The last sad note that swelled the gale 
 
 Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 
 
 Tliat 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 'twere joy to scan 
 
 The rudest steps of fellow-man : 
 
 So here the very voice of grief 
 
 Might wake an echo like relief — 
 
 At least 'twould 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 worked her cankering way — 
 
 But gloom is gathered 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, tliat refuge unto men, 
 
 Is desolation's hungry den. 
 
 The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour. 
 
 Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre! 
 
 I hear the sound of coming feet, 
 But not a voice mine ear to greet; 
 
 More near — each turban I can scan, 
 
 And silver-sheathed ataghan ; 
 
 The foremost of the band is seen, 
 
 An Emir by his garb of green ; 
 
 Ho ! who art thou? — this low salam 
 
 Replies of Moslem faith I am. 
 
 The 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 furled, and ply 
 The nearest oar that's scattered by. 
 And midway to those rocks where sleep 
 The channelled waters dark and deep. 
 Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
 Our course has been right swiftly run; 
 Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow, 
 That one of — * * * 
 
 Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, 
 The calm wave rippled to the bank; 
 I wa(ched it as it sank, methought 
 Some motion from the current caught 
 Bestirred it more, — 'twas but the beam 
 That chequered o'er the living stream : 
 I gazed, till vanishing from view, 
 Like lessening pebble it withdrew; 
 Still less and less, a speck of white 
 That gemmed the tide, then mocked 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 wing 
 The insect-queen 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 brushed its brightest hues away. 
 Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
 'Tis left to fly or fall alone. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 53 
 
 With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 
 Ah! wliere shall either victim rest? 
 Can tliis 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 tilings have mercy shown 
 To every failing but their own, 
 And every woe a tear can claim. 
 Except au 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 searched by thousand throes, 
 And maddening in her ire. 
 One sad and sole relief she knows. 
 The sting she nourished 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; 
 So Writhes the mind remorse hath riven. 
 Unfit for earth, undoomed 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 tlie 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 last sun was set, 
 And flashing from each minaret 
 Millions of lamps proclaimed the feast 
 Of Bairam througli the boundless East. 
 'Twas then she went as to the bath, 
 Wliich Hassan vainly searched in wrath ; 
 For she was flown her master's rage 
 In likeness of a Georgian page, 
 And far beyond the Moslem's power 
 Had wronged him with the faithless Giaour. 
 Somewhat of tliis had Hassan deemed; 
 But still so fond, so fair she seemed. 
 Too well he trusted to the slave 
 Whose treachery deserved a grave : 
 And on that eve had goae 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 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 'twere vain to tell, 
 
 But gaze on that of the gazelle. 
 
 It will assist tliy fancy well ; 
 
 As large, as languishingly dark, 
 
 But soul beamed forth in every spark 
 
 That darted from beneath the lid. 
 
 Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 
 
 Yea, soul, and sliould our prophet say 
 
 That form has nought but breathing clay, 
 
 By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
 
 Though on Al-Sirat's arcli I stood, 
 
 AVhich totters o'er the fiery flood. 
 
 With Paradise within my view. 
 
 And all his houris beckoning tlirough. 
 
 Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
 
 And keep that portion of his creed 
 
 Which saith that woman is but dust, 
 
 A soulless toy for tyrant's lust? 
 
 On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
 
 That through her eye the Immortal shone; 
 
 On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
 
 The young pomegranate's blossoms strew 
 
 Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 
 
 Her hair in hyacinthine-flow. 
 
 When left to roll its folds below. 
 
 As midst her handmaids in the hall 
 
 She .stood superior to them all. 
 
 Hath swept the marble where her feet 
 
 Gleamed 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 Circassla's daughter, 
 
 The loveliest bird of Frangucstan! 
 
 As rears her crest the rufilcd swan. 
 
 And spurns the wave with wings of pride. 
 
 When pass the steps of stranger man 
 
 Along the banks that bound her tide: 
 
 Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck ; — 
 
 Thus armed 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 he? 
 
 Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 
 
 Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
 With twenty A^assals in his train, 
 Each armed, as best becomes a man. 
 With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
 The chief before, as decked for war. 
 
54 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Bears in' his belt the scimitar 
 
 Stained with the best of Arnaut blood, 
 
 When in the pass the rebels stood, 
 
 And few returned to tell the tale 
 
 Of what befell in Parne's vale. 
 
 The pistols which his girdle bore 
 
 Were those that once a pasha wore. 
 
 Which still, though gemmed and bossed with gold, 
 
 Even robbers tremble to behold. 
 
 'Tis said he goes to woo a bride 
 
 More true than her who left his side; 
 
 The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
 
 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 'twere vain to seek 
 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 line 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-nigbt, 
 Shall tenapt 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 gray, 
 By time, or mountain-lightning, riven 
 From summits clad in mists of heaven; 
 For where is he that hath beheld 
 The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 
 
 They reach the grove of pine at last: 
 Bismillah ! now the peril's past ; 
 For yonder view the opening plain. 
 And there we'll 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 unsheathed and carbine bent, 
 Some o'er their coursers' harness leant, 
 Half sheltered 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 
 Could now avail the promised prey ; 
 Then curled his very beard with ire. 
 And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 
 Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
 I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this. 
 And now the foe their covert quit, 
 And call his vassals to submit; 
 But Hassan's frown and furious word 
 Are dreaded more than hostile sword. 
 Nor of his little band a man 
 Resigned carbine or ataghan, 
 Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! 
 In fuller sight, more near and near. 
 The lately ambushed 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 ? 
 "Tis he ! 'tis he ! I know him now ; 
 I know him by his pallid brow ; 
 1 know him by the evil eye 
 That aids his envious treachery ; 
 I know him by his jet-black barb: 
 Though now array'd in Arnaut garb. 
 Apostate from his own vile faith. 
 It shall not save him from the death: 
 'Tis 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 thunderirfg clash, 
 The lightnings of the waters flash 
 In awful whiteness o'er the shore, 
 That shines and shakes beneath the roar: 
 Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, . 
 With waves that madden as they meet — 
 Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 
 And fate, and fury, drive along. 
 The bickering sabres' shivering jar; 
 And pealing wide or ringing near 
 Its echoes on the throbbing ear. 
 
THE GUOUR. 
 
 55 
 
 The deathshot hissing from afar; 
 
 The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 
 
 Reverberate along that vale. 
 
 More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
 
 Though few the numbers — theirs the strife. 
 
 That neither spares nor 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 tight they fold 
 
 Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold: 
 
 Friends meet to part; love laughs at faith : </ 
 
 True foes, once met, arc joined till death ! 
 
 With sabre shivered to the hilt, 
 Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 
 Yet strained within the severed hand 
 Which quivers round tliat faithless brand; 
 His turban far behind him rolled. 
 And cleft in twain its firmest fold; 
 His flowing robe by falchion torn. 
 And crimson as those clouds of morn 
 That, streaked with dusky red, portend 
 The day shall have a stormy end; 
 A stain on every bush that bore 
 A fragment of his palampore, 
 His breast with wounds unnumbered 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 scaled 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 called the Prophet, but his power 
 Was vain against the vengeful Giaour : 
 He called on Alia — but the word 
 Arose unheeded or unheard. 
 Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
 Be passed, and thine accorded there? 
 I watched my time, I leagued with these, 
 The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
 My wrath is wreaked, the deed is done. 
 And now I go — but go alone." 
 
 The browzing camels' bells are tinkling ; 
 His mother looked from her lattice high — 
 She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
 The pastures green beneath her eye, 
 
 She saw the planets faintly twinkling: • 
 
 '"Tis 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 gained our nearest mountain's brow, 
 
 And warily the steep descends. 
 
 And now within the valley bends; 
 
 And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow — 
 
 How could I deem his courser slow ? 
 
 Right well my largess shall repay 
 
 His welcome speed, and Aveary 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! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest! 
 
 His crilpac 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 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 scorned forbidden wine, 
 Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
 In orisons lesumed anew 
 At solemn sound of "Alia Hu!" 
 Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
 And stranger in his native land! 
 Yet died he as in arms he stood. 
 And unavenged, at least in blood. 
 But 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, 
 And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
 Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
 Is worthiest an immortal bower. 
 
 But thou, false Infidel! shalt writhe 
 Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe; 
 And from its torment 'scape alone 
 
56 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 To wander ft)und lost Eblis' throne; 
 And fire unquenched, 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 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 daemon for their sire. 
 As cursing thee, thou cursing them. 
 Thy flowers are withered on the stem. 
 But one that for thy crime must fall. 
 The youngest, most beloved of all. 
 Shall bless thee with di 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 unhallowed 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 
 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 ! 
 
 "How name ye yon lone Caloyer ? 
 His features I have scanned before 
 In mine own land : 'tis many a year, 
 Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
 I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
 As ever served a horseman's need. 
 But once I saw that face, yet then 
 It was so marked with inward pain, 
 I could not pass it by again; 
 It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
 As death were stamped upon his brow." 
 
 *"Tis twice three years at summer-tide 
 Since first among our freres he came; 
 And here it soothes him to abide 
 For some dark deed he will not name. 
 But never at our vesper-prayer. 
 Nor e'er before confession-chair 
 Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
 Incense or anthem to the skies. 
 But broods within his cell alone. 
 His faith and race alike unknown. 
 
 The sea from Paynim-land he crost, 
 And here ascended from the coast ; 
 Yet seems he not of Othman race, 
 But only Christian in his face : 
 I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
 Repentant of the change he made. 
 Save that he shuns our holy shrine, [/ 
 Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
 Great largess to these walls he brought, 
 And thus our Abbot's favour bought ; 
 But were I Prior, not a day 
 Should brook such stranger's further stay. 
 Or pent within our penance-cell 
 Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
 Much in his visions mutters he 
 Of maiden 'whelmed beneath the sea; 
 Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
 Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying; 
 On cliff he hath been known to stand, 
 And rave as to some bloody hand 
 Fresh severed from its parent limb, 
 Invisible to all but him. 
 Which beckons onward to his grave, 
 And lures to leap into the wave." 
 
 Dark and unearthly is the scowl 
 That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 
 The flash of that dilating eye 
 Reveals too much of times gone by; 
 Though varying, indistinct its hue. 
 Oft will his glance the gazer rue. 
 For in it lurks that namteless spell 
 Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 
 A spirit yet unquelled and high. 
 That claims and keeps ascendency ; 
 And like the bird whose pinions quake. 
 But cannot fly the gazing snake. 
 Will others quail beneath his look. 
 Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 
 From him the half-aff"righted friar 
 When met alone would fain retire. 
 As if that eye and bitter smile 
 Transferred to others fear and guile : 
 Not oft to smile descendeth he. 
 And when he doth 'tis sad to see 
 That he but mocks at misery. 
 How that pale lip will curl and quiver ! 
 Then fix once more as if for ever; 
 As if his sorrow or disdain 
 Forbade him e'er to smile again. 
 Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 
 From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 
 But sadder still it were to trace 
 What once were feelings in that face: 
 Time hath not yet the features fixed. 
 But brighter traits with evil mixed; 
 And there are hues not always faded. 
 Which speak a mind not all degraded 
 Even by the crimes through which it waded : 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 57 
 
 The common crowd but see the gloom 
 
 Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom; 
 
 The close observer can espy 
 
 A noble soul, and lineage high: v 
 
 Alas ! though both bestowed in vain, 
 
 Which grief could change, and guilt could stain. 
 
 It was np vulgar tenement 
 
 To which such lofty gifts were lent. 
 
 And still with little less than dread 
 
 On such the sight is riveted. 
 
 The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 
 
 Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
 
 The tower by war or tempest bent. 
 
 While yet may frown one battlement, 
 
 Demands and daunts the stanger's eye ; 
 
 Each ivied arch and pillar lone, 
 
 Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 
 
 "His floating robe around him folding, 
 Slow sweeps he through the columned aisle ; 
 With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
 The rites that sanctify the pile. 
 But when the anthem shakes the choir. 
 And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 
 By yonder lone and wavering torch 
 His aspect glares within the porch ; 
 There will he pause till all is done — 
 And hear the prayer, but utter none. 
 See — by the half-illumined wail 
 His hood fly back, his dark hair fall. 
 That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 
 As if tlje Gorgon there had bound 
 The sablest of the serpent-braid 
 That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 
 For he declines the convent-oath. 
 And leaves those locks unhallowed growth. 
 But wears our garb in all beside; 
 And, not from piety but pride. 
 Gives wealth to walls that never heard ' 
 Of his one holy vow nor word. 
 Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 
 P^ls louder praises to the sky, 
 That livid cheek, that stony air 
 Of mixed defiance and despair! 
 Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! 
 Else may we dread the wrath divine 
 Made manifest by awful sign. 
 If ever evil angel bore 
 The form of mortal, such he wore : 
 By all my hope of sins forgiven. 
 Such looks are not of earth nor heaven !" 
 
 To love the softest hearts are prone. 
 But such can ne'er be all his own; 
 Too timid in his woes to share. 
 Too meeJc to meet, or brave despair; 
 And sterner hearts alone may feel 
 The wound that time can never heal. 
 The rugged metal of the mine 
 Must burn before its surface shine, 
 But plunged within the furnace-flame, 
 
 It bends and melts — though still the same ; 
 Then tempered to thy want, or will, 
 'Twill serve thee to defend or kill; 
 A breast-plate for thine hour of need, 
 Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed; 
 But if a dagger's form it bear. 
 Let those who shape its edge beware ! 
 Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 
 Can turn and tame the sterner heart; 
 From these its form and tone are ta'en, 
 And what they make it, must remain. 
 But break — before it bend again. 
 
 If solitude succeed to grief, 
 Release from pain is slight relief; 
 The vacant bosom's wilderness 
 Might thank the pang that made it less. 
 We loathe what none are left to share : 
 Even bliss — 'twere woe alone to bear; 
 The heart once left thus desolate 
 Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
 It is as if the dead could feel 
 The icy worm around them steal, , 
 And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
 To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
 Without the power to scare away 
 The cold consumers of their clay! 
 It is as if the desert-bird. 
 Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 
 To still her famished nestlings' scream, 
 Nor mourns a life to them transferred. 
 Should rend her rash devoted breast. 
 And find them flown her empty nest. 
 The keenest pangs the wretched find 
 Are rapture to the dreary void. 
 The leafless desert of the mind, 
 The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
 Who would be doomed to gaze upon 
 A sky without a cloud or sun? 
 Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
 Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
 Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
 A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
 'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
 Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 
 Better to sink beneath the shock 
 Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 
 
 '•Father ! thy days have passed in peace, 
 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer 
 To bid the sins of others cease. 
 Thyself without a crime or care. 
 Save transient ills that all must bear, 
 Has been thy lot from youth to age; 
 And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
 Of passions fierce and uncontrolled, 
 Such as thy penitents unfold, 
 Whnse secret sins and sorrows rest 
 Within thy pure and pitying breast. 
 4* 
 
58 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 My days, tiiough few, have passed below 
 
 In much of joy, but more of woe; 
 
 Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
 
 I've 'scaped the weariness of life: 
 
 Now leag-ued with friends, now girt by foes, 
 
 I loathed the languor of repose. 
 
 Now nothing left to love or hate, 
 
 No more with hope or pride elate, 
 
 I'd rather be the thing tliat crawls 
 
 Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 
 
 Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
 
 Condemned to meditate and gaze. 
 
 Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 
 
 For rest — but not to feel 'tis rest. 
 
 Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 
 
 And I shall sleep without the dream 
 
 Of wliat I was, and would be still, 
 
 Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : 
 
 My memory now is but the tomb 
 
 Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom : 
 
 Though better to have died with those 
 
 Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
 
 3[y spirits shrunk not to sustain 
 
 The searching throes of ceaseless pain; 
 
 Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
 
 Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
 
 Yet death I have not feared to meet ; 
 
 And in the field it had been SAvect, 
 
 Had danger woo'd me on to move 
 
 The slave of glory, not of love. 
 
 I've braved it — not for honour's boast : 
 
 I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
 
 To such let others carve their way, 
 
 For high renown, or hireling-pay : 
 
 But place again before my eyes 
 
 Aught that I deem a worthy prize : 
 
 The maid I love, the man I hate. 
 
 And I will hunt the steps of fate, 
 
 To save or slay, as these require, 
 
 Through rending steel, and rolling fire ; 
 
 Nor needst thou doubt this speech from one 
 
 Who would but do — what he hath done. 
 
 Death is but what the haughty brave, 
 
 The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 
 
 Then let life go t« him who gave: 
 
 I have not quailed to danger's brow 
 
 When high and happy — need I now? 
 
 "I loved her, friar! nay, adored — 
 But these are words that all can use — 
 I proved it more in deed than word; 
 There's blood upon that dinted sword, 
 A stain its steel can never lose: 
 'Twas shed for her, who died for me. 
 It warmed tlie heart of one abhorred : 
 Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 
 Nor 'midst my sins such act record; 
 Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
 For he was hostile to thy creed ! 
 
 The very name of Nazarene 
 
 Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
 
 Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 
 
 Well wielded in some hardy hands. 
 
 And wounds by Galileans given. 
 
 The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
 
 For him his 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, 'twere 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 — 'tis 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 lie 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, 
 
 'Twas some relief, our foe a grave. 
 
 His death sits lightly; but her fate 
 
 Has made me — what thou well mayst hate. 
 
 His doom was scaled — he knew it well, ■ 
 
 Warned by the voice of stern Tahecr, 
 
 Deep in whose darkly boding ear 
 
 The deathshot pealed 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 crossed me in the fray — 
 
 I gazed upon him where he lay. 
 
 And watched his spirit ebb away : 
 
 Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel. 
 
 He felt not half that now I feel. 
 
 I searched, but vainly searched, 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 GIAOUR. 
 
 5& 
 
 " The cold in clime arc 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 check, and scorching vein, 
 Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
 If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 
 And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 
 And all tliat I have felt, and feel. 
 Betoken love — that love was mine, 
 And shown by many a bitter sign. 
 'Tis true I could not whine nor sigh, 
 I knew but to obtain or die. 
 I die — but first I have possessed, 
 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 I 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 turned mine eye. 
 The morning-stat 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 formed the whole ; 
 A glory circling round the soul ! 
 I grant my lave 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 quenched, 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 phrensy 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 ! 
 'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, 
 With havock have I marked 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; 
 And let the fool still prone to range. 
 And sneer on all who cannot change. 
 Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
 I envy not his varied joys, 
 But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
 Less than yon solitary swan ; 
 Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
 He left believing and betray' d. 
 Such shame at least was never mine — 
 Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
 My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 
 My hope on high — my all below. 
 Earth holds no other like to thee, 
 Or if it doth, in vain for me : 
 For worlds I dare not view the dame 
 Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
 The very crimes that mar my youth. 
 This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
 'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
 The cherished madness of my heart! 
 
 "And she was lost — and yet I breathed, 
 But not the breath of human life : 
 A serpent round my heart was wreathed. 
 And stung my very thought to strife. 
 Alike all time, abhorred all place, 
 Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face. 
 Where every hue that charmed before 
 The blackness of my bosom wore. 
 The rest thou dost already know, 
 And all my sins, and half my woe. 
 But talk no more of penitence; 
 Thou seest I soon shall part from hence : 
 And if thy holy tale were true. 
 The deed that's done canst thou undo ? 
 Think me not thankless — but this grief 
 Looks not to priesthood for relief. 
 My soul's estate in secret guess : 
 But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
 When thou canst bid my Leila live. 
 Then will I sue thee to forgive; 
 Then plead my cause in that high place 
 Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
 Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 
 From forest-cave her shrieking young, 
 And calm the lonely lioness : 
 But soothe not — mock not my distress ! 
 
60 
 
 "In earlier days, and calmer hours, 
 When heart with heart delights to blend, 
 Where bloom my native valley's bowers 
 I had — Ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
 To him this pledge I charge thee send, 
 Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
 I would remind him of my end : 
 Though souls absorbed like mine allow 
 Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
 Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
 'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom. 
 And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
 When prudence would his voice assume, 
 And warn — I recked not what — the while : 
 But now remembrance whispers o'er 
 Those accents scarcely marked before. 
 Say — that his bodings came to pass. 
 And he will start to hear their truth, 
 And wish his words had not been sooth : 
 Tell him, unheeding as I was, 
 Through many a busy bitter scene 
 Of all our golden youth had been. 
 In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
 To bless his memory ere I died ; 
 But heaven in wrath would turn away, 
 If guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
 I do not ask him not to blame, 
 Too gentle he to wound my name; 
 And what have I to do with fame? 
 I do not ask him not to mourn. 
 Such cold request might sound like scorn ; 
 And what than friendship's manly tear 
 May better grace a brother's bier ? 
 But bear this ring, his own of old, 
 And tell him — what thou dost behold ! 
 The withered frame, the ruined mind, 
 The wrack by passion left behind, 
 A shrivelled scroll, a scattered leaf. 
 Seared by the autumn-blast of grief ! 
 
 "Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
 No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 
 Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep. 
 I only watched, and wished to weep ; 
 But could not, for my burning brow 
 Throbbed to the very brain as now : 
 1 wished but for a single tear. 
 As something welcome, new, and dear : 
 I wished it then, I wish it still, 
 Despair is stronger than my will. 
 Waste not thine orison, despair 
 Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
 I would not, if I might, be blest; 
 I want no paradise, but rest, 
 'Twas then, I tell thee, father ! then 
 I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 
 And shining in her white symar, 
 As through yon pale gray cloud the star 
 Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
 Who looked and looks far lovelier; 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Dimly I view its trembling spark; 
 To-morrow's night shall be more dark ; 
 And I, before its rays appear, 
 That lifeless thing the living fear. 
 I wander, father; for my soul 
 Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
 I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
 Forgetful of our former woes; 
 And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
 And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 
 I clasp — what is it that I clasp? 
 No breathing form within my grasp, 
 No heart that beats reply to mine. 
 Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine ! 
 And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
 As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 
 Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
 I care not ; so my arms enfold 
 The all they ever wished to hold. 
 Alas ! around a shadow prest. 
 They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
 Yet still 'tis there ! In silence stands. 
 And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
 With braided hair, and bright black eye - 
 I knew 'twas 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 rolled above 
 The face I view, the form I love; 
 They told me — 'twas 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 passed — 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. 
 
61 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS, 
 
 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, 
 
 THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BV HIS GRATEFULLY 
 
 OBLIGED AND SINCERE FRIEND, 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 le cypress ana myrtle 
 
 Know ye tne land whfre the cypr ^ 
 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done'irf'their climc, 
 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 , oppressed with per- 
 fume, 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ; 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; 
 Where the tints of 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? 
 *Tis the clime of the east ; 'tis the land of the sun — 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 
 Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell [tell. 
 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they 
 
 ,jr^^^ 
 
 Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
 Apparelled as becomes the brave, • 
 Awaiting each his Lord's behest 
 To guide his steps, or guard his rest. 
 Old Giaffir sate in his DivaB : Jlf^M^. ^ 
 Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
 And though the face of Mussulman 
 Not oft betrays to standers by 
 The mind within, well skilled to hide 
 All but unconquerable pride. 
 His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
 Did more than he was wont avow. 
 
 "Let the chamber be cleared !"— The train disappeared 
 "Now call me the chief of the haram-guard." . 
 
 With Qiaffir is none but his only son. 
 And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 
 "Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 
 Are passed beyond the outer gate, 
 (Woe to the head whose eye beheld 
 My child Zuleika's face unveiled !) 
 Hence, lead my daughter from her towor; 
 Her fate is fixed this very hour: 
 Yet not to her repeat my thought; 
 By me alone be 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 young Selim silence brake, 
 First lowly rendering reverence meet; 
 And downcast looked, 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, 
 
62 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 CANTO 1. 
 
 Before the gtiardlan slaves awoke 
 
 We to the cypress-groves had flown, 
 
 And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! 
 
 There lingered we, beguiled too long 
 
 With Mej noun's tale, or Sadi's song ; 
 
 Till I, who heard the deep tambour 
 
 Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
 
 To thee and to my duty true. 
 
 Warned 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." 
 
 "Son of a slave — the Pacha said — 
 From unbelieving mother bred, 
 Vain were a father's hopes 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! \ JL \ J^ 
 Thou, who wouldst see this battlement/ ^ •/ • 
 By Christian cannon piecemeal reiir; 
 Nay, tamely view old Stambol's Avail 
 Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
 Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
 Against the curs of Nazareth ! • 
 
 Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
 Assume the distaff" — not the brand. 
 But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed ; 
 And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
 If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
 Thou secst yon bow — it hath a string !" 
 
 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 ! — reproached 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 returned him glance for glanco, 
 
 And proudly to his sire's was raised. 
 
 Till Giafiir's quailed 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'll watch him closer than before. 
 
 He is an Arab 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 cooled 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 tliy birth, and bless thee now." 
 
 Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 
 When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
 Whose image then was stamped upon her mind - 
 But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling; 
 Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision 
 To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given. 
 When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 
 And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven ; 
 Soft, as the memory of buried love; 
 Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts above , 
 Was she — the daughter of that rude old cliicf, 
 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 
 j'jie'H^ l l^ . n-^ fh^^rnj ^^i^ i V of loveljnesa f 
 Such was ZuleJfta — such around her shone 
 The nameless charm unmarked by her alone ; 
 The light of love, the purity of grace, 
 The mind, the music breathing from her face. 
 The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — 
 And, 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 
 
CANTO I 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 63 
 
 To clasp the neck of liim who blest 
 His child caressing' and carest, 
 Zulcika came — and Giaffir felt 
 His purpose half within him melt: 
 Not that ag-ainst her fancied weal 
 His heart though stern could ever feel; 
 Affection chained her to that heart; 
 Ambition tore the links apart. 
 
 "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 Carasman 
 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 what fate 
 The bearer of such boon may wait. 
 I And now thou knowest thy father's will ; 
 .ill that thy sex hath need to know : 
 'Twas mine to teach obedience still — 
 The way to love, thy lord may show." 
 
 In silence bowed the virgin's head ; 
 And if her eye was filled with tears 
 That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
 And changed her check from pale to red. 
 And red to pale, as through her ears 
 Those winged words like arrows sped, 
 Wliat could such be but maiden-fears ? 
 So bright the tear in beauty's eye. 
 Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
 So sweet the blush of bashfulness, 
 Even pity scarce can wish it less ! 
 Whate'er it was the sire forgot. 
 Or if remembered, marked it not! 
 Thrice clapped his hands, and called his steed. 
 Resigned his gem-adorned Chibouque, 
 And mounting featly for the mead. 
 With Maugrabee and Mamaluke, 
 His Avay amid his Delis took. 
 To witness many an active deed 
 With sabre keen, or blunt jerrecd. 
 The Kislar only and his Moors 
 Watch well the haram's massy doors. 
 
 His head was leant upon his hand, 
 His eye looked 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 turbaned band 
 Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
 Careering' cleave the folded felt 
 With sabre-stroke right sharply dealt; 
 Nor marked the javelin-darting crowd, 
 Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud — 
 He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter! 
 
 No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
 One sigh Zulcika's thought bespoke: 
 Still gazed he through the lattice-grate. 
 Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
 To him Zulcika's eye was turned. 
 But little from his aspect learned : 
 Equal her grief, yet not the same; 
 Her heart confessed a gentler flame: 
 But yet that heart alarmed or weak. 
 She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
 Yet speak she must — but when essay ? 
 "How strange he thus should turn awaj ! 
 Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
 Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
 Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 
 And watched his eye — it still was fixed: 
 She snatched the urn wherein was mixed 
 The Persian Atar-gul's perfume, 
 And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
 The pictured roof and marble floor : 
 The drops, that through his glittering vest 
 The playful girl's appeal addrest, 
 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 Zulcika's hand." 
 The childish thought was hardly breathed 
 Before the rose was plucked and wreathed; 
 The next fond moment saw her seat 
 Her fairy-form at Selim's feet : 
 "This rose to calm my brother's cares 
 A message from the Bulbul bears ; 
 It says to-night he will prolong 
 For Selim's ear his sweetest song; 
 And though his note is somewhat sad. 
 He'll try for once a strain more glad. 
 With some faint hope his altered lay 
 May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 
 
 "What ! not receive my foolish flower? 
 Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
 On me can thus thy foreliead lower? 
 And knowest thou not who loves thee best? 
 Oh! Selim dear! Oh, more than dearest! 
 Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ? 
 Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
 
64 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 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; 
 
 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! 
 
 Thinkst thou that I could bear to part 
 
 With thee, and learn to halve my heart? 
 
 Ah ! were I severed from thy side. 
 
 Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 
 
 Years have not seen, time shall not see 
 
 The hpur that tears my soul from tliee: 
 
 Eveii Azrael/from his deadly quiver 
 
 When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
 
 Tliat parts all else, shall doom for ever 
 
 Our hearts to undivided dust !" 
 
 He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt; 
 
 He raised the maid from where she knelt: 
 
 His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
 
 With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt; 
 
 With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
 
 As the stream late concealed 
 
 By the fringe of its willows; 
 
 When it rushes revealed 
 
 In the light of its billows; 
 
 As the bolt bursts on high 
 
 From the black cloud that bound it, 
 
 Flashed the soul of that eye 
 
 Through the long lashes round it. 
 
 A warhorse 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 repressed, 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: 
 I But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
 I Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
 / I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
 \ That clusters round thy forehead fair, 
 \ For all the treasures buried far 
 Within the caves of Istakar. 
 
 This morning clouds upon me lowered, 
 
 Reproaches on my head were showered, 
 
 And GiaflSr almost called me coward ! 
 
 Now I have motive to be brave ; 
 
 The son of his neglected slave, 
 
 Nay, start not, 'twas 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 control : 
 
 Was he not bred in Egripo? 
 
 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." 
 
 "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 knewst 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 : 
 Tliy 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 mucli of mystery ? 
 The cause I cannot dream nor tell. 
 But be it, since thou sayst 'tis well ; 
 Yet what thou meanst by "arms" and "friends,' 
 Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
 I meant that Giaftir sliould have heard 
 The very vow I plighted thee ; 
 His wrath would not revoke my word ; 
 But surely he would leave me free. 
 Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
 To be what I have ever been? 
 What other hath Zuleika seen 
 From simple childhood's earliest hour? 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 65 
 
 What other can she seek to sec 
 Than thee, companion of her bower, 
 TThe partner of her infancy? 
 Tliese clierished thoughts with life begun, 
 Say, why must I no more avow ? 
 Wliat change is wrouglit to make me slum 
 The truth; my pride, and thine till now ? 
 To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
 Our law, our creed, our God denies; 
 Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
 At such, our Prophet's will, repine : 
 No! happier made by that decree ! 
 He left me all in leaving thee. 
 Deep were my anguish, thus compelled 
 I To wed with one I ne'er beheld: 
 ! This wherefore should I not reveal .' 
 i Why wilt thou urge me to conceal 7 
 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 
 My 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, 
 My father leaves the mimic war; 
 I tremble now to meet his eye — • 
 Say, Sclim, canst thou tell me why .'" 
 
 "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, Avhen the twilight-drum 
 Hath warned the troops to food and sk-ep, 
 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 feci. 
 Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
 Than thou hast heard or thought before ; 
 Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
 Thou kuowst 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 talc, 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 warned 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 hailed above; 
 His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
 "Ye waves, divide not lovers long!" — 
 That tale is old, but love ane v 
 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 bedewed 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! 
 
 Oh! yet — for there my steps have been ; 
 These feet have pressed 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" still dashes. 
 Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
 Who there could gaze denying thee ! 
 
 The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 
 Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
 That moon, which shone on his high theme : 
 5 
 
66 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 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 miglity heap of gathered ground 
 Wliich Amnion's son ran proudly round, 
 By nations raised, by monarchs crowned, 
 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 ! 
 
 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; 
 Tlie scattered 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 
 Arc thrown the fragrant beads of amber. 
 O'er which her fairy-fingers ran; 
 Near these, with emerald-rays beset, 
 (How could she thus that gem forget?) 
 Her mother's sainted amulet. 
 Whereon engraved the Koorsee text. 
 Could smooth tliis life, and win the next ; 
 And by her Comboloio lies 
 A Koran of illumined dyes; 
 And many a bright emblazoned rhyme 
 By Persian scribes redeemed 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 tiiat can eye or sense delight 
 Are gathered in that gorgeous room,: 
 But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
 She, of this Peri-ccll the sprite, 
 What doth she hence, and on so rude a niglit ! 
 
 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? 
 
 They reached at length a grotto, hewn 
 By nature, but enlarged by art, 
 Where oft her lute she wont to tune 
 And oft her Koran conned apart; 
 And oft in youthful reverie 
 She dreamed what Paradise might be : 
 Where woman's parted soul shall go 
 Her Propiiet had disdained to show ; 
 But Selim's mansion was secure. 
 Nor deemed 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 ? 
 
 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 dimlj' 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 turbaned 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 turned to see 
 Her Selim — "Oh! can this be he?" 
 
 His robe of pride was thrown aside, 
 His brow no high-crowned turban bore, 
 But in its stead a shawl of red, 
 Wreathf;d lightly round, his temples wore: 
 That dagger, on wbose hilt the gem 
 Were worthy of a diadem. 
 No longer glittered at his waist. 
 Where pistols unadorned 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 j'oung Galiongee. 
 
 "I said I was not what I seemed ; 
 And now thou seest my words were true ; 
 I have a tale thou hast not dreamed, 
 If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
 My story now 'twere vain to hide, 
 I must not see thee Osmaa's bride ; 
 But had not thine own lips declared 
 
CANTO I.I. 
 
 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 !" 
 
 "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! 
 ]VIy sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
 But know me all I was before, 
 Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
 Thou ledst me here perchance to kill; 
 If thou hast cause for vengeance, see ! 
 My breast is offered — 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 Giaflir always seemed thy foe; 
 And I, alas ! am Giaflir 's child, 
 For whom thou wert contemned, reviled. 
 If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 
 My life, oh ! bid me be thy slave \" 
 
 "My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine: 
 But, gentle love, this transport calm, 
 Thy lot shall yet be linked with mine ; 
 I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 
 And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
 So may the Koran-verse display'd 
 Upon its steel direct my blade. 
 In danger's hour to guard us both. 
 As I preserve that awful oath ! 
 The name in which thy heart hath prided 
 Must change; but, my Zuleika, know, 
 That tie is widened, not divided, 
 Ahhough thy sire's my deadliest foe. 
 My father was to Giaflir all 
 That Selim late was deemed to thee; 
 That brother wrought a brother's fall. 
 But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
 And lulled me with a vain deceit 
 That yet a like return may meet. 
 He reared me, not with tender help, 
 But like the nephew of a Cain ; 
 He watched 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 Giaflir wrought this deed of fear. 
 
 "How first their strife to rancour grew. 
 If love or envy made them foes, 
 It matters little if I knew ; 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 67 
 
 In fiery spirits, slights, though few 
 
 And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
 
 In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
 
 Remembered yet in Bosniac song. 
 
 And Paswan's rebel-hordes attest 
 
 How little love they bore such guest : 
 
 His death is all I need relate. 
 
 The stern eflect of Giaffir's hate; 
 
 And how my birth disclosed to me, 
 
 Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 
 
 "When Pas wan, 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 to the wind, 
 And mustering in Sophia's plain 
 Their tents were pitched, their post assigned; 
 To one, alas ! assigned in vain ! 
 What need of words? the deadly bowl. 
 By Giaffir's order drugged and given, 
 With venom subtle as his soul. 
 Dismissed Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
 Reclined and feverish in the bath. 
 He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
 But little deemed a brother's wrath 
 To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
 ' The bowl a bribed attendant bore; 
 He drank one draught, nor needed more ! 
 If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt. 
 Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 
 The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
 In part suppressed, though ne'er subdued, 
 Abdallah's Pachalick was gained : — 
 Thou knowst not what in our Divan 
 Can wealth procure for worse than man — 
 Abdallah's honours were obtained 
 By him a brother's murder stained ; 
 'Tis true, the purchase nearly drained 
 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 shaf ed, 
 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
68 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 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 Giaflir's safety was ensured. 
 Removed he too from Roumelic 
 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: 
 
 iSuch still to guilt just Alia sends 
 Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! _ 
 
 "All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds; 
 But harsher still my tale must be : 
 Howe'er my tongue thy softness wouiuls, 
 Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 
 I saw thee start this garb to see, 
 Yet it is one I oft have worn. 
 And long must wear : this Galiongcc, 
 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 scest my band have broiiglit. 
 The hands that wield are not remote; 
 This cup too for the rugged knaves 
 Is filled — once quaffed, they ne'er repine : 
 Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 
 They're only infidels in'wine. 
 
 "What could I be? Proscribed at home, 
 And taunted to a wish to roam; 
 And listless left — for Giaflir's fear 
 Denied the courser and the spear — 
 Though oft— Oh, Mahomet! how oft ! — 
 In full Divan the despot scoffed, 
 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 endeared. 
 
 Though it unmanned me, still had cheered — 
 
 To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 
 
 Awaitcdst 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 Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
 
 'Tis vain — my tongue can not impart 
 
 M3' 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 ! 
 
 Even for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
 
 The woi Id — nay — heaven itself was mine ! 
 
 "The shallop of a trusty Moor 
 Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 
 I longed to see the isles that gem 
 Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
 I souglit by turns, and saw them all ; 
 But when and where I joined the crew. 
 With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall, 
 When all that we design to do 
 Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
 To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 
 
 "'Tis true, they are a lawless brood, 
 But rough in form, nor mild in mood; 
 And every creed, and every race. 
 With them hath found — may find a place : 
 But open speech, and ready hand, 
 Obedience to their chief's command, 
 A soul for every enterprize, 
 That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
 Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
 And vengeance vowed for those who fall, 
 Have made them fitting instruments 
 For more than even my own intents. 
 And some — and I have studied all 
 Distinguished 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 patriots there 
 Anticipated freedom share; 
 And oft around the cavern-fire 
 On visionary schemes debate. 
 To snatch the Rayahs 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 roam. 
 Or only know on land the Tartar's home ! 
 My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
 Are more than cities and serais to me : 
 Borne by ray steed, or wafted by my sail. 
 
CANTO n. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 69 
 
 Across the desert, or before the gale, 
 Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, ruy 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, j 
 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 waU 
 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 cars, 
 Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 
 For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
 Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 
 A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, 
 Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ! 
 Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, 
 The spoil of nations sliall bedeck my bride. 
 The haram's languid years of listless ease 
 Are well resigned for cares — for joys like these: 
 Not blind to fate, I sec, where'er I rove, 
 Unnumbered perils — but one only love! 
 Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
 Tliough 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 but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown ; 
 To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 
 To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 
 Blend every thought, do all — but disunite! 
 Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide; 
 Friends to each other, foes to augiit beside: 
 Yet there we follow but the bent assigned 
 By fatal nature to man's warring kind : 
 Mark! where his carnage and his conquests reasc ! 
 He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 
 I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength. 
 But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 
 Power sways 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 migiit err — how oft the heart 
 Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 
 And woman, more than man, when deatli 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 Giaflir's stern decree. 
 That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 
 Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail: 
 I No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 
 ■ Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
 I 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 talc to close ; 
 Of thine but one to waft us from our foes; 
 Yea — foes — to me will Giafiir's hate decline? 
 And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 
 
 "His head and faith from doubt and death 
 Ileturned 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 doomed it too : 
 I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
 'Tis fit I oftener share the toil. 
 But now too long Fve 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 wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 
 Perchance his life who gave thee thine, 
 With me this hour away — away! 
 But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
 Wouldst thou recalithy willing vow, 
 Appalled by truths imparted now, 
 Here rest I — not to see thee wed: 
 But be tJi&t peril on my head !" 
 
 Zuleika, mute and motionless, 
 Stood like that statue of distress, 
 When, her last hope for ever gone. 
 The mother hardened into stone ; 
 All in the maid that eye could see 
 Was but a younger Niobe. 
 But ere her lip, or even her eye, 
 Essay'd to speak, or look reply. 
 Beneath the garden's wicket-porch 
 Far flashed 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 haiid 
 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 GiaflRr in his fury raving: 
 And now almost they touch the cave — 
 Oh! must that grot be Selim's grave? 
 
70 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Dauntless he stood — "' Tis come — soon past 
 One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis ray 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 eflort more." 
 Forth to the cavern-mouth he stopt ; 
 His pistol's echo rang on high, 
 Zuleika started not, nor wept, 
 Despair benumbed her breast and eye ! — 
 "They hear me not, or if they ply 
 Their oars, 'tis but to see me die; 
 That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
 Then forth my father's scimitar, 
 Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
 Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 
 Yet stay within — here linger safe, 
 At thee his rage will only chafe. 
 Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
 Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
 Fearst thou for him? — may I expire 
 If in this strife I seek thy sire! 
 No — though by him that poison poured ; 
 No — though again he call me coward! 
 But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
 No — as each crest save his may feel!" 
 
 One bound he made, and gained the sand; 
 Already at his feet hath sunk 
 The foremost of the prying band, 
 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 — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
 His heart's best blood is on the water ! 
 
 Escaped from shot, unharmed by steel, 
 Or scarcely grazed its 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 doomed his death, or fixed his chain. 
 Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
 How late will lover's hope remain ! 
 His back was to the dashing spray, 
 Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
 When, at the instant, hissed the ball — 
 
 "So may the foes of Giaffir fall I" 
 
 Whose voice is heard ? wiiose carbine rang ? 
 
 Whose bullet through the night-air sang , 
 
 Too nearly, deadly aimed to err? 
 
 'Tis thine — Abdallah's murderer! 
 
 The father slowly rued tliy hate. 
 
 The son hath found a quicker fate : 
 
 Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling. 
 
 The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
 
 If aught his lips essay 'd to groan, 
 
 The rushing billows choaked the tone ! 
 
 Morn slowly rolls tlie clouds away ; 
 Few trophies of the fight are there : 
 The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 
 Are silent; but some signs of fray 
 That strand of strife may bear. 
 And fragments of each shivered brand : 
 Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
 The print of many a struggling hand 
 May there be marked ; nor far remote 
 A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
 And tangled on the weeds that heap 
 The beach where shelving to the deep 
 There lies a white capote ! 
 'Tis rent in twain — one dark -red stain 
 The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 
 But where is he who wore ? 
 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 sliriek 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 robbed the meaner worm ; 
 The only heart, the only eye 
 Had bled or wept to see liim die, 
 Had seen those scattered limbs composed , 
 And mourned above his turban-stone, 
 
 4 That heart hath burst — that eye was closed — 
 
 i Yea — closed before his own ! 
 
 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-wulleh warn his distant ear ? 
 Thy handmaids weeping at the gate. 
 The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, 
 The silent slaves with folded arras that wait. 
 
CANTO II 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 71 
 
 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 -r- 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 tliy 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 heapst the dust upon thy head. 
 
 Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread : 
 
 By that same hand Abdallah — Sclim 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 hath set that shone on Helle's stream. 
 
 What quench'd its rays? — the blood that thou hast shed! 
 
 Hark! to the hurried question of despair: 
 
 "Where is my child?" an echo answers — "Where ?" 
 
 Within the place of thousand tombs 
 That shine beneath, while dark above 
 The sad but living cypress glooms 
 And withers not, though branch and leaf 
 Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 
 Like early unrequited love. 
 One spot exists, which ever blooms. 
 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 skj' 
 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 no earthly flower. 
 
 Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
 
 And buds unsheltered by a bower j 
 
 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. 
 
 But soft as harp that Houri strings 
 
 His long entrancing note ! 
 
 It were the bulbul ; but his throat, 
 
 Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
 
 For they who listen cannot leave 
 
 The spot, but linger there and grieve 
 
 As if they loved in vain ! 
 
 And yet so sweet the tears they shdd, 
 
 'Tis sorrow so unmixed 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. 
 
 'Tis from her cypress' summit heard^ 
 
 That melts in air the liquid word ; 
 
 'Tis 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-fixed pillar to the shore; 
 
 For there, as Helle's legends tell, 
 
 Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell ; 
 
 Lashed by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
 
 Denied his bones a holier grave : 
 
 And there, by night, reclined, 'tis said. 
 
 Is seen a ghastly turbaned head : 
 
 And hence extended by the billow, 
 
 'Tis named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow !" 
 
 Where first it lay that mourning flower ^ 
 
 Hath flourished; flourisheth this hour, 
 
 Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
 
 As weeping beauty's cheek at sorrow's tale! 
 
72 
 
 THE CORSAIR, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 1 suoi jjcnsieri in lui dormir non ponno. 
 
 Tasso. 
 
 TO 
 
 THOMAS MOORE, esq. 
 
 I DEDICATE to you tlic last production with wliich 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 
 patriots; while you stand alone tlie first of her bards in 
 her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, 
 permit one,whoseonly regret, since our first acquaintance, 
 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 ab- 
 sence. 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 
 magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons , the beauty and 
 feeling of her daughters, may there be found; and Col- 
 lins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclo- 
 gues, was not aware how true, at least, was a part of his 
 parallel. Your imagination will create a warmer sun, 
 and less cloudy sky ; but wildness , tenderness , and 
 originality are part of your national claim of oriental 
 descent, to which you have already thus far proved your 
 title more clearly than the most zealous of your country's 
 antiquarians. 
 
 May I add a few words on a subject on which all men 
 arc supposed to be fluent, and none ^reeable? — 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 diflicult, but, 
 perhaps , the best adapted measure to our language , the 
 good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza 
 of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narra- 
 tive; though, I confess, it is the measure most after my 
 
 own heart. Scott alone, of the present generation , 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 notliing but composi- 
 tions 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 re- 
 sponsible 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 I see several bards (far more deserving, 
 I allow) in very reputable plight, and quite exempted 
 from all participation in the faults of those heroes, AvhO; 
 nevertheless, might be found with little moremoralitj 
 than "The Giaour," and perhaps — but no — I mustadmi 
 Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage; and ai 
 to his identity, those who like it must give him whatevei 
 "alias" they please. 
 
 If, however, it were worth while to remove the impres- 
 sion, it might be of some service to me, that the man whc 
 is alike the delight of his readers and his friends, the poei 
 of all circles , and the idol of his own, permits me hen 
 and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 
 most truly and affectionate!}^, 
 
 his obedient servant, 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 January 'i, 1814. 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 nessun maggior dolore, 
 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo I'elice 
 
 Nella luiseria 
 
 Dante. 
 
 73 
 
 "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 Hag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
 Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
 From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
 Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave! 
 Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; 
 Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
 Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please — 
 Oh, who can tell, save he wliose heart hath tried. 
 And danced in triumpli 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 witli us die our foes — 
 Save that it seems even duller tiian repose : 
 Come when it will — we snatch tlic life of life — 
 When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife? 
 Let him who crawls enamoured of decay, 
 Cling to his couch, and sicken years away, 
 Heave his th^ck breath, and shake his palsied head; 
 Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
 While gasp by gasp he falters 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 arc the tears, though few, sincerely shed. 
 When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
 Fo»us even banquets fond regret supply 
 In the red cup that crowns our memory; 
 And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
 t>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!" 
 
 Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle. 
 Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while ; 
 Such were the sounds that thrili'd the rocks along, 
 And unto ears as rugged seem'd 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; 
 
 Tiieirs, 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 hrs 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 passed 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 tliat 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 sucli, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
 
 Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 
 
 "A sail ! — a sail !" — a promised prize to hope! 
 Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope? 
 No prize, alas I — 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 wing» 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 -— tlie wreck — 
 To move the monarch of her peopled deck? 
 
 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 
 
74 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 
 
 'Tis mann'd — tlie 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 did — but who are safe? 
 Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
 And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes !" — 
 
 "Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 
 And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — short; 
 Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief; 
 But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 
 Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return. 
 And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 
 Ascending 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 scattered streams from granite-basins burst, 
 Leap into life, and sparkling woo jour thirst; 
 From crag to cliff they mount — Near yonder cave, 
 What lonely straggler looks along the wave? 
 In pensive iK)sture leaning on the brand, 
 Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand. 
 "'Tis he — 'tis 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 knowst his mood. 
 When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 
 
 Him Juan sought, and told of their intent — 
 He spake not — but a sign exprcss'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, [short. 
 
 Much that" — "Peace, peace !" — He cuts their prating 
 Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each 
 Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
 They watch his glance with many a steaffing 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 anchored bark." 
 "There let him stay — to him this order bear. 
 I3ack 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." 
 
 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, / 
 
 S(;arcc 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 witli 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! 
 'Tis Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils 
 Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
 Oh! if he knew the Aveight of splendid chains,*;: ' 
 How light the balance of his humbler pains ! i 
 
 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 perplex'd the view. 
 As if within tiiat murkincss 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. 
 
CANTO 1. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 75 
 
 There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
 
 The full encounter of his searching eye ; 
 
 He liad the skill, when cunning's gaze would seek 
 
 To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 
 
 At once the observer's purpose to espy, 
 
 And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
 
 Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
 
 Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. 
 
 There was a laughing devil in his sneer, . / 
 
 That raised emotions both of rage and fear; 1/ 
 
 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 — 'twas 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. 
 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 strengtlien — 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? 
 
 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 there a fool; 
 
 "Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, v 
 
 Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, s/ 
 
 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, J 
 
 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 \J 
 
 Tlie 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 ! 
 
 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, strengthened 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 'Tis 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'll 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 I 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 'twas 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! 
 
76 
 
 THE CORSAIR 
 
 CANTO ] 
 
 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 ray pride thus baffled in the snare : 
 
 Is this my skill ? my craft? to set at last 
 
 Hope, power, and life upon a single east? 
 
 Oh, fate ! — accuse tliy folly, not thy fate — 
 
 She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 
 
 Thus with himself communion held he, till 
 He reach'd the summit of his tower-crowned 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 tliey rung. 
 And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 
 
 "Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
 Lonely and lost to liglit 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. 
 
 "Remember mc — Oli ! 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 passed the portal — crossed the eorridore. 
 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 mntc ! 
 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 outwateh'd each star. 
 And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
 Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew. 
 And day broke dreary on my troubled view. 
 And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
 Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
 At length — 'twas noon — I hail'd and blest the mast 
 That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! — it past! 
 
 Another came — O God ! 'twas 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 knowst 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 'twas 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 discntvvined, 
 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 stetl 
 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 tlie fruit tiiat promised best. 
 And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guessed 
 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 spread; our silver-lamp 
 Is trinim'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp: 
 Then shall my handmaids while the time along. 
 And join me in 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'll turn tiie tale, by Ariosto told. 
 Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 
 Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
 To that lost damsel, shouldst tliou leave mc now; 
 Or even that traitor-chief — I've seen thee smile. 
 When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 77 
 
 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 — ^nd 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 !— 'tis the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — 
 One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu !" 
 
 She rose — she sprung — ^she clung to his embrace, 
 Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
 He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye 
 Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
 Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms. 
 In all the wildness of dishevelled charms ; 
 Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
 So full — that feeling seem'd almost unfelt! 
 Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 
 It told 'twas sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
 Again — again — that form he madly press'd ; 
 Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 
 And tottering to the couch his bride he bore. 
 One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
 Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
 Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone ? 
 
 "And is he gone ?" — on sudden solitude 
 How oft that fearful question will intrude? 
 "'Twas but an instant past — and here he stood ! 
 And now" — without the portal's porch she rush'd. 
 And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 
 Big— bright— and fast, unknown to her they fell; 
 But still her lips refused to send — "Farewell !" 
 For in that word — that fatal word — ^liowe'er 
 We promise — hope — believe — there breatlics 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 rcnew'd. 
 "He's gone!"— against her heart that hand is driven, 
 Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven ; 
 She looked 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 !" 
 
 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 hail'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; 
 But 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 seaboy 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 
 Tlie 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 the lofty port, the distant mien. 
 That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : 
 The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, v 
 
 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 others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
 When echoed to the heart as from his own 
 His deep yet tender melody of tone: 
 But sucli 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. 
 
 Around him mustering ranged liis ready guard. 
 Before him Juan stands — "Are all prepared?" 
 "They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 
 
 Waits but my chief " 
 
 "My sword, and my capote." 
 Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung. 
 His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung ; 
 
78 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 CANTO IL 
 
 "Call Pedro here!" He comes — and Conrad bends, 
 Wltli ail the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
 "Receive 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) tiic 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 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? 
 Mean time, 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 ; 
 Screcji'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 leaned their loader o'er the fretting flood. 
 And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 
 
 CANTO 
 
 II. 
 
 Conosceste i dubiosi desiri? 
 Da.ntk. 
 
 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; 
 'Tis but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's sun 
 Will see the pirates bound — their haven won ! 
 Mean time 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- 
 
 High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
 Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
 Removed the banquet, and the last pilaft" — 
 Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff, 
 Though to the rest the sober berry's juice. 
 The slaves bear round for rigid Moslem's use; 
 The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply. 
 While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy. 
 The rising morn will view the chief 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 Pacha's boast. 
 
 With cautious reverence from the outer gate 
 Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 
 Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor : 
 Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore ; 
 "A captive dervise, from the pirate's nest 
 Escaped, is 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 seem'd of hardship more than years. 
 
CANTO II THE CORSAIR. 
 
 79 
 
 And pale his check with penance, not from fears. 
 Vowed to his God — his sable locks lie 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 tliat scann'd, 
 And question of his coming* fain would seek, 
 Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 
 
 "Whence com'st thou, Dervise?" 
 
 "From the outlaw's den, 
 A fugitive — " 
 
 "Thy capture where and when ?" 
 "From Scalanova's port to Scio's isle 
 The Saick was bound; but Alia did not smile 
 Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
 The rovers won: our limbs have worn their chains. 
 I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
 Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost; 
 At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
 Afforded hope, and ofler'd chance of flight: 
 I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
 With thee — most mighty Pacha! who can fear?" 
 
 "How speed the outlaws ? stand they well prepared, 
 Tlieir plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard .' 
 Dream tliey of this our preparation, doom'd 
 To view witli fire their scorpion-nest consumed?" 
 
 "Pacha! the fettered 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. 
 Tiiis 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; 
 TJie 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." 
 
 "Sta}', Dervise ! I have more to question— staj', 
 I do command thee — sit — dost hear? — obey ! 
 More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring; 
 Tiiou siialt not pine where all are banqueting. 
 The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
 Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 
 
 'Twcre vain to guess what shook the pious man. 
 Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
 Nor show'd high relish for the banquet prest. 
 And less respect for every fellow-guest. 
 *Twas but a moment's peevish hectic past 
 
 Along his cheek, and tranquillised 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 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 ! treaciiery ! 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 I 
 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! 
 He saw their terror — check'd the first despaii 
 That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
 Since far too early and too avcH obey'd, 
 The flame was kindled ere the signal made; 
 He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 
 His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 
 'Tis answer'd — "Well ye speed, my gallant crew ' 
 
80 
 
 A 
 
 .X 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 CANTO IK 
 
 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 begun, 
 
 And makes the many basely quail to one. 
 
 The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
 
 And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head: 
 
 Even Seyd, convulsed, o'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; 
 
 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 -^ 
 
 "'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die. 
 
 Much hath been done — but more remains to do — 
 
 Their galleys blaze — why not their city too?" 
 
 Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch. 
 And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
 A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 
 But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 
 Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 
 Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 
 "Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not, on your lives. 
 One female form — remember — we have wives. 
 On them such outrage vengeance will repay ; 
 Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 
 But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 
 Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 
 If at my word the helpless cease to live; 
 Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
 Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
 He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door. 
 Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floors 
 His breath choak'd 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 with gore imbrued. 
 But who is she? whom Conrad's arms convey 
 From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 
 Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed? 
 The haram-queen — but still the slave of Seyd ! 
 
 Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare, 
 Few words to reassure the trembling fair; 
 
 For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war 
 The foe, before retiring fast and far. 
 With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 
 First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 
 This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few. 
 Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 
 And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
 The ruin 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 host!" 
 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 
 But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
 And sinks out wearied rather than o'ercome. 
 His last faint quittance rendering with his breath. 
 Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 
 I' 
 
 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 bcstow'd, 
 And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : 
 And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
 Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair. 
 Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
 That smoothed his accents; soften'd in his eye : 
 'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 
 Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
 The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
 Must seem delighted with the heart he gave; 
 The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed afl'right, 
 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!" 
 
 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 — battled of the death he sought. 
 And snatch'd to expiate all tlie ills he wrought ; 
 Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
 While Vengeance pondered o'er new plans 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 '• 
 
CANTO 11. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 81 
 
 'Tis 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 tiie hand that then could kill. 
 
 Oil ! 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 
 
 TJiat 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 'Twere 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, "I 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, lo itself, all — all that self reveals. 
 No single passion, and no ruling thought 
 That leaves the rest at once unseen, unsought; 
 But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 
 All rushing through their thousand avenues. 
 Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
 Eiidanger'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 remembcr'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 ; 
 
 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 flics; 
 
 Bu t he w ho looks on death — and silent dies. 
 
 So steeP3T5y pondering o'er his far career. 
 
 He halfway meets him should he menace near ! 
 
 In the high chamber of his highest tower, 
 Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
 His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 
 Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
 Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame. 
 His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same : -^ 
 Alone he 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. 
 
 'Twas 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— [demned— 
 Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — con- 
 A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep -^ 
 Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 
 
 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, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face! 
 Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
 Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
 Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
 And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
 That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
 6 
 
82 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 And auburn waves of gcmm'd and braided hair; 
 
 Witli shape of fairy-lightness — naked foot, 
 
 That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 
 
 Through guards and dunnest night liow came it there ? 
 
 Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 
 
 Whom youth and pity lead like tliee, Gulnarc ! 
 
 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. 
 
 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 — 'tis to him my life, and more I owe, 
 And me and mine he spared from worse than woe : 
 'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
 How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes !" 
 He raised his head — and dazzled with the 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 knowst 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 s.o 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 scaflold 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 bad 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. 
 
 "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 
 Tlie 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: 
 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 G od ! 
 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 ; 
 ily 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 appeared, Gulnarc ! 
 Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair?" 
 
 "Thou lovest another then ? — but what to me 
 Is this — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
 But 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 — mcthought 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 heart's recoil to bear. 
 And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
 He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
 Its 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. 
 
CANTO III. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 83 
 
 Yes — had I ever proved tliat passion's zeal, 
 
 TJie change to hatred were at least to feel : 
 
 But still — lie goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — 
 
 And oft when present — absent from my tliought. 
 
 Or when reflection comes, and come it must — 
 
 1 fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust; 
 
 1 am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
 
 'Twere worse tlian 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, 
 
 Who share such love as I can never know. 
 
 Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 
 
 'Twill cost me dear — but dread no death to-day !" 
 
 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 other's pain, 
 
 That starts at once — bright — pure — from pity's mine, 
 Already polish'd by the hand divine ! 
 
 Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
 In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
 That weapon of her weakness she can wield, , 
 
 To save, subdue — at once her 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 ! 
 
 'Tis 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, 
 Wliile sets that sun, and dews of evening raelt. 
 Chill — wet — and misty round each stifieii'd limb, 
 Refreshing earth — reviving all but hira ! 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 ancor noii in'abbandona. 
 Dante. 
 
 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
 Along Morca'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 JEghm'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-sliadows kiss 
 Thy glorious gulph, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
 Their azure arches through the long expanse 
 More deeply purpled meet this 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 murdcr'd sage's latest day ! 
 Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 
 But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seera'd to pour. 
 The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before, 
 But ere he sunk below Cithseron'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 Hymettus to the plain. 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 
 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, 
 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. 
 
64 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 Ag-aJn the JEgean, 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. 
 
 Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thcel 
 Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, 
 Nor dwell upon thy name, whatc'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 Cycladcs ! 
 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 ! 
 
 The Sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night, 
 Sinks with his 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 : 
 S he 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 appcar'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 — lluttcr'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." 
 'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might 
 Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 
 
 "Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
 What — speak not —breathe not — for I know it well- 
 
 Yet Avould I ask — almost my lip denies 
 
 The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies V 
 
 "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 — 'twas in vain to strive — 
 Sothrobb'd each vein-each thought— till then withstood; 
 Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued: 
 She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
 Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; 
 But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
 They yield such aid as pity's haste 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. 
 
 In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange, 
 With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge; 
 All, save repose or flight: still lingering there 
 Breathed Conrad's spirit and forbade despair; 
 Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led. 
 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, 
 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! 
 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 baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — 
 Watch'd — foUow'd — he were then an easier prey ; 
 But once cut off — the remnant of his band 
 Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 
 
 "Gulnare! — If for each drop of blood a gem 
 Were offer'd rich as Stambonl'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, 
 
CANTO III. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 85 
 
 But that I know him fctter'd, in my power ; 
 And, thirsting for revcng-e, I ponder still 
 On pangs that longest rack and latest kill." 
 
 "Nay, Scyd ! — 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 1 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 liear ! 
 1 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 needst not answer — thy confession speaks, 
 Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks; 
 Then, lovely dame, bethink thee! and beware: 
 'Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! 
 Anotlier 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 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing! 
 Knowst 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 : 
 All ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
 Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued ; 
 And little deem'd he wliat 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 ! 
 
 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 tliat he could ever hear ; 
 J| Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 
 
 Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 
 
 'Twas worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore 
 
 That conflict deadlier far than all before : 
 
 The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 
 
 Leave scarce one tliought inert enough to quail ; 
 
 But bound and fix'd in fetter'd 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 ears that death became thee well ; 
 
 Arouad 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 one from thee riven. 
 
 Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 
 
 And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
 
 And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill? 
 
 Since not to sink beneath, is something still! 
 
 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 tde 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 roU'd onward and disdain'd to strike; 
 Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone. 
 As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan ! 
 
 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: 
 'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she! 
 Whatc'er her sins, to him a guardian-saint, 
 And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint; 
 
86 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 CANTO m 
 
 Yet changed siuce 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 tlie 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 — tiiank'd thee — 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 tliese 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 remain? 
 Well, since wc met, hath sped my busy time, 
 If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime: 
 The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. 
 That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 
 I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 
 Wrong' d — spurn'd— reviled — and it shall be avenged — 
 Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 
 Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 
 Yes, smile! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
 I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 
 But he has said it — and the jealous well, 
 Tiiose tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel. 
 Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 
 I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 
 Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 
 I was a slave unmurmuring; he hath said, 
 But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 
 
 'Twas false thou knowst — 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 tiiee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, 
 
 If but to show how grateful is a slave. 
 
 But had be 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 knowst — or but the worst. 
 
 Alas 1 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; 
 
 'Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now 
 
 It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
 
 But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
 
 There sleeps — he must not wake— the oppressor Scyd !' 
 
 "Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 
 My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 
 Scyd 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 shewn amiss. 
 Now fare thee well — more peace be Avith 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 ! 'tis but a blow I 
 Without it flight were idle — how evade 
 His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, 
 My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years. 
 One blow shall cancel with our future fears; 
 But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
 I'll try the firmness of a female hand. 
 The guards arc 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 scafi'old and my shroud." 
 
 She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 
 But his glance folio w'd far with eager eye; 
 And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
 His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 
 Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 
 
CANTO 111. 
 
 / 
 
 {P^ 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 87 
 
 (I!" 
 
 He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
 
 'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 
 
 Tliat passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 
 
 He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
 
 Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak? 
 
 Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 
 
 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 liglit 
 
 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 — 'tis 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 veiled her face and bosom fair: 
 
 As if she late had bent her leaning head 
 
 Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
 
 They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 
 
 Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 
 
 Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
 
 Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis blood ! 
 
 He had 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: 
 But 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 check ! 
 Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but then 
 It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 
 
 "'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
 Corsair! he perisli'd — thou art dearly won. 
 All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
 Our bark is tossing — 'tis already daj". 
 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." 
 
 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, 
 /Vs 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 beacli ; 
 
 And Conrad following, at her beck, obcy'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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 wcrt thou? 
 Reproach 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." 
 
 She wrongs his 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. 
 And 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; 
 "'Tis 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. 
 "'Tis Conrad! Conrad!" shouting from the deck, 
 Command nor duty could their transport check ! 
 With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 
 They view him mount once more his vessel's side; 
 A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 
 Their arms can scarce forbear a rough 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! 
 
88 
 
 THE CORSAIR 
 
 CANTO in 
 
 These greetings o'er, tlie feelings that o'erflow, 
 Yet grieve to win liim back without a blow ; 
 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 phrensy could that bosom fill. 
 Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, 
 The worst of crimes had left her woman still! 
 
 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; 
 i 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 lier 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 had join'd the rest. 
 Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
 That ask'd 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! 
 
 They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
 To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 
 The haven himis 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, tliat 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? 
 
 The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
 And midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: 
 He looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all remark, 
 Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 
 'Tis 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 higl 
 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 
 Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
 The portal opens — 'tis a well known face — 
 But not the form he panted to embrace ; 
 Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd, 
 And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; 
 He snatch'd the 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 corridore. 
 Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor; 
 His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
 All tliat his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 
 
 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 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 ligiit ! 
 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. 
 WMiich, late the sport of every summer-wind. 
 Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 
 
CANTO III. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 89 
 
 These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier - 
 But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 
 
 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 rcck'd it how ? 
 The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
 The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears. 
 The only living thing he could not hate. 
 Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 
 But did not feel it less ; — the good explore. 
 For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar: 
 The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below 
 Their joy — and find this earth enough for 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. 
 
 By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprcst 
 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 thus 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 — brokcnness 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 ! 
 
 His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong; 
 Bctray'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 ground ! 
 
 'Tis morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
 Few dare ; though now Ansclmo sought his toAver. 
 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. 
 'Tis idle all — moons roll on moons away, 
 And Conrad comes not — came not — since that day : 
 Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
 Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair! 
 Long 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 too widely known; 
 He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
 Link'd with one virtue and a thousand crimes. 
 
 6* 
 
90 
 
 LARA. 
 
 CANTO 1. 
 
 The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain, 
 
 And slavery half forgets her feudal chain; 
 
 He, tlieir unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 
 
 The long self-exiled chicftain,is restored : 
 
 There be bright faces in the busy hall, 
 
 Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
 
 Far chequering o'er the pictured window, plays 
 
 The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze; 
 
 And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 
 
 With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 
 
 The chief of Lara is returned again : 
 And wliy 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 youtli through all the mazes of its race; 
 Short was the course his restlessness had run. 
 But long enough to leave him half undone. 
 
 And Lara left in 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 recall. 
 His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
 'Twas 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 bride, 
 The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 
 "Yet doth he live !" exclaims the impatient iieir, 
 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. 
 
 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 beycnd 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 flagg^ing 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'er 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 haughty, but his sins 
 
 No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 
 
 And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
 
 Might he redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 
 
 And they indeed were changed — 'tis quickly seen 
 Whate'er he be, 'twas 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 Avill not own the wound ; 
 All these seem'd his, and something more beneath. 
 Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 
 Ambition, glory, love, tlic 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 tliey had been alive; 
 And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 
 At moments lightcn'd o'er his livid face. 
 
 Not much he loved long question of the past, 
 Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 
 Tn 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 he shunn'd to show, 
 
CiNTO 1. 
 
 LARA. 
 
 91 
 
 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. 
 
 Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
 Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
 Born of high lineage, link'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 tlie general care; 
 He did not follow what they all 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 
 Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone; 
 Upon his eye sat something of reproof, 
 That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
 And tilings 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. 
 
 'Twas strange — in youth all action and all life, 
 Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife; 
 Woman — the field — the ocean — all tliat 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 intcnseness 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. 
 
 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 call'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. 
 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 he 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 'twere a tale too long ; 
 
 And such besides were too discreetly wise. 
 
 To more than hint their knowledge in surmise; 
 
 But if they would — they could" — around the board. 
 
 Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 
 
 It 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 tliere; 
 Secure that nought of evil could delight 
 To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 
 It was a mom cnt 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 morQ 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. 
 
 He turn'd within his solitary hall, 
 And his high shadow shot along the wall : 
 There were the painted forms of other times, 
 'Twas 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. 
 
 'Twas 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 frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
 
92 
 
 LARA. 
 
 CANTO I 
 
 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. 
 
 Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 
 Pale as the beam tbat 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 bad 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 him — bear him; hush! he breathes, he speaks, 
 The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, 
 His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 
 Rolls wide and wild, each slowly-quivering limb 
 Rccallsits 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 he^r ! 
 
 His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
 To know the import of the words they heard ; 
 And, by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
 They were not such as Lara should avow. 
 Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise 
 Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes ; 
 But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside. 
 And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied ; 
 And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
 To soothe away the horrors of his dream ; 
 If dream it were, tliat thus could overthrow 
 A breast that heeded not ideal woe. 
 
 Whate'er his phrensy dream'd or eye beheld, 
 If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd. 
 Rests at his heart : the 'custom'd morning came, 
 And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame; 
 And solace sought he none from priest nor leech, 
 And soon the same in movement and in spee(;h, 
 As heretofore he filj'd the passing hours. 
 Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lours 
 Than these were wont; and if the coming night 
 Appear'd less Avclcome now to Lara's sight. 
 He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not. 
 Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot. 
 In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
 The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
 The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
 The rustling tapestry, and the echoing (loor, 
 The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
 Tlie flapping bat, the night-song of the breeze : 
 
 Aught they behold or hear their thought appals. 
 As evening saddens o'er the dark gray w alls. 
 
 Vain thought! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
 Came not again, or Lara could assume 
 A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 
 His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 
 Had memory vanished then with sense restored ? 
 Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
 Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 
 That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 
 Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke 
 Those strange wild accents? his the cry that broke 
 Their slumber ? his the oppress'd o'erlabour'd heart 
 That ceased to beat> the look that made them start ? 
 Could he who thus had sufler'd, so forget. 
 When such as saw that suftering shudder yet ? 
 Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
 Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
 In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
 The heart to show the eflect, but not the cause ? 
 Not so in him; his breast had buried both, 
 Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
 Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half-told ; 
 They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 
 
 In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 
 Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 
 Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot. 
 In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot ; 
 His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — [fate 
 
 They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know hi; 
 What had he been ? what was be, thus unknow n. 
 Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
 A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 
 With them he could seem gay amidst the gay; 
 But own'd, that smile, if oft observed and near, 
 Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer; 
 That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, 
 None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye: ■^■■^ 
 Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
 At times, a heart as not by nature hard. 
 But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
 Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
 And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
 One doubt from others' half-withheld esteem; 
 In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
 Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest ; 
 In vigilance of grief that would compel 
 The soul to hate for having loved too well. 
 
 There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
 As if the worst had fall'n which could befall. 
 He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
 An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 
 A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
 By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 
 But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
 His mind would half exult and half regret; 
 With more capacity for love than earth 
 Bestows on most of mortal mould and birtlj. 
 
tANTO I. 
 
 His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 
 
 And troubled manhood foUow'd batHed youth; 
 
 With thought of years in phantom-chase misspent, 
 
 And wasted powers for better purpose lent; 
 
 And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
 
 In hurried desolation o'er his path, 
 
 And left the better feelings all at strife 
 
 In wild reflection o'er his stormy life; 
 
 But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
 
 He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame. 
 
 And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
 
 She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 
 
 'Till he at last confounded good and ill, 
 
 And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 
 
 Too high for common selfishness, he could 
 
 At times resign his own for others' good. 
 
 But not in pity, not because he ought. 
 
 But in some strange perversity of thought. 
 
 That sway'd him onwards with a secret pride 
 
 To do what few or none would do beside; 
 
 And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 
 
 Mislead his spirit equally to crime; 
 
 So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath 
 
 The men with whom he felt condcmn'd to breathe, 
 
 And long'd by good or ill to separate 
 
 Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 
 
 His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 
 
 Far from the world, in regions of her own: 
 
 Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below. 
 
 His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 
 
 Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, 
 
 But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd ! 
 
 'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd, 
 
 And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd. 
 
 Nor outraged reason's rules by flaw nor start. 
 
 His madness was not of the head, but heart; 
 
 And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
 
 His thoughts so forth as to offend the view\ 
 
 With all that chilling mystery of mien. 
 And seeming gladness to remain unseen ; 
 He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
 Of fixing memory on another's heart: 
 It was not love perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
 That words can image to express the thought ; 
 But they who saw him did not see in vain. 
 And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
 And those to whom he spake remember'd well. 
 And on the words, however ligiit, would dwell : 
 None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
 Himself perforce around the hearer's mind ; 
 There he was stamp'd in liking, or in hate, 
 If greeted once; however brief the date 
 That friendship, pity, or aversion knew. 
 Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
 You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
 Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
 His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
 He forced an all-unwilling interest. 
 Vain was the struggle in that mental net. 
 His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 
 
 LARA. 
 
 93 
 
 There is a festival, where knights and dames. 
 And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims 
 Appear — a high-born and a welcome guest 
 To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
 The long carousal shakes the illumined hall. 
 Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; 
 And the gay dance of bounding beauty's train 
 Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
 Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
 That mingle there in well-according bauds ; 
 It is a sight the careful brow might smooth , 
 And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth. 
 And Youth forget such hour was past on earth, 
 So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 
 
 And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad. 
 His brow belied him if his soul was sad; 
 And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair. 
 Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there: 
 He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh. 
 With folded arms and long attentive eye. 
 Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his, 
 111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 
 At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown. 
 But seems as searching his, and his alone; 
 Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien. 
 Who still till now had gazed on him unseen ; 
 At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
 Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze; 
 On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 
 As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 
 Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern, 
 Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 
 
 "'Tis he!" the stranger cried, and those Uiat heard. 
 Re-echoed fast and far the whispcr'd word. 
 "'Tis he!" — "'Tis who?" they question far and near. 
 Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear; 
 So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
 The general marvel, or that single look ; 
 But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 
 That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
 Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor rdised 
 Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed. 
 And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer: 
 "'Tis he! — how came he thence? — what doth he here?' 
 
 It were too much for Lara to pass by 
 Such question, so repeated fierce and high; 
 With look collected, but with accent cold. 
 More mildly firm than petulantly bold. 
 He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 
 "My name is Lara! — when thine own is known. 
 Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
 The unlook'd-for courtesy of such a knight. 
 'Tis Lara! — further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 
 I shun no question and I wear no mask." 
 
 "Thou shuii'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 
 They heart must answer, though thine ear would shun ? 
 And deem'st thou me unknown too? Gaze again ! 
 
94 
 
 LARA. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
 Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
 Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
 With slow and searching glance upon his face 
 Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
 They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
 He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook. 
 And half-contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 
 But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
 "A word! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
 To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, 
 But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
 If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word — 
 But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 
 Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 
 
 Art thou not he? whose deeds " 
 
 "Whate'er I be. 
 Words wild as these, accusers like to thee 
 I list no further; those with whom they weigh 
 May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
 The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
 Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
 Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, 
 To him my thanks and tlioughts shall be exprest." 
 And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
 "Whate'er there be between you undisclosed. 
 This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
 The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
 If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast ought to show 
 Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know. 
 To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
 Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest; 
 I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
 Though like Count Lara now return'd alone 
 From other lands, almost a stranger grown; 
 And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
 I augur right of courage and of worth. 
 He will not that untainted line belie. 
 Nor aught, that knighthood may accord, deny." 
 
 "To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 
 "And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 
 I gage my life, my falchion to attest 
 My words, so may I mingle with the blest !" 
 What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk 
 His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 
 The words of many and the eyes of all, 
 That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall; 
 But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
 In far forgetfulness away — away — 
 Alas! that heedlessness of all around 
 Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 
 
 "To-morrow! — ay, to-morrow!" furtlier word 
 Than those repeated none from Lara heard; 
 Upon his brow no outward passion spoke. 
 From his large eye no flashing anger broke; 
 Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone , 
 Which show'd resolve, determined, thougii unknown. 
 He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd, 
 And passing Ezzelin he left the crowd ; 
 
 And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 
 
 With which that chieftain's brow would bear him dowi 
 
 It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
 
 That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide : 
 
 But that of one in his own heart secure 
 
 Of aU that he Would do, or could endure. 
 
 Could tliis mean peace? the calmness of the good? 
 
 Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood? 
 
 Alas ! too like in confidence are each. 
 
 For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 
 
 From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
 
 Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 
 
 And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
 Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
 His only follower from those climes afar. 
 Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star; 
 For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung. 
 In duty patient, and sedate though young; 
 Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
 Above his station, and beyond his years. 
 Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
 In such from him he rarely heard command. 
 But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come. 
 When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home- 
 Those accents as his native mountains dear, 
 Awake their absent echoes in his ear. 
 Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall. 
 Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all: 
 For him earth now disclosed no other guide; 
 What marvel then he rarely left his side? 
 
 Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
 That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 
 But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 
 The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone througl 
 Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 
 All the heart's hue in that delighted glow; 
 But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 
 That for a burning moment fever'd tliere ; 
 And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
 From high, and lighten'd with electric tliought. 
 Though its black orb those long low lashes fringe. 
 Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
 Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 
 Or if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share: 
 And pJeased not him the sports that please his age, 
 The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page; 
 For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
 As all-forgotten in that watchful trance; 
 And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, 
 Brief were his answers, and his questions none; 
 His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
 His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 
 He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 
 From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart; 
 To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
 No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 
 
 If aught he loved, 'twas Lara; but was shown 
 His faith in reverence and in deeds alone; 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 
 
 Each wish, fultill'd it ere the tongue express'd. '/ 
 
 Still tlierc was haughtiness in all he did, 
 
 A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid; 
 
 His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 
 
 In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 
 
 As if 'twas Lara's less than Ms desire 
 
 That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 
 
 Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, 
 
 To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword; 
 
 To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more, 
 
 On tomes of other times and tongues to pore; 
 
 But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 
 
 To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain. 
 
 But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 
 
 No sympathy with that familiar crew : 
 
 His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 
 
 Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 
 
 Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 
 
 Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 
 
 So femininely wliite it might bespeak 
 
 Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek. 
 
 But for his garb, and something in his gaze, 
 
 More wild and high than woman's eye betrays; 
 
 A latent fierceness that far more became 
 
 His fiery climate than his tender frame: 
 
 True, in his words it broke not from liis breast, 
 
 But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. 
 
 Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 
 
 Another ere he left his mountain-sliore ; 
 
 For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
 
 That name repeated loud without reply, 
 
 As unfamiliar, or, if roused again. 
 
 Start to the sound, as but remember'd then; 
 
 Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake. 
 
 For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 
 
 He had look'd down upon the festive hall. 
 And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 
 And when the crowd around and near him told 
 Their wonder at the calmness of the bold. 
 Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 
 Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 
 The colour of young Kaled went and came, 
 The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 
 And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 
 
 LARA. 
 
 
 .Vv 
 
 ^8-' 
 
 95 
 
 The sickening iciness of that cold dew. 
 
 That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
 
 With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
 
 Yes — there be things that we must dream and dare. 
 
 And execute ere thought be half aware : 
 
 Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
 
 To seal his lip, but agonise his brow. 
 
 He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
 
 That sidelong smile upon the knight he past; 
 
 When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell. 
 
 As if on something recognized right well. 
 
 His memory read in such a meaning more 
 
 Than Lara's aspect unto others wore :• 
 
 Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone. 
 
 And all within that hall seem'd left alone; 
 
 Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien. 
 
 All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene. 
 
 That when his long dark shadow through the porch 
 
 No more relieves the glare of yon high torch. 
 
 Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
 
 To bound as doubting from too black a dream. 
 
 Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 
 
 Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
 
 And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there. 
 
 With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 
 
 But long remain'd not; ere an hour expired 
 
 He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 
 
 The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
 The courteous host, and all-approving guest. 
 Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
 Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
 And man, o'er-labour'd with his being's strife, 
 Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life: 
 There lie love's feverish hope and cunning's guile, 
 Hate's working brain, and luU'd ambition's wile; 
 O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave. 
 And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
 What better name may slumber's bed become? 
 Night's sepulchre, the universal home. 
 Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 
 Alike in naked helplessness recline; 
 Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath. 
 Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 
 And shun, though day but dawn on ills increast, 
 That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 
 
96 
 
 LARA. 
 
 CANTO ] 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains curl'd 
 Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
 Man has another day to swell the past, 
 And lead him near to little, but his last; 
 But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth. 
 The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth; 
 Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 
 Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
 Immortal man! behold her glories shine. 
 And cry, exulting inly, "they are thine !" 
 Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see ; 
 A morrow comes when they are not for thee : 
 And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
 Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 
 Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall. 
 Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee for all ; 
 But creeping things shall revel in their spoil. 
 And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 
 
 'Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall, 
 The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call; 
 'Tis now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
 The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
 When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 
 And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
 His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 
 To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
 Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged, 
 Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 
 
 The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
 With self-confiding, coldly patient air; 
 Why comes not Ezzelin? The hour is past. 
 And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow's o'ercast. 
 "I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear. 
 If yet he be on earth, expect him here; 
 The roof that held him in the valley stands 
 Between my own and noble Lara's lands; 
 My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, 
 Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, 
 But that some previous proof forbade his stay. 
 And urged him to prepare against to-day; 
 The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
 Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 
 He ceased — and Lara answer'd, "I am here 
 To lend at thy demand a listening ear 
 To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 
 Whose words already might my heart have wrung, 
 But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad. 
 Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 
 
 I know him not — but me it seems he knew 
 In lands where — but I must not trifle too : 
 Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 
 Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 
 Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
 His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 
 "The last alternative befits me best. 
 And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 
 With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom. 
 However near his own or other's tomb; 
 With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 
 Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 
 With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 
 Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 
 In vain the circling chieftains round them closed. 
 For Otho's phrenzy would not be opposed ; 
 And from his lip those words of insult fell — 
 "His sword is good who can maintain them well." 
 
 Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rasii, 
 Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
 He bled, and fell; but not with deadly wound, 
 Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 
 "Demand thy life!" He answer'd not : and then 
 From that red floor he ne'er had risen again. 
 For Lara's brow upon tlie moment grew 
 Almost to blackness in its demon-hue; 
 And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
 Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow ; 
 Then all was stern collectedness and art. 
 Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart; 
 So little sparing to the foe he fell'd. 
 That when the approaching crowd his arm witlilield, 
 He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those 
 Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 
 But to a moment's thought that purpose bent : 
 Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 
 As if he loathed the ineff"ectual strife 
 That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life; 
 As if to search how far the wound he gave 
 Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 
 
 They raised the bleeding Otho, and the leech 
 Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
 The others met within a neighbouring hall. 
 And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 
 The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray. 
 In haughty silence slowly strode away; 
 He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took. 
 Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 But where was he? that meteor of a night, 
 Who menaced but to disappear with liglit? 
 Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went 
 To leave no other trace of his intent. 
 He left the dome of Otho long ere morn, 
 In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
 He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay : 
 But there he was not, and with coming day 
 Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought 
 Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
 A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
 His host alarra'd, his murmuring squires distrest: 
 Their search extends along, around the path. 
 In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath: 
 But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
 Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn; 
 Nor fall nor struggle liath defaced the grass, 
 Whicli still retains a mark where murder was; 
 Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
 Tlie bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
 When agonized hands, that cease to guard, 
 Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. 
 Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
 But these were not; and doubting hope is left ; 
 And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, 
 Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame; 
 Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
 Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd 
 Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
 And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 
 
 Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, 
 But not his pride; and hate no more conceal'd; 
 He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 
 The friend of all who sought to work liim woe, 
 And from his country's justice now demands 
 Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 
 Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
 His presence? who had made him disappear, 
 If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
 Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 
 The general rumour ignorantly loud, 
 The mystery dearest to the curious crowd; 
 The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
 To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
 The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd. 
 The skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 
 Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 
 Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart? 
 For it was not the blind capricious rage 
 A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 
 But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 
 With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd; 
 Such as long power and overgo rged success 
 Concentrates into all that's merciless : 
 These, liuk'd with that desire which ever sways 
 Mankind, tfie rather to condemn than praise, 
 'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm. 
 Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 
 And he must answer for the absent head 
 Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 
 
 LARA. 
 
 97 
 
 within that land was many a malcontent, 
 Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 
 That soil full many a wringing despot saw, 
 Who work'd his wantonness in form of law ; 
 Long war without and frequent broil within 
 Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 
 That waited but a signal to begin 
 New havock, such as civil discord blends, 
 Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends; 
 Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, 
 In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 
 Thus Lara had inherited his lands. 
 And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands; 
 But that long absence from his native clime 
 Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 
 And now diverted by his milder sway, 
 All dread by slow degrees had worn away : 
 The menials felt their usual awe alone. 
 But more for him than them tliat fear was grown; 
 They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
 Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst. 
 And each long restless night, and silent mood, 
 Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 
 And though his lonely habits threw of late 
 Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 
 For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, 
 For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
 Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, ,y^ 
 The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye; / 
 Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 
 They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 
 And they who watch'd might mark that day by day 
 Some new retainers gather'd to his sway; 
 But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost. 
 He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host : 
 Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
 Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 
 Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 
 With these, the people, than his fellow-thanes. 
 If this were policy, so far 'twas sound. 
 The million judged but of him as they found ; 
 From him, by sterner chiefs to exile driven. 
 They but required a slielter, and 'twas given. 
 By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot. 
 And scarce the serf could murmur o'er his lot; 
 With him old avarice found his hoard secure. 
 With him contempt forbore to mock the poor; 
 Youth present cheer and promised recompense 
 Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence : 
 To hate he offer'd, with the coming change, 
 The deep reversion of delay'd revenge; 
 To love, long baffled by the unequal match. 
 The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 
 All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
 That slavery nothing which was still a name. 
 The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
 Secure at last the vengeance which he sought ; 
 His summons found the destined criminal 
 Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 
 Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 
 Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 LARA. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 That morning' he had freed tlic soil-bound slaves 
 Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 
 Such is their cry — some watciiword for the fight 
 Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right: 
 Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 
 A word's enough to raise mankind to kill: 
 Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 
 That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed ! 
 
 Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
 Such swa3% their infant-monarch hardly reign'd; 
 Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth. 
 The serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both: 
 They waited but a leader, and they found 
 One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
 By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 
 In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
 Cut off by some m}'sterious fate from those 
 Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes. 
 Had Lara from that night, to liim accurst. 
 Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst: 
 Some reason urged, whate'cr it was, to shun 
 Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
 By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
 E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
 The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, 
 The storm that once liad spent itself and slept, 
 Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 
 His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge. 
 Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, 
 And is again ; he only changed the scene. 
 Light care had he for life, and less for fame, \y^ 
 But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
 He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, 
 And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
 What cared he for the freedom of the crowd? 
 He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
 He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair. 
 But man and destiny beset him there: 
 Inured to hunters, he was found at bay, 
 And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 
 Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
 Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene, ^ 
 But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
 A leader not unequal to the feud; 
 In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 
 And from bis eye the gladiator broke. 
 
 What boots the oft-repeated talc of strife, 
 The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? 
 The varying fortune of each separate field. 
 The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield ? 
 The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall? 
 In this the struggle was the same with all; 
 Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 
 In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 
 None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 
 The captive died upon the battle-plain : 
 In either cause, one rage alone possest 
 The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 
 And they that smote for freedom or for sway. 
 
 Deem'd few were slain, ivhile more remain'd to slay. 
 
 Tt was too'Iate to check the wasting brand. 
 
 And desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 
 
 The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread. 
 
 And carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 
 
 Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung. 
 The first success to Lara's numbers clung: 
 But that vain victory hath ruin'd all. 
 They form no longer to their leader's call; 
 In blind confusion on the foe they press. 
 And think to snatch is to secure success. 
 The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate. 
 Lure on the broken brigands to their fate; 
 In vain he doth whate'cr a chief may do, 
 To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 
 In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame. 
 The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame ; 
 The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood. 
 And shown their rashness to that erring brood: 
 The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 
 The daily harass, and the fight delay'd. 
 The long privation of the hoped supply, 
 The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 
 The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 
 And palls the patience of his baflled heart. 
 Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 
 They could encounter as a veteran may. 
 But more preferr'd the fury of the strife. 
 And present death to hourly suffering life : 
 And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
 His numbers melting fast from their array ; 
 Intemperate triumph fades to discontent. 
 And Lara's soul a'one seems still unbent: 
 But few remain to aid his voice and hand, 
 And thousands dwindled to a scanty band : 
 Desperate, thougli few, the last and best remain'd 
 To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
 One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 
 And thence they may escape from native war ; 
 And bear within them to the neighbouring state 
 An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 
 Hard is the task their father-land to quit. 
 But harder still to perish or submit. 
 
 It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
 Gxiides with her star their dim and torchless flight; 
 Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
 Sleep on the surface of the barrier-stream; 
 Already they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
 Away ! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
 Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear? 
 'Tis Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! 
 Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height? 
 Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
 Cut off from hope and compass'd in the toil. 
 Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! 
 
 A moment's pause, 'tis but to breathe their band, 
 Or shall they onward press, or here withstand? 
 It matters little — if they charge the foes 
 
)1 
 
 CANTO II. LARA. 
 
 Who b}' the border-stream their march oppose, 
 Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
 However link'd to baffle such design. 
 
 The charge be ours! to wait for their assault 
 Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
 Forth flics each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
 And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed: 
 In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
 How many shall but hear the voice of death ! 
 
 His blade is bared, in him there is an air 
 As deep, but far too tranquil for despair; 
 A something of indifference more than then 
 Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men — 
 He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 
 And still too faithful to betray one fear; 
 Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight threw 
 Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
 Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint exprest 
 The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
 This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his : 
 It trembled not in such an hour as this; 
 His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
 His eye alone proclaim'd : "We will not part! 
 Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 
 Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee !" 
 
 The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven. 
 Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven; 
 Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel. 
 And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel; 
 Outimmber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 
 Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
 And blood is mingled with the dashing stream. 
 Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 
 
 Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
 Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall, 
 Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel, 
 Inspiring hope, himself had ceased to feel. 
 None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain; 
 But those that waver turn to smite again, 
 While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
 Recoil before their leader's look and blow: 
 Now girt with numbers, now almost alone. 
 He foils their ranks, or reunites his own; 
 Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly — 
 Now was the time, he waved his hand on high. 
 And shook — why sudden droops that plumed crest ? 
 The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast! 
 That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, 
 And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. 
 The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
 That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
 But yet the sword instinctively retains. 
 Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins; 
 These Kaled snatches: dizzy with the blow, 
 And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
 Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
 Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage: 
 
 99 
 
 Meantime his followers charge, and ciiargc again ; 
 Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain! 
 
 Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
 The cloven cuirass, and the helmlcss head; 
 The war-horse masterless is on tlie earth. 
 And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
 And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd, 
 The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; 
 And some too near that rolling torrent lie. 
 Whose waters mock tlie lip of those that die; 
 That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
 Of those that die the soldier's fiery deatii. 
 In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
 One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
 With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
 Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept; 
 The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
 But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste: 
 They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
 Why pause? No further thirst have they to slake — 
 It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not; 
 It was an agony — but now forgot! 
 
 Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene. 
 Where but for him that strife had never been, 
 A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 
 'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away. 
 His follower once, and now his only guide. 
 Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side. 
 And with bis scarf would staunch the tides that rush. 
 With each convulsion, in a blacker gush; 
 And then, as his faint breathing waxes low. 
 In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 
 He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain, 
 And merely adds another throb to pain. 
 He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 
 And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page 
 Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 
 Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 
 Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 
 Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 
 
 The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field, 
 Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; 
 They would remove him, but they see 'twere vain. 
 And he regards them with a calm disdain. 
 That rose to reconcile him with his fate. 
 And that escape to death from living hate: 
 And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed. 
 Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed. 
 And questions of his state; he answers not. 
 Scarce glances on him as on one forgot. 
 And turns to Kaled : — each remaining word, 
 They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
 His dying tones are in that other tongue. 
 To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
 They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
 To Kaled, whom their meaning rcach'd alone ; 
 And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
 
100 
 
 LARA. 
 
 CANTO I 
 
 While gazed tlie rest in dumb amazement round : 
 Tliey seem'd even then — that twain — unto the last 
 To half forget the present in the past; 
 To share between themselves some separate fate, 
 Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 
 
 Their words, though faint, vve^e many — from the tone 
 Their import those who heard could judge alone; 
 From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's death 
 More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
 So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
 The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke; 
 But Lara's voice though low, at first was clear 
 And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near : 
 But from his visage little could they guess, 
 So unrepentajit, dark, and passionless. 
 Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
 Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
 And once as Kaled's answering accents ceast; 
 Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
 Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 
 RoH'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
 Or that 'twas chance, or some remember'd scene 
 That raised his arm to point where such had been. 
 Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 
 As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 
 And shrunk his glance before that morning-light. 
 To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 
 Yet sense seem'd left, thougli better were its loss; 
 For when one near display'd tlie absolving cross, 
 And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead. 
 Of which his parting soul might own the need, 
 He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 
 And smiled — Heaven pardon ! if 'twere with disdain : 
 And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
 From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 
 Witli brow repulsive, and with gesture swift. 
 Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift. 
 As if such but disturb'd the expiring man. 
 Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, 
 That life of immortality, secure 
 To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 
 
 But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 
 And dull the film along his dim eye grew; 
 His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er 
 The weak yet still untiring knee that bore; 
 He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
 It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
 With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain. 
 For that faint throb which answers not again. 
 "It beats !" — Away, thou dreamer! he is gone — 
 It once was Lara which thou lookst upon. 
 
 He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 
 The haughty spirit of that humble clay; 
 And those around have roused him from his trance, 
 But cannot tear from theilce his fixed glance; 
 And when in raising him from where he bore 
 Within his arms the form that felt no more. 
 
 He saw the head, his breast would still sustain, 
 Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 
 He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
 The glossy tendrils of his raven-hair. 
 But strove to stand and gaze, but reei'd and fell. 
 Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 
 Than that he loved! Oh ! never yet beneath 
 The breast of man such trusty love may breathe ! 
 That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
 The secret long and yet but half-conceal'd ; 
 In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
 Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confest; 
 And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 
 What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ! 
 
 And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep. 
 But where he died his grave was dug as deep; 
 Nor is his mortal slumber less profound. 
 Though priest nor bless'd,nor marble deck'd the mound 
 And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief. 
 Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
 Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, 
 And vain even menace — silent to the last, 
 She told nor whence, nor why she left beiiind 
 Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
 Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! — be still — 
 Is human love the growth of human will? 
 To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
 Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern. 
 And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
 Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
 They were not co-mmon links, that form'd the chain 
 That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain ; 
 But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
 And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 
 
 They laid him in the earth, and on his breast. 
 Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest. 
 They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
 Which were not planted there in recent war; 
 Where'er had pass'd his summer-years of life. 
 It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife; 
 But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
 These only told that somewhere blood was spilt. 
 And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
 Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 
 
 Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
 A serf that cross'd the intervening vale. 
 When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, 
 And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 
 A serf, that rose betimes to thread the wOod, 
 And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
 Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
 Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
 He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
 From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
 Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow. 
 Bent was his liead, and hidden was his brow. 
 Roused by the sudden sight at such a time. 
 
)n 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 LARA. 
 
 101 
 
 And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
 
 Himself unheeded vvatcli'd the stranger's course, 
 
 Who rcach'd the river, bounded from liis horse, 
 
 And lifting thence the burthen which he bore. 
 
 Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore, 
 
 Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to watch, 
 
 And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
 
 And follow with liis step the stream that flow'd, 
 
 As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
 
 At once he started, stoop'd ; — around him strown 
 
 The winter-floods had scatter'd heaps of stone; 
 
 Of these the heaviest thence he gathcr'd there, 
 
 And slung them with a more than common care. 
 
 Meantime the serf had crept to where unseen 
 
 Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
 
 He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast. 
 
 And something glitter'd starlike on the vest; 
 
 But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
 
 A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk: 
 
 It rose again but indistinct to view. 
 
 And left the waters of a purple hue. 
 
 Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed 
 
 Till cbb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
 
 Tiien turning, vaulted on his pawing steed. 
 
 And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
 
 His face was mask'd — the features of the dead, 
 
 If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread j 
 
 But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 
 
 Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
 
 And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
 
 Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
 
 If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul! 
 
 His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
 
 And charity upon the hope would dwell 
 It was not Lara's hand by whicli he fell. 
 
 And Kalcd — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone, 
 Alike without their monumental stone! 
 The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
 From lingering where her chieftain's blood had beenj 
 Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud. 
 Her tears were few, her wailing never loud; 
 But furious would you tear her from the spot 
 Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 
 Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
 That haunts the tigress in her whelplcss ire; 
 But left to waste her weary moments there, 
 She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air. 
 Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints. 
 And woos to listen to her fond complaints: 
 And she would sit beneath the very tree 
 Where lay his drooping head upon her knee; 
 And in that posture where she saw him fall. 
 His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall; 
 And she had shorn, but saved her raven-hair. 
 And oft would snatch it from her bosom there. 
 And fold, and press it gently to the ground, 
 As if she staunch'd anew some phantom's wound. 
 Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
 Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
 From some imagined spectre in pursuit; 
 Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
 And hide her visage with her meagre hand. 
 Or trace strange characters along the sand — 
 This could not last — she lies by him she loved; 
 Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 
 
102 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 JOHN HOBHOUSE, esq. 
 
 THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY HIS 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 January 22, 1816. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 "The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the 
 Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the heart 
 of the Morea , and to form the siege of Napoli di Ro- 
 mania, the most considerable place in all that country, 
 thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth, upon 
 which they made several storms. The garrison being 
 
 weakened and the governor seeing it was impossible to 
 hold out against so mighty a force , thought it fit to beat 
 a parley : but while they were treating about the ar- 
 ticles, one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, wherein i 
 they had six hundred barrels of powder, blew up by 
 accident, whereby six or seven liundred men were killed : 
 whicli so enraged the infidels, that they would not grant 
 any capitulation, but stormed the place with so much 
 fury, that they took it, and put most of the garrison, with 
 Signior Minotti , the governor , to tlie SAVord. The rest, 
 with Antonio Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were 
 made prisoners of war." — History of the Turks, vol. III. 
 p. 151. 
 
 Many a vanish'd year and age, 
 And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 
 Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands 
 A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. 
 The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock, 
 Have left untouch'd her hoary rock. 
 The keystone of a land, which still. 
 Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill, 
 The land-mark to the double tide 
 That purpling rolls on either side, 
 As if their waters chafed to meet, 
 Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 
 But could the blood before her shed 
 Since first Timoleon's brother bled. 
 Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 
 Arise from out the earth which drank 
 The stream of slaughter as it sank. 
 That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 
 Her isthmus idly spread below : 
 Or could the bones of all the slain, 
 Who perish'd there, be piled again, 
 That rival pyramid would rise 
 More mountain-like, througli those clear skies. 
 Than yon tower-capt Acropolis 
 Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 
 
 On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears 
 The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
 And downward to the Isthmian plain 
 From shore to shore of either main. 
 The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
 Along the Moslem's leagucring lines; 
 And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
 Beneath each bearded pasha's glance ; 
 
 And far and wide as eye can reach 
 The turban'd cohorts throng the beach; 
 And there the Arab's camel kneels. 
 And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
 The Turcoman hath left his herd. 
 The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
 And there the volleying thunders pour. 
 Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
 The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
 Wings the far hissing globe of deatli ; 
 Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
 WJiich crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 
 And from that wall the foe replies, 
 O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
 With fires that answer fast and well 
 The summons of the Infidel. 
 
 But near and nearest to the wall 
 Of those who wish and work its fall, 
 With deeper skill in war's black art 
 Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
 As any chief that ever stood 
 Triumphant in the fields of blood; 
 From post to post, and deed to deed, 
 Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
 Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
 And make the foremost Moslem quail; 
 Or where the battery, guarded well, 
 Remains as yet impregnable. 
 Alighting cheerly to inspire 
 The soldier slackening in his fire; 
 Tlie first and freshest of the host 
 Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 
 To guide the follower o'er the field. 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 103 
 
 To point the tube, tlie laiicc to wield, 
 Or wliirf around the bickering blade ; — 
 Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 
 
 , From Venice — once a race of worth 
 His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 
 But late an exile from lier shore, 
 Against liis countrymen lie bore 
 The arms they taught to bear; and now 
 The turban girt his shaven brow. 
 Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 
 With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 
 And liere, before her walls, with those 
 To Greece and Venice equal foes, 
 He stood a foe, with all the zeal 
 » Which young and fiery converts feci, 
 i Within whose heated bosom throngs 
 The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
 (To him had Venice ceased to be 
 I Her ancient civic boast — "the Free;" 
 (And in the palace of St. Mark 
 j Unnamed accusers in the dark 
 j Within the "Lion's mouth" had placed 
 A charge against him uneffaced : 
 He fled in time, and saved his life, 
 To waste his future years in strife, 
 That taught his land how great her loss 
 ] In him who triuraph'd o'er the Cross, 
 'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high. 
 And battled to avenge or die. 
 
 Coumourgi — he whose closing scene 
 Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
 When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
 TBe last and mightiest of the slain, 
 |He sank, regretting not to die, 
 JBut curst the Christian's victory — 
 Coumourgi — can his glory cease, 
 That latest conqueror of Greece, 
 Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
 The freedom Venice gave of yore? 
 i A hundred years have roH'd away 
 Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway ; 
 And now he led the Mussulman, 
 And gave the guidance of the van 
 To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
 jBy cities levell'd with the dust ; 
 And proved, by many a deed of death. 
 How firm his heart in novel faith. 
 
 The walls grew weak; and fast and*liot 
 Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 
 With unabating fury sent 
 From battery to battlement; 
 \nd tiiunder-like the pealing din 
 Rose from each heated culverin ; 
 And here and there some crackling dome 
 Was fired before the exploding bomb : 
 And as the fabric sank beneath 
 The sliattering shell's volcanic breath, 
 [n red and wreathing columns flash'd 
 
 The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd. 
 
 Or into countless meteors driven, 
 
 Its earth-stars melted into heaven; 
 
 Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun. 
 
 Impervious to the hidden sun. 
 
 With volumed smoke that slowly grew 
 
 To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 
 
 But not for vengeance, long delay'd. 
 Alone, did Alp, the renegade. 
 The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
 His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
 Within these walls a maid was pent 
 His hope would win, without consent 
 Of that inexorable sire. 
 Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
 Wlien Alp, beneath his Christian name, 
 Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
 In happier mood, and earlier time, 
 While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 
 Gayest in gondola or hall, 
 He glitter'd through the Carnival ; 
 And tuned the softest serenade 
 That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
 At midnight to Italian maid. 
 
 And many deem'd her heart was won; 
 For sought by numbers, given to none. 
 Had young Franccsca's hand remain'd 
 Still by the church's bonds unchain'd: 
 And when the Adriatic bore 
 Lanciotto to tiie Paynim shore. 
 Her wonted smiles were seen to fail. 
 And pensive wax'd the maid and pale; 
 More constant at confessional, 
 More rare at masque and festival ; 
 Or seen at such, with downcast eyes. 
 Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize; 
 With listless look she seems to gaze; 
 With humbler care her form arrays; 
 Her voice less lively in the song; 
 Her step, though light, less fleet among 
 The pairs, on whom the morning's glance 
 Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 
 
 Sent by the state to guard the land, 
 (Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand. 
 While Sobieski tamed his pride 
 By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 
 The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
 From Patra to Euboea's bay ;) 
 Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
 The Doge's delegated powers, 
 While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
 Smiled o'er her long forgotten Greece: 
 And ere that faithless truce was broke 
 Which freed her from the unchristian yoke. 
 With him his gentle daughter came ; 
 Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
 Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
 What woes await on lawless love. 
 
104 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
 Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 
 
 The wall is rent, the ruins yawn; 
 And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn. 
 O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
 The foremost of the fierce assault. 
 The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
 Of Tartar, and of Mussulman, 
 The full of hope, misnamed "forlorn," 
 Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
 And win their way with falchions' force, 
 Or pave the path with many a corse, 
 O'er which the following brave may rise. 
 Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 
 
 'Tis midnight : on the mountain's brown 
 The cold round moon shines deeply down; 
 Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high. 
 Bespangled with those isles of light, 
 So wildly, spiritually bright; 
 Who ever gazed upon them shining, 
 And turn'd to earth without repining. 
 Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
 And mix with their eternal ray? 
 The waves on either shore lay there 
 Calm, clear, and azure as the air; 
 And scarce their foam the pebbles shook. 
 But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
 The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
 The banners droop'd along their staves, 
 And, as they fell around them furling. 
 Above them shone the crescent curling; 
 And that deep silence was unbroke. 
 Save where the watch his signal spoke. 
 Save where the steed ncigh'd oft and shrill, 
 And eciio answer'd from the hill, 
 And the wide hum of that wild host 
 Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
 As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
 In midnight-call to wonted prayer; 
 It rose, that chanted mournful strain. 
 Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 
 'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, 
 Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 
 And take a long unmeasured tone, 
 To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 
 It seem'd to those within the wall 
 A cry prophetic of their fall: 
 It struck even the besieger's ear 
 With something ominous and drear, 
 An undefined and sudden thrill, 
 Which makes the heart a moment still, 
 Tiien beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 
 Of that strange sense its silence framed; 
 Such as a sudden passing-bell 
 Wakes, thougli but for a stranger's knell. 
 
 The tent of Alp was on the shore, 
 The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er; 
 
 The watch was set, the night-round made. 
 
 All mandates issued and obey'd : 
 
 'Tis but another anxious night. 
 
 His pains the morrow may requite 
 
 With all revenge and love can pay. 
 
 In guerdon for their long delay. 
 
 Few hours remain, and he hath need 
 
 Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 
 
 Of slaughter ; but within his soul 
 
 The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 
 
 He stood alone among the host; 
 
 Not his the loud fanatic boast 
 
 To plant the crescent o'er the cross. 
 
 Or risk a life with little loss. 
 
 Secure in paradise to be 
 
 By Houris loved immortally: 
 
 Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 
 
 The stern exaltedness of zeal. 
 
 Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 
 
 When battling on the parent soil. 
 
 He stood alone — a renegade 
 
 Against the country he betray 'd; 
 
 He stood alone amidst his band. 
 
 Without a trusted heart or hand : 
 
 They follow'd him, for he was brave. 
 
 And great the spoil he got and gave ; 
 
 They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 
 
 To warp and wield the vulgar will : 
 
 But still his Christian origin 
 
 With them was little less than sin. 
 
 They envied even the faithless fame 
 
 He earn'd beneath a Moslem-name; 
 
 Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 
 
 In youth a bitter Nazarene. 
 
 They did not know how pride can stoop, 
 
 When baffled feelings withering droop; 
 
 They did not know how hate can burn 
 
 In hearts once changed from soft to steru ; 
 
 Nor all the false and fatal zeal 
 
 The convert of revenge can feel. 
 
 He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 
 
 By ever daring to be first : 
 
 So lions o'er the jackal sway; 
 
 The jackal points, he fells the prey. 
 
 Then on the vulgar yelling press, 
 
 To gorge the relics of success. 
 
 His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
 The quick successive throbs convulse; 
 In vain from side to side he throws 
 His form, in courtship of repose; 
 Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
 Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
 The turban on his hot brow press'd, 
 The mail weigh 'd lead-like on his breast. 
 Though oft and long beneath its weight 
 Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
 Without or couch or canopy, 
 Except a rougher field and sky 
 Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 
 Than now along the heaven was spread. 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 105 
 
 He could not rest, he could not stay 
 Within his tent to wait for day, 
 But walk'd him forth along the sand. 
 Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand. 
 What pillow'd them? and why should he 
 More wakeful than the humblest be? 
 Since more their peril, worse their toil, 
 /iind yet they fearless dream of spoil; 
 While he alone, where thousands passed 
 A. night of sleep, perchance their last, 
 [n sickly vigil wandcr'd on, 
 ^nd envied all he gazed upon. 
 
 He felt his soul become more light 
 Beneath the freshness of the night. 
 Cool was the silent sky, though calm, 
 A.nd bathed liis brow with airy balm: 
 Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
 [n many a winding creek and bay, 
 Lepanto's gulf: and, on the brow 
 3f Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
 High and eternal, such as shone 
 Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
 41ong the gulf, the mount, the clime; 
 [t will not melt, like man, to time: 
 Tyrant and slave are swept away. 
 Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
 But that white veil, the lightest, frailest. 
 Which on the mighty mount thou hailcst. 
 While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
 Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
 [n form a peak, in height a cloud, 
 [n texture like a hovering shroud, 
 Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
 A.S from her fond abode she fled, 
 ind linger'd on the spot, where long 
 Her prophet-spirit spake in song. 
 3h, still her step at moments falters 
 3'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, 
 \.nd fain would wake, in souls too broken. 
 By pointing to each glorious token. 
 But vain her voice, till better days 
 Dawn in those yet remember'd rays 
 Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
 \nd saw the Spartan smile in dying. 
 
 Not mindless of these mighty times 
 Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 
 \nd through this night, as on he wander'd, 
 ind o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
 ind thought upon the glorious dead 
 Who there in better cause had bled. 
 He felt how faint and feebly dim 
 The fame that could accrue to him, 
 Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 
 V traitor in a turban'd horde; 
 \nd led them to the lawless siege, 
 Whose best success were sacrilege. 
 Mot so had those his fancy number'd. 
 The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd ; 
 Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain. 
 
 Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
 They fell devoted, but undying; 
 The very gale their names seem'd sighing : 
 The waters murmur'd of their name; 
 The woods were peopled with their fame; 
 The silent pillar, lone and gray, 
 Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 
 Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 
 Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
 The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
 RoU'd mingling with their fame for ever. 
 Despite of every yoke she bears. 
 That land is glory's still and theirs ! 
 'Tis still a watch-word to the earth : 
 When man would do a deed of worth 
 He points to Greece, and turns to tread. 
 So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head: 
 He looks to her, and rushes on 
 Where life is lost, or freedom won. 
 
 Still by the shore Alp mutely mused. 
 And woo'd the freshness night diffused. 
 Tliere shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea, 
 Which changeless rolls eternally ; 
 So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood. 
 Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood; 
 And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 
 Heedless if she come or go : 
 Calm or high, in main or bay. 
 On their course she hath no sway. 
 The rock unworn its base doth bare. 
 And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there: 
 And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 
 On the line that it left long ages ago : 
 A smooth short space of yellow sand 
 Between it and the greener land. 
 
 He wander'd on, along the beach. 
 Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
 Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not. 
 Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 
 Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold? 
 Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold? 
 I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
 There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball. 
 Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
 That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town ; 
 Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
 The sullen words of the sentinel. 
 As his measured step on the stone below 
 Clank' d, as he paced it to and fro; 
 And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
 Hold o'er the dead their carnival. 
 Gorging and growling o'er carcase and limb; 
 They were too busy to bark at him ! 
 From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh. 
 As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
 And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull. 
 As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew dull, 
 As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead. 
 When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed ; 
 
 7* 
 
106 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 So well had they broken a lingering fast 
 
 With those who had fallen for i^at night's repast. 
 
 And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand, 
 
 The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
 
 Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 
 
 And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair. 
 
 All the rest was shaven and bare. 
 
 The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
 
 The hair was tangled round liis jaw. 
 
 But close by the sliore, on the edge of tlie gulf, 
 
 There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 
 
 Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away. 
 
 Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
 
 But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 
 
 Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 
 
 Alp tnrn'd him from the sickening sight: 
 Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
 But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
 Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
 Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 
 Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
 Tiiere is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
 Whatc'cr be the shape in whicli death may lower; 
 For Fame is there to say who bleeds. 
 And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! 
 But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 
 O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 
 And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 
 Beasts of the forest, all gathering there; 
 All regarding man as their prey, 
 All rejoicing in his decay. 
 
 There is a temple in ruin stands, 
 Fashion'd by long forgotten hands; 
 Two or three columns, and many a stone, 
 Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 
 Out upon Time! it will leave no more 
 Of the things to come than the things before! 
 Out upon Time! who for ever will leave 
 But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
 O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be: 
 What we have seen, our sons shall see; 
 Remnants of things that have pass'd away, 
 Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 
 
 He sate him down at a pillar's base. 
 And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 
 Like one in dreary musing mood. 
 Declining was his attitude ; 
 His head was drooping on his breast, 
 Fever'd, throbbing, and opprest; 
 And o'er his brow, so downward bent. 
 Oft bis beating fingers went, 
 Hurriedly, as you may see 
 Your own run over the ivory key, 
 Ere the measured tone is taken 
 By the chords you would awaken. 
 There he sate all heavily. 
 As he heard the night-wind sigh. 
 
 Was it the wind, through some hollow stone. 
 
 Sent that soft and tender moan ? 
 
 He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 
 
 But it was unrippled as glass may be; 
 
 He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade ; 
 
 How was that gentle sound convey'd? 
 
 He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 
 
 So did the leaves on Cithaeron's hill, 
 
 And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 
 
 What did that sudden sound bespeak? 
 
 He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? 
 
 There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 
 
 He started up with more of fear 
 Than if an armed foe were near. 
 "Godof my fathers! what is here? 
 Who art thou , and wherefore sent 
 So near a hostile armament ?" 
 His trembling hands refused to sign 
 The cross he deem'd no more divine : 
 He had resumed it in that hour. 
 But conscience wrung away the power. 
 He gazed, he saw: he knew the face 
 Of beauty, and the form of grace; 
 It was Francesca by his side, 
 The maid who might have been his bride ! 
 
 The rose was yet upon her cheek. 
 But mellow'd with a tenderer streak : 
 Where was the play of her soft lips fled? 
 Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 
 The ocean's calm within their view, 
 Beside her eye had less of blue; 
 But like that cold wave it stood still. 
 And its glance, though clear, was chill. 
 Around her form a thin robe twining, 
 Nought conceal'd her bosom shining; 
 Through the parting of her hair. 
 Floating darkly downward there. 
 Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 
 And ere yet she made reply. 
 Once she raised her hand on high ; 
 It was so wan, and transparent of hue. 
 You might have seen the moon shine through. 
 
 "I come from my rest to him I love best. 
 That I may be happy, and he may be blest. 
 I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall ; 
 Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
 'Tis said the lion will turn and flee 
 From a maid in the pride of her purity; 
 And the power on high, that can shield the good 
 Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 
 Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
 From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 
 I come — and if I come in vain. 
 Never, oh never, we meet again! 
 Thou hast done a fearful deed 
 In falling away from thy father's creed : 
 But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 107 
 
 Tlie sign of the cross, and for ever be mine ; 
 Wring the black drop from thy heart, 
 \nd to-morrow unites us no more to part." 
 
 "And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 
 In the midst of the dying and the dead? 
 For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 
 The sons and the shrines of the Christian name: 
 None, save thou and thine, I've sworn. 
 Shall be left upon the morn : 
 But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 
 Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgot. 
 There thou yet shalt be my bride. 
 When once again I've quell'd the pride 
 Of Venice; and her hated race 
 Have felt the arm they would debase 
 Scourge, with a wliip of scorpions, those 
 Whom vice and envy made my foes." 
 
 Upon his hand she laid her own — 
 Light Avas the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 
 And shot a chillness to his heart. 
 Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 
 Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 
 He could not loose him from its hold ; 
 But never did clajsp of one so dear 
 Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 
 As those thin fingers, long and white. 
 Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 
 The feverish glow of his brow was gone. 
 And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 
 As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue 
 So deeply changed from what he knew : 
 Fair but faint — without the ray 
 Of mind, that made each feature play 
 Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 
 And her motionless lips lay still as death. 
 And her words came forth without her breath, 
 And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell. 
 And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 
 Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 
 And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 
 With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
 Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream; 
 Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 
 Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air. 
 So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 
 Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 
 As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down 
 From the shadowy wall where their images frown; 
 Fearfully flitting to and fro. 
 As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
 
 "If not for love of me be given 
 Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 
 Again I say — tliat turban tear 
 From offtliy faithless brow, and swear 
 Thine injured country's sons to spare. 
 Or thou art lost; and never shalt see. 
 Not earth — that's past — but lieaven or me. 
 If this thou dost accord, albeit 
 
 A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, 
 That doom shall half absolve thy sin. 
 And mercy's gate may receive thee within : 
 But pause one moment more, and take 
 The curse of Him thou didst forsake; 
 And look once more to heaven, and see 
 Its love for ever shut from thee. 
 There is a light cloud by the moon — 
 'Tis passing, and will pass full soon — 
 If, by the time its vapoury sail 
 Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil. 
 Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
 Then God and man are both avenged; 
 Dark Avill thy doom be, darker still 
 Thine immortality of ill." 
 
 Alp looked to heaven, and saw on high 
 The sign she spake of in the sky; 
 But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside, 
 By deep interminable pride. 
 This first false passion of his breast 
 Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 
 He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 
 By wild words of a timid maid ! 
 He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 
 Her sons devoted to the grave! 
 No — though that cloud were thunder's worst. 
 And charged to crush him — let it burst! 
 
 He look'd upon it earnestly, 
 Without an accent of reply ; 
 He watch'd it passing; it is flown ; 
 Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 
 And thus he spake — "Whate'er my fate, 
 I am no cliangeling — 'tis too late : 
 The reed in storms may bow and quiver. 
 Then rise again; the tree must shiver. 
 What Venice made me, I must be 
 Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
 But thou art safe: oh, fly with me!" 
 He turn'd, but she is gone ! 
 Nothing is there but the column-stone. 
 Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air ? 
 He saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there. 
 
 The night is past, and shines the sun 
 As if that morn were a jocund one. 
 Lightly and brightly breaks away 
 The Morning from her mantle gray. 
 And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 
 Hark to the trump, and the drum. 
 And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
 And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, 
 And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
 And the clash, and the shout, "they come, they come!" 
 The horsetails arepluck'd from theground, andthesword 
 From its sheath j and they form, and but wait for the word. 
 Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
 Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
 Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
 That the fugitive may flee in vain, 
 
108 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
 
 Aged or young, in the Christian sliape ; 
 
 While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass. 
 
 Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
 
 The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein : 
 
 Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
 
 White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
 
 The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit; 
 
 The cannon arc pointed and ready to roar. 
 
 And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 
 
 Forms in Ins phalanx each Janizar ; 
 
 Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 
 
 So is the blade of his scimitar; 
 
 The khan and the pachas are all at their pest; 
 
 The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
 
 When the culvcrin's signal is fired, then on ; 
 
 Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
 
 A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 
 
 A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 
 
 God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 
 
 Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 
 
 "There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale ; 
 
 And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail ? 
 
 He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
 
 His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have!" 
 
 Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
 
 The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 
 
 And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire ; — 
 
 Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 
 
 As the wolves, that headlong go 
 On the stately buffalo. 
 Though with fierj' eyes, and angry roar. 
 And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 
 He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 
 The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die : 
 Thus against the wall they went. 
 Thus the first were backward bent ; 
 Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass, 
 Strcw'd the earth like broken glass, 
 Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 
 The ground whereon they moved no more : 
 Even as they fell, in files they lay, 
 Like the mower's grass at the close of day. 
 When his work is done on the levell'd plain ; 
 Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 
 
 As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 
 From the cliffs invading dash 
 Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 
 Till white and thundering down they go; 
 Like the avalanche's snow 
 On the Alpine vales below : 
 Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 
 Corinth's sons were downward borne 
 By the long and oft renew'd 
 Charge of the Moslem multitude. 
 In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 
 Heap'd by the host of the infidel. 
 Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 
 Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 
 
 Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 
 
 For quarter, or for victory. 
 
 Mingle there with the volleying thunder. 
 
 Which makes the distant cities wonder 
 
 How the sounding battle goes, 
 
 If with them, or for their foes ; 
 
 If they must mourn, or may rejoice 
 
 In that annihilating voice. 
 
 Which pierces the deep hills through and through 
 
 With an echo dread and new : 
 
 You might have heard it, on that day, 
 
 O'er Salamis and Megara ; 
 
 (We have heard the hearers say) 
 
 Even unto Piraeus bay. 
 
 From the point of encountering blades to the hilt. 
 Sabres and swords with blood were gilt; 
 But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun. 
 And all but the after-carnage done. 
 Shriller shrieks now mingling come 
 From within the plunder'd dome: 
 Hark to the haste of flying feet. 
 That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; 
 But here and there, where 'vantage-ground 
 Against the foe may still be found. 
 Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 
 Make a pause, and turn again — 
 With banded backs against the wall. 
 Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 
 
 There stood an old man — his hairs were wliite. 
 But his veteran arm was full of might : 
 So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 
 The dead before him on that day 
 In a semicircle lay; 
 Still he combated unwounded. 
 Though retreating, unsurrounded. 
 Many a scar of former fight 
 Lurked beneath his corslet bright; 
 But of every wound his body bore. 
 Each and all had been ta'cn before : 
 Though aged he was, so iron of limb. 
 Few of our youth could cope with him ; 
 And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 
 Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver-gray. 
 From right to left his sabre swept : 
 Many an Othman mother wept 
 Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 
 His weapon first in Moslem gore, 
 Ere his years could count a score. 
 Of all he might have been the sire 
 Who fell that day beneath his ire: 
 For, sonless left long years ago, 
 Kis wrath made many a childless foe ; 
 And since the day, when in the strait 
 His only boy had met his fate. 
 His parent's iron hand did doom 
 More than a human hecatomb. 
 If shades by carnage be appeased, 
 Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 
 Than his, Minotti's son, who died 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 109 
 
 Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 
 
 •Buried he lay, Avhere thousands before 
 
 For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore; 
 
 What of them is left, to tell 
 
 Where they lie, and how they fell? 
 
 Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves; 
 
 But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 
 
 Hark to the Allah shout! a band 
 Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand : 
 Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 
 Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 
 Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 
 Thus in the fight is he ever known : 
 Others a gaudier garb may show, 
 To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe; 
 Many a hand's on a richer hilt, 
 But none on a steel more ruddily gilt : 
 Many a loftier turban may wear, — 
 Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 
 Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis there ! 
 There is not a standard on that shore 
 ! So well advanced the ranks before ; 
 iThere is not a banner in Moslem war 
 Will lure the Delhis half so far; 
 jit glances like a falling star ! 
 jWhere'er that mighty arm is seen, 
 The bravest be, or late have been ; 
 There the craven cries for quarter 
 IVainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 
 Or the hero, silent lying. 
 Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 
 iMustering his last feeble blow 
 'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 
 Though faint beneath the mutual wound. 
 Grappling on the gory ground. 
 
 Still the old man stood erect, 
 lAnd Alp's career a moment check'd. 
 I'Tield thee, Minotti; quarter take 
 For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 
 
 "Never, renegado, never ! 
 Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 
 
 - "Francesca! — Oh my promised bride ! 
 Must she too perish by thy pride?" 
 
 ! "She is safe." — "Where ? where?" — "In heaven. 
 
 From whence thy traitor-soul is driven — 
 
 •Far from thee, and undefiled." 
 
 jSrimly then Minotti smiled, 
 
 jis he saw Alp staggering bow 
 
 JBefore his words, as with a blow. 
 
 ['Oh God! when died she?" — "Yesternight — 
 
 STor weep I for her spirit's flight: 
 
 Soae of my pure race shall be 
 
 slaves to Mahomet and thee — 
 
 vome on!" — That challenge is in vain — 
 
 Vlp's already with the slain ! 
 
 irVhile Minotti's words were wreaking 
 
 More revenge in bitter speaking 
 
 Than his falchion's point had found, 
 
 Had the time allow'd to wound, 
 
 From within the neighbouring porch 
 
 Of a long defended church. 
 
 Where the last and desperate few 
 
 Would tiie failing fight renew. 
 
 The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground; 
 
 Ere an eye could view the wound 
 
 That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 
 
 Round he spun, and down he fell ; 
 
 A flash like fire within his eyes 
 
 Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 
 
 And then eternal darkness sunk 
 
 Through all the palpitating trunk ; 
 
 Nought of life left, save a quivering 
 
 Where his limbs were slightly shivering : 
 
 They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 
 
 And brow were stain'd with gore and dust. 
 
 And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 
 
 From its deep veins lately loosed; 
 
 But in his pulse there was no throb. 
 
 Nor on his lips one dying sob; 
 
 Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
 
 Heralded his way to death ; 
 
 Ere his very thought could pray, 
 
 Unaneal'd he pass'd away. 
 
 Without a hope from mercy's aid, — 
 
 To the last a renegade. 
 
 Fearfully the yell arose 
 Of his followers, and his foes; 
 These in joy, in fury those: 
 Then again in conflict mixing, 
 Clashing swords, and spears transfixing. 
 Interchanged the blow and thrust, 
 Hurling warriors in the dust. 
 Street by street, and foot by foot, 
 Still Minotti dared dispute 
 The latest portion of the land 
 Left beneath his high command ; 
 With him, aiding heart and hand. 
 The remnant of his gallant band. 
 Still the church is tenable. 
 Whence issued late the fated ball 
 That half avenged the city's fall, 
 When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell: 
 Thither bending sternly back. 
 They leave before a bloody track ; 
 And, with their faces to the foe, 
 Dealing wounds with every blow, 
 The chief, and his retreating train, 
 Join to those Avithin the fane : 
 There they yet may breathe awhile, 
 Shelter'd by the massy pile. 
 
 Brief breathing-time ! the turban'd host, 
 With added ranks and raging boast. 
 Press onwards with such strength and heat. 
 Their numbers balk their own retreat; 
 For narrow the way that led to the spot 
 
110 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Where still the Christians yielded not; 
 
 And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
 
 Through tlie massy column to turn and fly ; 
 
 They perforce must do or die. 
 
 They die; but, ere their eyes could close, 
 
 Avengers o'er their bodies rose; 
 
 Fresh and furious, fast they fill 
 
 The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still; 
 
 And faint the weary Christians wax 
 
 Before the still renew'd attacks: 
 
 And now the Othmans gain the gate; 
 
 Still resists its iron weight, 
 
 And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 
 
 From every crevice comes the shot; 
 
 From every shatter'd window pour 
 
 The volleys of the sulphurous shower : 
 
 But the portal wavering grows and weak — 
 
 The iron yields, the hinges creak — 
 
 It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 
 
 Lost Corinth may resist no more! 
 
 Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
 Minotti stood o'er the altar-stone: 
 Madonna's face upon him shone. 
 Painted in heavenly hues above, 
 With eyes of light and looks of love; 
 And placed upon that holy shrine 
 To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
 When, pictured there, we kneeling see 
 Her, and the Boy-God on her knee. 
 Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
 To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
 Still she smiled ; even now she smiles. 
 Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 
 Minotti lifted his aged eye, 
 And made the sign of a cross with a sigh. 
 Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; 
 And still he stood, while, with steel and flame. 
 Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 
 
 The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
 Contain'd the dead of ages gone; 
 Their names were on the graven floor, 
 But now illegible with gore ; 
 The carved crests, and curious hues 
 The varied marble's veins diffuse. 
 Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd, and strown 
 With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown: 
 There were dead above, and the dead below 
 Lay cold in many a coffin'd row; 
 You might see them piled in sable state. 
 By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 
 But War had enter'd their dark caves. 
 And stored along the vaulted graves 
 Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 
 In masses by the flesbless dead ; 
 Here, throughout the siege, had been 
 The Christians' chiefest magazine; 
 To these a late-form'd train now led, 
 Minotti's last and stern resource 
 Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 
 
 The foe came on, and few remain 
 To strive, and those must strive in vain: 
 For lack of further lives, to slake 
 The thirst of vengeance now awake, 
 With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 
 And lop the already lifeless head. 
 And fell the statues from their niche. 
 And spoil the shrines of offerings ricli. 
 And from each other's rude hands wrest 
 The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 
 To the high altar on they go ; 
 Oh, but it made a glorious show ! 
 On its table still behold 
 The cup of consecrated gold ; 
 Massy and deep, a glittering prize. 
 Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes: 
 That morn it held the holy wine, 
 Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, - 
 Which his worshippers drank at tiie break of day, 
 To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. 
 Still a few drops within it lay ; 
 And round the sacred table glow 
 Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
 From the purest metal cast; 
 A spoil — the richest, and the last. 
 
 So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
 To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 
 When old Minotti's hand 
 Touch'd with the torch the train — 
 'Tis fired! 
 
 Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
 The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
 All that of living or dead remain, 
 Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane. 
 In one wild roar expired ! 
 The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down — 
 The waves a moment backward bent — 
 The hills that shake, although unrent, 
 As if an earthquake pass'd — 
 The thousand shapeless things all driven 
 In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 
 By that tremendous blast — 
 Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
 On that too long afllicted shore : 
 Up to the sky like rockets go 
 All that mingled there below : 
 Many a tall and goodly man, 
 Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
 When he fell to earth again 
 Like a cinder strew'd the plain : 
 Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
 Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 
 With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 
 Some fell on the shore, but far away, 
 Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
 Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
 Let their mothers see and say ! 
 When in cradled rest they lay. 
 And each nursing mother smiled 
 On the sweet sleep of her child. 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Little deem'd she Such a day 
 
 Would rend those tender limbs away. 
 
 Not the matrons that them bore 
 
 Could discern their offspring more; 
 
 That one moment left no trace 
 
 More of human form or face 
 
 Save a scattcr'd scalp or bone : 
 
 And down came blazing rafters, strown 
 
 Around, and many a falling stone. 
 
 Deeply dinted in the day. 
 
 All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
 
 All the living things that heard 
 
 That deadly earth-shock disappear'd: 
 
 The wild birds Hew; the wild dogs fled, 
 
 And howling left the unburied dead ; 
 
 The camels from their keepers broke; 
 
 The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
 
 The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
 And burst liis girth, and tore his rein; 
 The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
 Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh ; 
 The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill. 
 Where echo roll'd in thunder still; 
 The jackal's troop, in gather'd crj', 
 Bay'd from afar complainingly, 
 With a mix'd and mournful sound, 
 Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
 With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 
 The eagle left his rocky nest. 
 And mounted nearer to the sun, 
 The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 
 Their smoke assail'd his startled beak. 
 And made him higher soar and shriek — 
 Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 
 
112 
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 TO 
 
 SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, esq. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEM LS INSCRIBED BY ONE WHO HAS 
 LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 
 January 22, 1816. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following Poem is grounded on a circumstance 
 mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the House of 
 Brunswick." — I am aware that in modern times the 
 delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such 
 subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek 
 dramatists, and some of the best of our old English 
 writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri and Schil- 
 ler have also been, more recently, upon the continent. 
 
 The following extract will explain the facts on which t : 
 story is founded- The name of Azo is substituted i ■ 
 Nicholas, as more metrical. 
 
 "Under the reign of Nicholas III. Fcrrara was p • 
 luted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of i 
 attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of E, ; 
 discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina a I 
 Hugo his bastard-son, a beautiful and valiant you . 
 They were beheaded in the castle by the sentence c i 
 father and husband, who published his shame, and si • 
 vived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they wi : 
 guilty; if they were iimocent, he was still more unf 
 tunate ; nor is there any possible situation in whicl 
 can sincerely approve the last act of the justice a i 
 parent." — Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. III. p. 4 
 
 It is the hour when from the boughs 
 The nightingale's high note is heard ; 
 It is the hour when lovers' vows 
 Seem sweet in every whisperM word ; 
 And gentle winds, and waters near, 
 Make music to the lonely ear. 
 Each flower the dews have lightly wet. 
 And in the sky the stars are met, 
 And on the wave is deeper blue, 
 And on the leaf a browner hue. 
 And in the heaven that clear-obscure. 
 So softly dark, and darkly pure. 
 Which follows the decline of day. 
 As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 
 
 But it is not to list to the waterfall 
 That Parisina leaves her hall. 
 And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 
 That the lady walks in the shadow of night; 
 And if she sits in Este's bower, 
 'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 
 She listens — but not for the nightingale — 
 Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 
 There glides a step through the foliage thick. 
 And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats quick, 
 There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
 And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves: 
 A moment more — and they shall meet — 
 'Tis past — her lover's at her feet, 
 
 And what unto them is the world beside, 
 With all its cliangc of time and tide? 
 Its living things — its earth and sky — 
 Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
 And heedless as the dead are they 
 Of aught around, above, beneath; 
 As if all else had pass'd away. 
 They only for each other breathe ; 
 Their very sighs are full of joy 
 So deep, that did it not decay. 
 That happy madness would destroy 
 The hearts which feel its fiery sway: 
 Of guilt, or peril, do they deem 
 In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
 Who, that have felt that passion's power. 
 Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour? 
 Or thought how brief such moments last? 
 But yet — they are already past ! 
 Alas ! we must awake before 
 We know such vision comes no more. 
 
 With many a lingering look they leave 
 Tlie spot of guilty gladness past; 
 And though they hope, and vow, they grieve. 
 As if that parting were the last. 
 The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 
 Tlie lip that there would cling for ever. 
 While gleams on Parisina's face 
 The Heaven she fears will not forgive her. 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 113 
 
 As if each talmly conscious star 
 
 Beheld her frailty from afar — 
 
 The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
 
 Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
 
 But it must come, and they must part 
 
 In fearful heaviness of heart, 
 
 Witli all the deep and shuddering chill 
 
 Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 
 
 . And Hugo is gone to liis lonely bed, 
 
 To covet there anotlier's bride; 
 
 But she must lay her conscious head 
 
 A husband's trusting heart beside. 
 
 But fever'd in her sleep she seems, 
 t| And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 
 
 And mutters she in her unrest 
 
 A name she dare not brcatiie by day, 
 |)(l And clasps her Lord unto the breast 
 ; Which pants for one away : 
 Es And he to that embrace awakes, 
 ai And, happy in the thouglit, mistakes 
 
 That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
 i For such as he was wont to bless ; 
 su And could in very fondness weep 
 M O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 
 
 He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 
 ofj And listen'd to each broken word : 
 ii He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start. 
 As if the Archangel's voice lie heard? 
 And well he may — a deeper doom 
 Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
 When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
 And stand the eternal throne before. 
 And well he may — his earthly peace 
 Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
 That sleeping whisper of a name 
 Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
 And whose that name? tlsat o'er his pillow 
 Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
 Which rolls the plank upon the shore. 
 And dashes on the pointed rock 
 The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 
 So came upon his soul the shock. 
 And wiiose that name ? 'tis Hugo's, — his — 
 In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! — 
 'Tis Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
 He loved — his own all-evil son — 
 The oifspring of his wayward youth, 
 When he betray'd Bianca's truth. 
 The maid whose folly could confide 
 In him who made her not his bride. 
 
 He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 
 But sheatlied it ere the point was bare — 
 Howe'cr unworthy now to breathe. 
 He could not slay a thing so feir — 
 At least, not smiling — sleeping there — 
 Nay, more : he did not wake her then. 
 But gazed upon her. with a glance 
 Which, had she roused her from her trance, 
 
 Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
 And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
 Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
 She spake no more — but still she slumber'd - 
 While, in his thought, Her days are number'd. 
 
 And with the morn he sought, and found, 
 In many a tale from those around, 
 The proof of all he fear'd to know. 
 Their present guilt, his future woe; 
 The long-conniving damsels seek 
 To save themselves, and would transfer 
 The guilt — the shame — the doom to her : 
 Concealment is no more — they speak 
 All circumstance which may compel 
 Full credence to the tale they tell: 
 And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
 Have nothing more to feel or hear. 
 
 He was not one who brook'd delay: 
 Within the chamber of his state. 
 The chief of Este's ancient sway 
 Upon his throne of judgment sate; 
 His nobles and his guards are there, — 
 Before him is the sinful pair; 
 Both young, — and one how passing fair! 
 With swordlcss belt, and fetter'd hand, 
 Oh, Christ ! that thus a son should stand 
 Before a father's face ! 
 Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire. 
 And hear the sentence of his ire. 
 The tale of his disgrace ! 
 And yet he seems not overcome. 
 Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 
 
 And still, and pale, and silently 
 Did Parisina wait her doom; 
 How changed since last her speaking eye 
 Glanced gladness round the glittering room, 
 Where high-born men were proud to wait — 
 Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 
 Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
 And gather from her air and gait 
 The graces of its queen: 
 Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
 A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
 A thousand swords had sheathless shone. 
 And made her quarrel all their own. 
 Now, — what is she? and what are they? 
 Can she command, or these obey ? 
 All silent and unheeding now. 
 With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 
 And folded arms, and freezing air. 
 And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 
 Her knights and dames, her court — is there: 
 And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
 Had yet been couch'd before her glance. 
 Who — were his arm a moment free — 
 Had died or gain'd her liberty; 
 The minion of his father's bride, — 
 He, too, is fetter'd by her side; 
 
 8 
 
114 
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
 Less for her own despair than him : 
 Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 
 Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 
 Shining through the smoothest white 
 That e'er did softest kiss invite — 
 Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 
 To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 
 Which glance so heavily, and fill, 
 As tear on tear grows gathering still. 
 
 And he for her had also wept, 
 But for the eyes that on him gazed ; 
 His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 
 Stern and erect his brow was raised, 
 Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd. 
 He would not shrink before the crowd; 
 But yet he dared not look on her: 
 Remembrance of the hours that were — 
 His guilt — his love — his present state — 
 His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 
 His earthly, his eternal fate — 
 And hers, — oh, hers! — he dared not throw 
 One look upon that deathlike brow! 
 Else had his rising heart betray'd 
 Remorse for all the wreck it made. 
 
 And Azo spake : — "But yesterday 
 I gloried in a wife and son ; 
 That dream this morning pass'd awayj 
 Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
 My life must linger on alone; 
 Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 
 Who would not do as I have done: 
 Those ties are broken — not by me; 
 Let that too pass : — the doom's prepared ! 
 Hugo, the priest awaits on thee. 
 And then — thy crime's reward ! 
 Away! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
 Before its evening-stars are met — 
 Learn if thou there canst be forgiven; 
 Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
 But here, upon the earth beneath. 
 There is no spot where thou and I 
 Together, for an hour, could breathe: 
 Farewell! I will not see thee die — 
 But thou, frail tl)ing! shalt view his head — 
 Away! I cannot speak the rest : 
 Go! woman of the wanton breast; 
 Not I, but thou his blood dost shed ; 
 Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
 And joy thee in the life I give." 
 
 And here stern Azo hid his face — 
 For on his brow the swelling vein 
 Tiirobb'd as if back upon his brain 
 The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again ; 
 And therefore bow'd he for a space 
 And pass'd his shaking hand along 
 His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 
 While Hugo raised his chained hands, 
 
 And for a brief delay demands 
 His father's ear : the silent sire 
 Forbids not what his words require. 
 
 "It is not that I dread the death — 
 For thou hast seen me by thy side 
 All redly througli the battle ride. 
 And that not once a useless brand 
 Thy slaves have wrested from my hand. 
 Hath shed more blood in cause of thine 
 Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 
 Thou gavest, and mayst resume my breath, 
 A gift for which I thank thee not ; 
 Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
 Her slighted love and ruin'd name, 
 Her offspring's heritage of shame; 
 But she is in the grave, where he, 
 Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 
 Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 
 Shall witness for thee from the dead 
 How trusty and how tender were 
 Thy youthful love — paternal care. 
 'Tis true, that I have done thee wrong — 
 But wrong for wrong — this deem'd thy bride. 
 The other victim of thy pride. 
 Thou knowst for me was destined long. 
 Thou sawst, and covetedst her charms — 
 And with thy very crime — my birth. 
 Thou tauntedst me — as little worth ; 
 A match ignoble for her arms, 
 Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
 The lawful heirship of thy name, 
 Nor sit on Este's lineal throne: 
 Yet, were a few short summers mine, 
 My name should more timn Este's shine 
 With honours all my own. 
 I had a sword — and have a breast 
 That should have won as haught a crest 
 As ever waved along the line 
 Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
 Not always knightly spurs are worn 
 The brightest by the better born ; 
 And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
 Before proud chiefs of princely rank. 
 When charging to the cheering cry 
 Of "Este and of Victory !" 
 I will not plead the cause of crime. 
 Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
 A few brief hours or days that must 
 At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 
 Suclj maddening moments as my past. 
 They could not, and they did not, last — 
 Albeit my birtli and name be base. 
 And thy nobility of race 
 Disdain'd to deck a thing like me — 
 Yet in my lineaments they trace 
 Some features of my father's face, 
 And in my spirit — all of thee. 
 From thee — this tamelcssness of heart — 
 From thee — nay, wherefore dost lliou start? — 
 From thee in all their vigour came 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 115 
 
 My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 
 
 Tliou didst not g-ive me life alone, 
 
 But all that made me more thine own. 
 
 Sec what thy guilty love hath done ! 
 
 Repaid thee with too like a son! 
 
 I am no bastard in my soul, 
 
 For that, like thine, abhorr'd controul : 
 
 And for my breath, that hasty boon 
 
 Thou gavest and wilt resume so soon, 
 
 I valued it no more than thou. 
 
 When rose thy casque above thy brow. 
 
 And wc, all side by side, have striven, 
 
 And o'er the dead our coursers driven: 
 
 The past is nothing — and at last 
 
 The future can but be the past; 
 
 Yet would I that I then had died: 
 
 For though thou work'dst my mother's ill. 
 
 And made thy own my destined bride, 
 
 I feel thou art my father still ; 
 
 And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
 
 'Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
 
 Begot in sin, to die in shame. 
 
 My life begun and ends the same: 
 
 As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 
 
 And thou must punish both in one. 
 
 My crime seems worst to human view. 
 
 But God must judge between us two!" 
 
 He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
 On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
 And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
 Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd. 
 When those dull chains in meeting clank'd : 
 Till Parisina's fatal charms 
 Again attracted every eye — 
 Would she thus hear him doom'd to die! 
 She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
 The living cause of Hugo's ill: 
 Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide. 
 Not once had turn'd to either side — 
 Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 
 Or shade the glance o'er which they rose. 
 But round their orbs of deepest blue 
 The circling white dilated grew — 
 And there with glassy gaze she stood 
 As ice were in her curdled blood; 
 But every now and then a tear 
 So large and slowly gather'd slid 
 From the long dark fringe of that fair lid. 
 It was a thing to see, not hear! 
 And those who saw, it did surprise. 
 Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
 To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
 Was choked within her swelling throat. 
 Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
 Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
 It ceased — again she thought to speak. 
 Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
 And to the earth she fell likt; stone 
 Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
 More like a thing that ne'er had life, — 
 
 A monument of Azo's wife, — 
 
 Than her, that living guilty thing, 
 
 Whose every passion was a sting. 
 
 Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
 
 That guilt's detection and despair. 
 
 But yet she lived — and all too soon 
 
 Recover'd from that death-like swoon — 
 
 But scarce to reason — every sense 
 
 Had been o'er strung by pangs intense ; 
 
 And each frail fibre of her brain 
 
 (As bow-strings, when relax'd by rain, 
 
 The erring arrow launch aside) 
 
 Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 
 
 The past a blank, the future black, 
 
 With glimpses of a dreary track. 
 
 Like lightning on the desert-path. 
 
 When midnight-storms are mustering wrath. 
 
 She fear'd — she felt that something ill 
 
 Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 
 
 That there was sin and shame she knew; 
 
 That some one was to die — but who? 
 
 She had forgotten : — did she breathe? 
 
 Could this be still the earth beneath ? 
 
 The sky above, and men around; 
 
 Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 
 
 On one, before whose eyes each eye 
 
 Till then had smiled in sympathy? 
 
 All was confused and undefined. 
 
 To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind; 
 
 A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 
 
 And now in laughter, now in tears, 
 
 But madly still in each extreme. 
 
 She strove with that convulsive dream ; 
 
 For so it seem'd on her to break: 
 
 Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake! 
 
 The convent-bells are ringing, 
 But mournfully and slow. 
 In the gray square turret swinging. 
 With a deep sound, to and fro. 
 Heavily to the heart they go ! 
 Hark ! the hymn is singing — 
 The song for the dead below. 
 Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
 For a departing being's soul 
 The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll ; 
 He is near his mortal goal ; 
 Kneeling at the Friar's knee; 
 Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
 Kneeling on the bare cold ground. 
 With the block before and the guards around — 
 And the headsman with his bare arm ready. 
 That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
 Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
 Since he set its edge anew : 
 While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
 To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father. 
 
 R is a lovely hour as yet 
 Before the summer-sun shall set. 
 Which rose upon that heavy day, 
 
116 
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 And mock'd it with his steadiest ray; 
 And his evening-beams are shed 
 Full on Hugo's fated head. 
 As his last confession pouring 
 To the monk, his doom deploring 
 In penitential holiness, 
 He bends to hear his accents bless 
 With absolution such as may 
 Wipe our mortal stains away. 
 That high sun on his head did glisten 
 As he there did bow and listen — 
 And the rings of chesnut hair 
 Curled half down his neck so bare; 
 But brighter still the beam was thrown 
 Upon the axe which near him shone 
 With a clear and ghastly glitter — 
 Oh ! that parting-hour was bitter! 
 Even the stern stood chill 'd with awe: 
 Dark the crime, and just the law — 
 Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 
 
 The parting prayers are said and over 
 Of that false son — and daring lover! 
 His beads and sins are all recounted, 
 His hours to their last minute mounted — ■ 
 His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, 
 His bright brown locks must now be dipp'd; 
 'Tis done — all closely are they shorn — 
 The vest which till this moment worn — 
 The scarf which Parisina gave — 
 Must not adorn liim to the grave. 
 Even that must now be thrown aside, 
 And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 
 But no — that last indignity 
 Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 
 All feelings seemingly subdued, 
 In deep disdain were half renew'd. 
 When headman's hands prepared to bind 
 Those eyes which would not brook such blind; 
 As if they dared not look on death. 
 "No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 
 These hands are chain'd — but let me die 
 At least with an unshackled eye — 
 Strike:" — and as the word he said. 
 Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 
 These the last accents Hugo spoke : 
 "Strike" — and flashing fell the stroke — 
 Roll'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 
 Back the stain'd and heaving trunk, 
 In the dust, whicli each deep vein 
 Slaked with its ensanguined rain; 
 His eyes and lips a moment quiver. 
 Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 
 
 He died, as erring man should die, 
 Without display, without parade; 
 Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd. 
 As not disdaining priestly aid, 
 Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
 And while before the Prior kneeling. 
 His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling; 
 
 His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
 
 What were they in such an hour? 
 
 No more reproach — no more despair; 
 
 No thought but heaven — no word but prayer - 
 
 Save the few which from him broke, 
 
 Wiien, bared to meet the headman's stroke, 
 
 He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 
 
 His sole adieu to those around. 
 
 Still as the lips that closed in death. 
 Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 
 But yet, afar, from man to man, 
 A cold electric shiver ran. 
 As down the deadly blow descended 
 On him whose life and love thus ended; 
 And with a hushing sound comprcst, 
 A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 
 But no more thrilling noise rose there. 
 Beyond the blow that to the block 
 Pierced through with forced and sullen shock, 
 Save one: — what cleaves the silent air 
 So madly shrill — so passing wild? 
 That, as a mother's o'er her child, 
 Done to death by sudden blow, ' 
 To the sky these accents go. 
 Like a soul's in endless woe. 
 Through Azo's palace-lattice driven. 
 That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 
 And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 
 But sound and siglit alike are gone I 
 It was a v\oman's shriek — and ne'er 
 In madlicr accents rose despair; 
 And those wlio heard it, as it past, 
 In mercy wish'd it were the last. 
 
 Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour. 
 No more in palace, hall, or bower, 
 Was Parisina heard or seen : 
 Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 
 Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 
 Like words of wantonness or fear ; 
 And from Prince Azo's voice by none 
 Was mention heard of wife or son; 
 No tomb — no memory had they ; 
 Theirs was unconsecrated clay; 
 At least the knigiit's who died that day. 
 But Parisina's fate lies hid 
 Like dust beneath the coffin-lid: 
 Whether in convent she abode. 
 And won to heaven her dreary road. 
 By blighted and remorseful years 
 Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 
 Or if she fell by bowl or steel. 
 For that dark love she dared to feel ; 
 Or if, upon the moment smote. 
 She died by tortures less remote; 
 Like him she saw upon the block. 
 With heart that shared the headman's shock. 
 In quicken'd brokenness that came. 
 In pity, o'er her sliattcr'd frame; — 
 None knew — and none can ever know : 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 117 
 
 But whatsoe'er its end below, 
 Her life began and closed in woe! 
 
 And Azo found another bride, 
 And goodly sons grew by his side; 
 But none so lovely and so brave 
 As him who wither'd in the grave; 
 Or if they were — on his cold eye 
 Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 
 Or noticed with a smother'd sigli. 
 But never tear liis cheek descended, 
 And never smile his brow unbended; 
 And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 
 The intersected lines of thought; 
 Those furrows which the burning share 
 Of sorrow ploughs untimely there; 
 Scars of the lacerating mind 
 Which the soul's war doth leave behind. 
 He was past all mirth or woe : 
 Notliing more remain'd below 
 But sleepless nights and heavy days, 
 A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 
 A heart which shunn'd itself — and yet 
 That would not yield — nor could forget; 
 Which, when it least appear'd to melt, 
 Intently thought — intensely felt : 
 Tlie deepest ice which ever froze 
 Can only o'er the surface close — 
 The living stream lies quick below, 
 ^nd flows — and cannot cease to flow. 
 
 Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 
 
 By thoughts which Nature hath implanted; 
 
 Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
 
 Howe'er our stifled tears we banish ; 
 
 When, struggling as they rise to start. 
 
 We check those waters of the heart, 
 
 They are not dried — those tears unshed 
 
 But flow back to the fountain-head, 
 
 And resting in their spring more pure. 
 
 For ever in its depth endure. 
 
 Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd. 
 
 And cherish'd most where least reveal'd. 
 
 With inward starts of feeling left, 
 
 To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 
 
 Without the power to fill again 
 
 The desert gap which made his pain ; 
 
 Without the hope to meet them where 
 
 United souls shall gladness share; 
 
 With all the consciousness that he 
 
 Had only pass'd a just decree; 
 
 That they had wrought their doom of ill ; — 
 
 Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
 
 Tlie tainted branches of the tree, 
 
 If lopp'd with care, a strength may give, 
 
 By which the rest shall bloom and live 
 
 All greenly fresh and wildly free: 
 
 But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
 
 The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
 
 The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
 
 And never more a leaf reveals. 
 
 m 
 
 ^ 
 
118 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.^ 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON. 
 
 Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! 
 _Bri^lU€*t io'd«tig£Qn5^,Iiiberty ! thou art, 
 For there thy liabitation is the heart — 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 
 ,\nd when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
 TJieir country conquers with their martyrdom. 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 
 And thy sad floor an ^Itar — for 'twas trod, 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 Worn, as if fhy cold pavement were a sod, 
 l^y_BftfllUYard_[ — May none those marks efface! 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 My hair is gray, but not with years, 
 Nor grew it white 
 In a single night. 
 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears* 
 My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 
 But rusted with a vile repose, 
 For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
 But this was for my father's faith, 
 I sufter'd chains and courted death; 
 That father perish'd at the stake 
 For tenets he would not forsake; 
 And for the same his lineal race 
 In darkness found a dwelling-place; 
 We were seven — who now are one, 
 Six in youth, and one in age, 
 Finish'd as they had begun. 
 Proud of Persecution's rage; 
 One in fire, and two in field. 
 Their belief with blood have seal'd; 
 Dying as their father died. 
 For the God their foes denied; 
 Three were in a dungeon cast. 
 Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
 
 There are seven pillars of gothic mould, 
 In Chillon's dungeons deep and old; 
 There are seven columns, massy and gray. 
 Dim with a dull imprisou'd ray, 
 
 A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 
 And through the crevice and the cleft 
 Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
 Creeping o'er the floor so damp. 
 Like a marsh's meteor-lamp: 
 And in each pillar there is a ring, 
 And in each ring there is a chain ; 
 That iron is a cankering thing, 
 For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
 Witii marks that will not wear away. 
 Till 1 have done with this new day, 
 Which now is painful to these eyes. 
 Which have not seen the sun so rise 
 For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
 I lost their long and heavy score, 
 Wlien my last brother droop'd and died. 
 And I lay living by his side. 
 
 They chain'd us each to a column-stone. 
 And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
 We could not move a single pace. 
 We could not see each other's face. 
 But with that pale and livid light 
 That made us strangers in our sight; 
 And thus together — yet apart, 
 Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart ; 
 'Twas still some solace in the dearth 
 Of the pure elements of earth, 
 To hearken to each other's speech, 
 And each turn comforter to each. 
 With some new hope, or legend old, 
 Or song heroically bold; 
 But even these at length grew cold. 
 Our voices took a dreary tone. 
 An eclio of the dungeon-stone, 
 A grating sound — not full and free 
 As they of yore were wont to be: 
 It might be fancy — but to me 
 They never sounded like our own. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three, 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 I ought to do — and did my best — 
 And each did well in his degree. 
 The youngest, whom my father loved. 
 Because our mother's brow was given 
 To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
 For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
 And truly might it be distrest 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 119 
 
 To see such bird in sucli a nest ; 
 For lie was beautiful as day — 
 (When day was beautiful to me 
 As to young eagles, being free) — 
 A polar day, which will not see 
 A sunset till its summer's gone, 
 Its sleepless summer of long light, 
 the snow-clad offspring of the sun: 
 And thus he was as pure and bright, 
 And in his natural spirit gay, 
 With tears for nought but others' ills. 
 And then they flow'd like mountain-rills, 
 Unless he could assuage the woe 
 Which he abhorr'd to view below. 
 
 The other was as pure of mind, 
 But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
 Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
 Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
 And perisli'd in the foremost rank 
 Witli joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
 His spirit wither'd with their clank, 
 I saw it silently decline — \ 
 
 And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 
 But yet I forced it on to cheer 
 Those relics of a home so dear. 
 He was a hunter of the hills. 
 Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 
 To him this dungeon was a gulf. 
 And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 
 
 Xiake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: 
 
 K thousand feet in depth below 
 
 (ts massy waters meet and flow; 
 
 Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
 
 ?rorn Chillon's snow-white battlement, 
 
 kVbich round about the wave inthralls: 
 
 ^ double dungeon wall and wave 
 
 3ave made — and like a living grave. 
 
 3elow the surface of the lake 
 
 riie dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
 
 tVc heard it ripple night and day; 
 
 Souiiding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
 
 Ind I have felt the winter's spray ' 
 
 ■Vash through the bars when winds were high 
 
 knd Avanton in the happy sky ; 
 
 Ind then the very rock hath rock'd, 
 
 ind I have felt it shake unshock'd, 
 
 Jccanse I could have smiled to see 
 
 'he death that would have set me free. 
 
 I said my nearer brother pined, 
 said his mighty heart declined, 
 le loathed and put away his food; 
 t was not tliat 'twas coarse and rude, 
 'or we were used to hunter's fare, 
 nd for the like had little care : 
 he milk drawn from tlic mountain-goat 
 V^as changed for water from the moat, 
 'nr bread was such as captive's tears 
 lave moisten'd many a thousand years. 
 
 Since man first pent his fellow-men 
 Like brutes within an iron den : 
 But what were these to us or him ? 
 These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
 My brother's soul was of that mould / 
 Which in a palace had grown cold, ^ 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's side; 
 But why delay the truth? — lie died. 
 I saw, and could not hold his head, 
 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead. 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
 To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
 He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
 And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
 Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
 I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
 His corse in dust whereon the day 
 Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
 But then within my brain it wrought. 
 That even in death his free-born breast 
 In such a dungeon could not rest. 
 I might have spared my idle prayer — 
 They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there 
 The flat and turfless earth above 
 The being we so much did love; 
 His empty chain above it leant. 
 Such murder's fitting monument ! 
 
 But he, the favourite and the flower. 
 Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
 His mother's image in fair face, 
 The infant love of all his race, 
 His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 Less wretched now, and one day free; 
 He, too, who yet had held untircd 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 He, too, was struck, and day by day 
 Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
 Oh God! it is a fearful thing 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 In any shape, in any mood: — 
 I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
 I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
 But these were horrors — this was woe 
 Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 
 He faded, and so calm and meek. 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 
 So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 
 And grieved for those he left behind ; 
 With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb. 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 As a departing rainbow's ray — 
 An eye of most transparent light, 
 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 
 i 
 
120 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 ( 
 
 And not a word of murmur — not 
 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
 
 A little talk of better days, 
 
 A little hope my own to raise. 
 
 For I was sunk in silence — lost 
 
 In this last loss, of all the most ; 
 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 
 Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
 
 More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
 
 I listen'd, but I could not hear — 
 
 I call'd, for I was wild with fear; 
 
 I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
 
 Would not be thus admonished ; 
 
 I call'd, and thought 1 heard a sound — 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong bound; 
 
 And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 
 
 /only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 
 /only lived — /only drew 
 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
 
 The last — the sole — the dearest link 
 
 Between me and the eternal brink, 
 
 Which bound me to my failing race, 
 
 Was broken in this fatal place. 
 
 One on the earth, and one beneath — 
 
 My brothers — botli had ceased to breathe: 
 
 I took that hand which lay so still, 
 
 Alas! my own was full as chill; 
 
 I had not strength to stir, or strive, 
 
 But felt that I was still alive — 
 
 A frantic feeling, when we know 
 
 That what we love shall ne'er be so. 
 
 I know not why 
 
 I could not die, 
 
 1 had no earthly hope — but faith, 
 
 And that forbade a selfish death. 
 
 What next befel me then and there 
 I know not well — I never knew — 
 First came the loss of light, and air. 
 And then of darkness too. 
 I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
 Among the stones I stood a stone. 
 And was, scarce conscious what 1 wist, 
 As shrubless crags within the mist; 
 For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
 It was not night — it was not day, 
 It was not even the dungeon-light. 
 So hateful to my heavy sight. 
 But vacancy absorbing space, 
 And fixedness — without a place; 
 There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
 No check — no cliange — no good — no crime 
 But silence, and a stirlcss breath 
 Which neither was of life nor death ; 
 A sea of stagnant idleness, 
 Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain, — 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased and then it came again. 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 
 Ran over with the glad surprise, 
 
 And they that moment could not see 
 
 I was the mate of misery ; 
 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 
 My senses to their wonted track, 
 
 I saw the dungeon-walls and floor 
 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 
 Creeping as it before liad done. 
 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 
 That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame. 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree; 
 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings. 
 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
 
 I never saw its like before, 
 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 
 It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
 
 But was not half so desolate. 
 
 And it was come to love me when 
 
 None lived to love me so again, 
 
 And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
 
 Had brought mc back to feel and think. 
 
 I know not if it late were free. 
 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine. 
 
 But knowing well captivity. 
 
 Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! 
 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
 
 Which made me both to weep and smile; 
 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 
 My brother's soul come down to me; 
 
 But then at last away it flew. 
 
 And then 'twas mortal^ — well I knew, 
 
 For he would never thus have flown, 
 
 And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
 
 Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
 
 Lone — as a solitary cloud, 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day. 
 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 
 A frown upon the atmosphere, 
 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 
 
 A kind of change came in my fate, 
 My keepers grew compassionate ; 
 I know not what had made them so. 
 They were inured to sights of woe; 
 But so it was : — my broken chain 
 With links unfasten'd did remain, 
 .\nd it was liberty to stride 
 Along my cell from side to side. 
 And up and down, and then athwart. 
 And tread it over every part; 
 And round the pillars one by one. 
 Returning where my walk begun. 
 Avoiding only, as I trod, 
 My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 For if I thought with heedless tread 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 121 
 
 My step profaned their lowly bed, 
 My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
 And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 
 
 I made a footing in the wall, 
 It was not therefrom to escape, 
 For I had buried one and all, 
 Who loved me in a human shape; 
 And the whole earth would henceforth be 
 A wider prison unto me: ' 
 
 No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
 No partner in my misery; 
 I thought of thiSj and I was glad. 
 For thought of them had made me mad; 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
 Once more, upon the mountains high, 
 rbe quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 I saw them — and they were the same, 
 rhcy were not changed like me in frame ; 
 [saw their thousand years of snow 
 On high — their wide long lake below, 
 A.nd the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 
 [ lieard the torrents leap and gush 
 D'er channell'd rock and broken busli ; 
 [ saw the white-wall'd distant town, 
 j\nd whiter sails go skimming down ; 
 \nd then there was a little isle, 
 Which in my very face did smile. 
 The only one in view; 
 , V small green isle, it secm'd no more, 
 (Scarce broader than my dungeon- floor, 
 [But in it there were three tall trees, 
 |\^nd o'er it blew the mountain-breeze, 
 knd by it there Avere waters flowing, 
 jA.nd on it there were young flowers growing, 
 [5f gentle breath and hue. 
 The fish swam by the castle-wall, 
 ind they seem'd joyous each and all; 
 Ifhe eagle rode the rising blast, 
 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seem'd to fly. 
 And then new tears came in my eye. 
 And I felt troubled — and would fain 
 I had not left my recent chain ; 
 And when I did descend again. 
 The darknes of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load; 
 It was as is a new-dug grave. 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save. 
 And yet my glance, too much opprest, 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 It might be months, or years, or days, 
 I kept no count — I took no note, 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise. 
 And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
 At last men came to set me free, 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where. 
 It w as at length the same to me, 
 Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
 I learn'd to love despair. 
 And thus when they appear'd at last, 
 And all my bonds aside were cast, 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 A hermitage — and all my own! 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a second home : 
 With spiders I had friendship made. 
 And watch'd them in their sullen trade. 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
 And why should I feel less than they? 
 We were all inmates of one place, 
 And I, the monarch of each race. 
 Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ' 
 In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
 My very-chains and I grew friends. 
 So much a long communion tends 
 'To make us what we are: — even I 
 "ilegain'd my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 8* 
 
122 
 
 
 
 ''^.''^'' 
 
 ^^"'^ 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 "Celuf qui rcmplissait alors cettc place , etait un 
 gentilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le pa- 
 latinat de Podolie; il avait ete elevc page de Jean Casi- 
 mir, et avait pris a sa cour quelque teinture des belles- 
 lettres. Une intrigue quil cut dans sa jeunesse avec la 
 femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant etc decouverte, 
 le mari Ic fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et le 
 laissa aller en cet etat. Le cheval, qui etait du pays de 
 I'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort 
 de fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent : 
 il resta long-temps parmi eux, et se signala dans plu- 
 sicurs courses contre les Tartares. La superiorite de ses 
 lumieres lui donna une grande consideration parmi les 
 Cosaques: sa reputation s'augmentant de jour en jour 
 obligea le Czar !i le faire Prince de I'Ukraine." — 
 
 "Le roi fuyant et poursuivi cut son cheval tue sous 
 lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, ct pcrdant tout son sang, 
 lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois k cheval, dans 
 la fulte, ce conquerant qui n'avait pu y monter pendant 
 la bataille." — 
 
 "Le roi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques cava- 
 liers. Lecarosse ouil etait rompit dans la marche; on 
 le remit k cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'egara 
 pendant la nuit dans un bois; Ik, son courage nepouvant 
 plus suppleer k ses forces cpuisees, les douleurs de sai 
 blcssure devenues plus insupportables par la fatigue, 
 son cheval ctant tomb^ de lassitude, il se coucha quel-i 
 qucs heures, au pied d'un arbrc, en danger d'etre sur- 
 pris k tout moment par les vainqucurs qui le cherchaient 
 de tons cotes." — Voltaire, Histoire de Charles XII. \ 
 
 'TwAS after dread Pultowa's day, 
 When fortune left the royal Swede, 
 Around a slaughter'd army lay, 
 No more to combat and to bleed. 
 The power and glory of the war. 
 Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
 Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 
 And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
 Until a day more dark and drear, 
 And a more memorable year. 
 Should give to slaughter and to shame 
 A mightier host and haughtier name; 
 A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
 A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 
 
 Such was the hazard of the die; 
 The wounded Charles was taught to fly r 
 
 By day and night through field and flood, 
 Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood; 
 For thousands fell that flight to aid : 
 And not a voice was heard to upbraid 
 Ambition in his humbled hour. 
 When truth had nought to dread from power 
 His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 
 His own — and died the Russians' slave. 
 This too sinks after many a league 
 Of well sustain'd, but vain fatigue ; 
 And in the depth of forests, darkling 
 The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 
 The beacons of surrounding foes — 
 A king must lay his limbs at length. 
 
 Are these the laurels and repose 
 
 For which the nations strain their strength ? 
 
 They laid him by a savage tree, 
 
 In out-worn nature's agony; 
 
 His wounds were stiff — his limbs were stark 
 
 The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
 
 The fever in his blood forbade 
 
 A transient slumber's fitful aid : 
 
 And thus it was; but yet through all, 
 
 King-like the monarch bore his fall, 
 
 And made, in this extreme of ill, 
 
 His pangs the vassals of his will ; 
 
 All silent and subdued were they, 
 
 As once the nations round him lay. 
 
 A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how few, 
 Since but the fleeting of a day 
 Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true 
 And chivalrous ; upon the clay 
 Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 
 Beside his monarch and his steed, 
 For danger levels man and brute, 
 And all arc fellows in their need. 
 Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
 His pillow in an ol31)ak^liade — 
 Hinasclf as rough, and scarce less old, 
 The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold ; 
 But first, outspent with his long course. 
 The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 
 And made for him a leafy bed. 
 And sraooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 123 
 
 Ind slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, 
 
 Lad joy'd to sec how well he fed; 
 
 •"or until now he had the dread 
 
 lis wearied courser might refuse 
 
 ?o browze bencatli the midnight-dews: 
 
 Jut he was hardy as his lord, 
 
 Lnd little cared for bed and board ; 
 
 Jut spirited and docile too, 
 
 Vbate'er was to be done, would do. 
 
 Ihaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
 
 ill Tartar-like he carried him ; 
 
 )bey'd his voice, and came to call, 
 
 kjid knew him in the midst of all: 
 
 'hough thousands were around, and night, 
 
 Vithout a star, pursued her flight, 
 
 'hat steed from sunset until dawn 
 
 lis chief would follow like a fawn. 
 
 This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 
 ind laid his lance beneath his oak, 
 'elt if his arms in order good 
 ^he long day's march had well withstood — 
 f still the powder fiU'd the pan, 
 md flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
 lis sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
 ind whether they had chafed his belt — 
 j|^ next the venerable man, 
 Worn out his havresack and can, 
 *repared and spread his slender stock : 
 Lnd to the monarch and his men 
 'he whole or portion ofl'er'd then 
 Vith far less of inquietude 
 'han courtiers at a banquet would. 
 
 nd Charles of this his slender share 
 y^ith smiles partook a moment there, 
 
 force of cheer a greater show, 
 
 ind seem above both wounds and woe ; — 
 .nd then he said — "Of all our band, 
 hough firm of heart and strong of hand, 
 
 1 skirmish, marcTi, or forage, none 
 an less have said, or mo£a.liav£-4o«e; 
 han thee, Mazeppa, ! On the earth 
 
 D fit a pair had never birth, 
 ince Alexander's days till now, 
 s tliy Bucephalus and thou: 
 11 Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
 3r pricking on o'er flood and field." 
 [azeppa answer'd — "111 betide 
 lie school wherein I learn'd to ride !" 
 uoth Charles — "Old hetman, wherefore so, 
 nee thou hast learn'd the art so well?" 
 azeppa said — "'Twere long to tell; 
 ad we have many a league to go 
 ^ith every now and then a blow, 
 lid ten to one at least the foe, 
 .'fore our steeds may graze at ease 
 eyond the swift Boryslhenes: 
 id, Sire, your limbs have need of rest, 
 id I Avill be the sentinel 
 this your troop." — "But I request," 
 id Sweden's monach, " thou wilt tell 
 
 This tale of thine, and I may reap 
 Perchance from this the boon of sleep, 
 For at this moment from my eyes 
 The hope of present slumber flies 
 
 "Well, Sire, with such a hope, I'll track 
 My seventy years of memory back : 
 I think 'twas in my twentieth spring, — 
 Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king — 
 John Casimir — I was his page 
 Six summers in my earlier age ; 
 A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 
 And most unlike your majesty : 
 He made no wars, and did not gain 
 New realms to lose them back again ; 
 And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
 He reign'd in most unseemly quiet; 
 Not that he had no cares to vex. 
 He loved the muses and the sex; 
 And sometimes these so froward are. 
 They made him wish himself at war; 
 But soon, his wrath being o'er, he took 
 Another mistress, or new book : 
 And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
 All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
 To gaze upon his splendid court. 
 And dames, and chiefs, of princely port: 
 He was the Polish Solomon, 
 So sung his poets, all but one, 
 Who, being unpension'd, made a satire. 
 And boasted that he could not flatter. 
 It was a court of jousts and mimes. 
 Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
 Even I for once produced «eHlS versd^f**" ^ * 
 And sign'd my odes : Despairing Thirsis. 
 There was a certain Palatine, 
 A Count of far and high descent. 
 Rich as a salt- or silver-mine; 
 And he was proud, ye may divine. 
 As if from heaven he had been sent : 
 He had such wealth in blood and ore 
 As few could match beneath the throne ; 
 And he would gaze upon his store. 
 And o'er his pedigree would pore. 
 Until by some confusion led. 
 Which almost look'd like want of head, 
 He thought their merits were his own. 
 His wife was not of his opinion — 
 His jjpiior she by thirty years — 
 Grew daily tired of his dominion; 
 And after wishes, hopes and fears, 
 To virtue a few farewell tears, 
 A restless dream or two, some glances 
 At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and daiicos, 
 Awaited but the usual chances. 
 Those happy accidents which render 
 The coldest dames so very tender. 
 To deck her Count with titles given, 
 'Tis said, as passports into heaven ; 
 But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
 Of these who have deserved them most. 
 
124 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 "I was a goodi}' stripling tlien ; 
 At seventy years I so may say, 
 That there were few, or boys or men, 
 Who, in my dawning time of day, 
 Of vassal or of knight's degree, 
 Could vie in vanities with me ; 
 For I had strength, youtli, gaiety, 
 A port not like to this ye see. 
 But smooth, as all is rugged now; 
 For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 
 My very soul from out my brow ; 
 And thus I should be disavow'd 
 By all my kind and kin, could they 
 Compare my day and yesterday; 
 This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
 Had ta'en my features for his page: 
 With years, ye know, have not declined 
 My strength, my courage, or my mind. 
 Or at this hour I should not be 
 Telling old tales bcneatli a tree. 
 With starless skies my canopy. 
 
 But let me on: Theresa's form — 
 
 ■y 
 
 Methinks it glides before me now. 
 Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 
 The memory is so quick and warm; 
 And yet I find no words to tell 
 The shape of her I loved so well : 
 She had the Asiatic eye, 
 Such as our Turkish neighbourhood 
 Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
 Dark as above us is the sky ; 
 But through it stole a tender light. 
 Like the first moonrise at midnight ; 
 Large, dark, and swimming»in the stream, 
 Which seem'd to melt to its own beam ; 
 All love, half languor, and half fire. 
 Like saints tliat at the stake expire. 
 And lift their raptured looks on high. 
 As though it were a joy to die. 
 A brow like a midsummer-lake. 
 Transparent with the sun therein. 
 When waves no murmur dare to make. 
 And heaven beliolds her face within. 
 A cheek and lip — but why proceed I 
 1 loved her then — I love her still ; ^'' 
 And such as I am, love indeed 
 In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
 But still we love even in our rage, 
 And haunted to our very age 
 With the vain shadow of the past. 
 As is Mazeppa to the last. 
 
 "We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd. 
 She did not speak, and yet replied; 
 There are ten thousand tones and signs 
 We hear and see, but none defines — 
 Involuntary sparks of thought. 
 Which strike from out the heart o'er-wrought, 
 And form a strange intelligence. 
 Alike mysterious and intense. 
 Which link the burning chain that binds. 
 
 Without their will, young hearts and minds ; 
 
 Conveying, as the electric wire, 
 
 We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 
 
 I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept. 
 
 And still reluctant distance kept, 
 
 Until I was made known to her, 
 
 And we might then and there confer 
 
 Without suspicion — then, even then, 
 
 I long'd, and Avas resolved to speak ; 
 
 But on my lips they died again, 
 
 The accents tremulous and weak, 
 
 Until one hour. — There is a game, 
 
 A frivolous and foolish play. 
 
 Wherewith we while away the day; 
 
 It is — I have forgot the name — 
 
 And we to this, it seems, were set, 
 
 By some strange diancc, wliieh I forget ; 
 
 I reck'd not if I won or lost. 
 
 It was enough for me to be 
 
 So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
 
 The being whom I loved the most. — 
 
 I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
 
 (May ours this dark night watch as well !) 
 
 Until I saw, and thus it was, 
 
 That she was pensive, nor perceived 
 
 Her occupation, nor was grieved 
 
 Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
 
 Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
 
 Yet bound her to the place, though not 
 
 That hers miglit be the winning lot. 
 
 Then through my brain the thought did pa«s 
 
 Even as a flash of liglitning tliere. 
 
 That there was something in her air 
 
 Which would not doom me to despair ; 
 
 And on the thought my words broke forth, 
 
 All incolierent as tlicy were — 
 
 Their eloquence was little worth, 
 
 But yet she listen'd — 'tis enough — 
 
 Who listen^ once will listen twice ; 
 
 Her heart, be sure, is not of ice. 
 
 And one refusal no rebuff. 
 
 "I loved, and was beloved again — 
 They tell me. Sire, you never knew 
 Those gentle frailties; if 'tis true, 
 I shorten all my joy or pain. 
 To you 'twould seem absurd as vain ; 
 But all men are not born to reign. 
 Or o'er their passions, or as you 
 Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
 I am — or rather luas — a prince, 
 A chief of thousands, and could lead 
 Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 
 But could not o'er myself evince 
 The like control — But to resume ; 
 I loved, and was beloved again : 
 In sooth, it is a happy doom. 
 But yet where happiest ends in pain. — 
 We met in secret, and tlie hour 
 Which led me to that lady's bower 
 Was fiery expectation's dower. 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 125 
 
 My days and nights were notlilng- — all 
 E vcept tliat liour. which doth recall 
 In the long lapse from youth to age 
 No other like itself — I'd give 
 Tlie Ukraine back again to live 
 It o'er once more — and be a page, 
 Tlie happy page, who was the lord 
 Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
 And had no other gem nor wealth 
 iSave nature's gift of youth and health. — 
 Wc met in secret — doubly sweet, 
 Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
 I know not that — I would have given 
 ]My life but to have call'd her mine 
 In the full view of earth and heaven ; 
 For I did oft and long repine 
 That we could only meet by stealth. 
 
 "For lovers there are many eyes, 
 And such there were on us; — the devil 
 On such occasions should be civil — 
 Tlie devil! — I'm loth to do him wrong, 
 It might be some untoward saint, 
 ^\^o would not be at rest too long, 
 But to his pious bile gave vent — 
 But one fair night, some lurking spies 
 vSurprised and seized us both. 
 Tiie Count was something more than wrotli — 
 I was unarm'd ; but if in steel, 
 All cap-<\-pie from head to heel", 
 What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? — 
 'Twas near his castle, far away 
 From city or from succour near, 
 And almost on the break of daj'; 
 I did not think to see another, 
 My moments seem'd reduced to few ; 
 And with one pra3"er to Mary Mother, 
 And, it may be, a saint or two. 
 As I resign'd me to my fate, 
 They led me to the castle-gate : 
 Theresa's doom I never knew. 
 Our lot was henceforth separate. — 
 An angry man, ye may opine. 
 Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
 And he had reason good to be. 
 But he was most enraged lest such 
 An accident should chance to touch 
 Upon his future pedigree; 
 Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
 His noble 'scutcheon should liave got. 
 While he Avas highest of his line; 
 Because unto himself he seem'd 
 1 Thefirst ofmen, nor less he deem'd 
 la others' eyes, and most in mine. 
 'Sdeath! with 9. page — perchance a king 
 Had reconciled him to the thing; 
 But with a stripling of a page — 
 I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 
 
 "Bring forth the horse \" — the horse was brouglit ; 
 In truth, he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
 
 Who look'd as though the speed of thouglit 
 
 Were in his limbs; but he was wild. 
 
 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught. 
 
 With spur and bridle undefiled — 
 
 'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
 
 And snorting, with erected mane, 
 
 And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
 
 In the full foam of wrath and dread 
 
 To me the desert-born was led : 
 
 They bound me on, that menial throng. 
 
 Upon his back with many a thong; 
 
 Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
 
 Away ! — away! — and on we dash! — 
 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash. 
 
 "Away! — away! — My breath was gone — 
 I saw not where he hurried on : 
 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, 
 And on he foam'd — away ! — away ! — 
 The last of human sounds which rose, 
 As I was darted from my foes, 
 Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
 Which on the wind came roaring after 
 A moment from that rabble rout: 
 With sudden wrath I wrcnch'd my head, 
 \nd snapp'd tlie cord, which to the mane 
 Had bound my neck in lieu of rein. 
 And, writhing half my form about, 
 Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
 The tliunder of my courser's speed, 
 Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 
 It vexes me — for I would fain 
 Have paid their insult back again. 
 I paid it well in after-days ; 
 There is not of that castle-gate. 
 Its dawbridge and portcullis' weight, 
 Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; 
 Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 
 Save what grows on a ridge of wall. 
 Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
 And many a time ye there might pass. 
 Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : 
 I saw its turrets in a blaze. 
 Their crackling battlements all cleft. 
 And the hot lead pour down like rain 
 From off the scorch'd and blackening roof. 
 Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 
 They little thought that day of pain. 
 When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash. 
 They bade me to destruction dash, 
 That one day I should come again, 
 With twice five thousand horse to thank 
 The Count for his uneourteous ride. 
 They play'd me then a bitter prank. 
 When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
 They bound me to his foaming flank: 
 At length I play'd them one as frank — 
 For time at last sets all things even — 
 And if we do but watch the hour. 
 There never yet was human power 
 
126 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
 The patient search and vigil long 
 Of him who treasures up a wrong. 
 
 "Away, away, ray steed and I, 
 Upon the pinions of the wind. 
 All human dwellings left behind : 
 We sped, like meteors through the sky. 
 When with its crackling sound the niglit 
 Is chcquer'd with the northern light: 
 Town — village — none were on our track, 
 But a wild plain of far extent. 
 And bounded by a forest black ; 
 And, save the scarce seen battlement 
 On distant heights of some strong hold. 
 Against the Tartars built of old, 
 No trace of man. The year before 
 A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 
 And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
 Tlie verdure ilies the bloody sod : — 
 The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 
 And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
 I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
 But fast we iled, away, away — 
 And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
 And my cold Sweat-drops fell like rain 
 Upon the courser's bristling mane: 
 But, snorting still Avith rage and fear, 
 He flew upon his far career : 
 At times i almost thought, indeed, 
 He must have slacken'd in his speed : 
 But no — my bound and slender frame 
 Was nothing to his angry might. 
 And merely like a spur became : 
 Each motion which I made to free 
 My swoln limbs from their agony 
 Increased his fury and afl'right : 
 I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and iow, 
 But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
 And, starting to each accent, sprang 
 As from a sudden trumpet's clang: 
 Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 
 Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; 
 And in my tongue the thirst became 
 A sometliing fierier far than flame. 
 
 "We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 
 I saw no bounds on either side; 
 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees. 
 That bent not to the roughest breeze 
 Which howls down from Siberia's waste. 
 And strips the forest in its haste, — 
 But these were few, and far between 
 Set thick with shrubs more young and grcen^ 
 Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 
 Ere strown by tiiose autumnal eves 
 That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
 Discolour'd with a lifeless red. 
 Which stands thereon like stiflen'd gore 
 Upon the slain when battle's o'er. 
 And some long winter's night hath shed 
 
 Its frost o'er every tombless head. 
 So cold and stark the raven's beak 
 May peck unpierced each frozen cheek: 
 'Twas a wild waste of underwood. 
 And here and there a chesnut stood, 
 The strong oak, and the hardy pine; 
 But far apart — and well it were, 
 Or else a diflferent lot were mine — 
 The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
 My limbs; and I found strengtli to bear 
 My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
 My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
 We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
 Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behijid ; 
 By night I heard them on the track, 
 Their troop came hard upon our back, 
 With their long gallop, which can tire 
 The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire; 
 Where'er we flew they follow'd on, 
 Nor left us with the morning-sun ; 
 Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
 At day-break winding through the w ood. 
 And through the night had heard their feet 
 Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
 Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword. 
 At least to die amidst the horde. 
 And perish — if it must be so — 
 At bay, destroying many a foe. 
 When first my courser's race begun, 
 I wish'd the goal already won; 
 But now I doubted strength and speed. 
 Vain doubt! his swift and savage breed 
 Had nerved him like the mountain-roe; 
 Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
 Which whelms the peasant near the door 
 Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
 Bewildcr'd with the dazzling blast. 
 Than through the forest-paths he past — 
 Untircd, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
 All furious as a favour'd child 
 Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
 A woman piqued — who has her w ill. 
 
 "The wood was past; 'twas more than noon , 
 But chill the air, although in June ; 
 Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
 Prolong'd endurance tames the bold : 
 And I was then not what I seem. 
 But headlong as a wintry stream, 
 And wore my feelings out before 
 I well could count their causes o'er: 
 And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 
 The tortures which beset my path. 
 Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress. 
 Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 
 Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
 When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 
 And trodden hard upon, is like 
 The rattle-snake's, in act to strike. 
 What marvel if this worn out trunk 
 Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 127 
 
 The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 
 
 I scem'd to sink upon the ground; 
 
 But crr'd, for I was fastly bound. 
 
 My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore. 
 
 And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more : 
 
 The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
 
 I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 
 
 And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 
 
 Which saw no farther: he who dies 
 
 Can die no more than then I died. 
 
 O'crforturcd by that ghastly ride, 
 
 I felt the blackness come and go, 
 
 And strove to wake; but could not make 
 
 My senses climb up from below; 
 
 I felt as on a plank at sea. 
 
 When all the waves that dash o'er thee. 
 
 At the same time upheave and whelm. 
 
 And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
 
 My undulating life was as 
 
 The fancied lights that flitting pass 
 
 Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
 
 Fever begins upon the brain ; 
 
 Bat soon it pass'd, with little pain. 
 
 But a confusion worse than such ; 
 
 I own that I should deem it much. 
 
 Dying, to feel the same again ; 
 
 And yet I do suppose we must 
 
 Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
 
 No matter; I have bared my brow 
 
 Full in Death's face — before — and now. 
 
 "My thoughts came back ; where was 1 ? Cold, 
 And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 
 Life rcassumed its lingering hold, 
 And throb by throb ; till grown a pang 
 Which for a moment would convulse, 
 My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill ; 
 My ear with uncouth noises rang. 
 My heart began once more to thrill ; 
 My sight return'd, though dim ; alas ! 
 And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 
 Methouglit the dash of waves was nigh ; 
 There was a gleam too of the sky, 
 Studded with stars; — it is no dream ; 
 The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 
 The briglit broad river's gushing tide 
 Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
 And we are half-way struggling o'er 
 To yon unknown and silent shore. 
 The waters broke my hollow trance, 
 And with a temporary strength 
 My stiflen'd limbs were rebaptized. 
 -Vly courser's broad breast proudly braves, 
 jAnd dashes off the ascending waves 
 ' j And onward we advance ! 
 We reach the slippery shore at length, 
 A haven I but little prized. 
 For all behind was dark and drear, 
 And all before was night and fear. 
 How many hours of night or day 
 In those suspended pangs 1 lay. 
 
 I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
 If this were human breath I drew. 
 
 "With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 
 And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
 The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 
 Up the repelling bank. 
 AVe gain the top : a boundless plain 
 Spreads through the shadow of the night, 
 And onward, onward, onward, seems, 
 Like precipices in our dreams, 
 To stretch beyond the sight ; 
 And here and there a speck of white, 
 Or seattcr'd spot of dusky green. 
 In masses broke into the liglit. 
 As rose the moon upon my rigiit. 
 But nought distinctly seen 
 In the dim waste would indicate 
 The omen of a cottage-gate ; 
 No twinkling taper from afar 
 Stood like an hospitable star ; 
 Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
 To make him weary with my woes : 
 That very cheat had cheer'd me tiicn ! 
 Although detected, welcome still. 
 Reminding me, through every ill, 
 Of the abodes of men. 
 
 "Onward we went — but slack and slow; 
 His savage force at length o'erspcnt. 
 The drooping courser, faint and low, 
 All feebly foaming went. 
 A sickly infant had had power 
 To guide him forward in that hour; 
 But useless all to me. 
 His new-born tameness nought avail'd, 
 My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 
 Perchance, had they been free. 
 With feeble effort still I tried 
 To rend the bounds so starkly tied — 
 But still it was in vain; 
 My limbs were only wrung the more. 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er. 
 Which but prolong'd their pain : 
 The dizzy race seem'd almost done. 
 Although no goal was nearly won : 
 Some streaks announced the coming sun — 
 How slow ! alas ! he came ! 
 Methought that mist of dawning gray 
 Would never dapple into day : 
 How heavily it roll'd away — 
 Before the eastern flame 
 Rose crimson, and deposed the stars. 
 And call'd the radiance from their cars. 
 And lill'd the earth, from his deep throne, 
 With lonely lustre, all his own. 
 
 "Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
 Back from the solitary world 
 WHiich lay around — behind — before: 
 What booted it to traverse o'er 
 
128 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute, 
 
 Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 
 
 Lay in the wild luxuriant soil; 
 
 No sign of travel — none of toil ; 
 
 The very air was mute ; 
 
 And not an insect's shrill small horn, 
 
 Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
 
 From herb nor thicket. Many a worst, 
 
 Panting as if his heart would burst. 
 
 The weary brute still stagger'd on; 
 
 And still we were — or scem'd — alone : 
 
 At length, while reeling on our way, 
 
 Methought I heard a courser neigh, 
 
 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 
 Is it the wind those branches stirs? 
 
 No, no ! from out the forest prance 
 
 A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
 
 In one vast squadron they advance ! 
 
 I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
 
 The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
 
 But where are they the reins to guide? 
 
 A thousand horse — and none to ride! 
 
 With flowing tail, and Hying mane, 
 
 Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain. 
 
 Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein. 
 
 And feet that iron never shod. 
 
 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod. 
 
 A thousand horse, the Avild, the free. 
 
 Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 
 
 Came thickly thundering on, 
 
 As if our faint approach to meet; 
 
 The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh. 
 
 He answer'd, and then fell; 
 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 
 And reeking limbs immoveable, 
 
 His first and last career is done ! 
 
 On came the troop — they saw him stoop. 
 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 
 His back with many a bloody thong : 
 
 They stop — they start — they snuflthe air, 
 
 Gallop a moment here and there, 
 
 Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
 
 Then plunging back with sudden bound. 
 
 Headed by one black mighty steed, 
 
 Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed. 
 
 Without a single speck or hair 
 
 Of white upon liis shaggy hide; 
 
 They snort, they foam, neigh, swerve aside, 
 
 And backward to the forest fly, 
 
 By instinct from a human eye. — 
 
 They left me there, to my despair, 
 
 Link'd to the dead and stiftcning wretch. 
 
 Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, 
 
 Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
 
 From whence I could not extricate 
 
 Nor him nor me — and there we lay, 
 
 The dying on the dead ! 
 
 I little deem'd another day » 
 
 Would see my houseless, helpless head. 
 
 "And there from morn till twilight bound, 
 I felt the heavy hours toll round, 
 With just enough of life to sec 
 My last of suns go down on me. 
 In hopeless certainty of mind. 
 That makes us feel at length resign'd 
 To that which our foreboding years 
 Presents the worst and last of fears 
 Inevitable — even a boon. 
 Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 
 Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, 
 As if it only were a snare 
 That prudence might escape : 
 At times both wish'd for and implored, 
 At times sought with self-pointed sword, 
 Yet still a dark and hideous close 
 To even intolerable woes. 
 And welcome in no shape. 
 And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 
 They who have revell'd beyond measure 
 In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 
 Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
 Whose heritage was misery : 
 For he who hath in turn run through 
 All that was beautiful and new. 
 Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; 
 And, save the future (which is view'd 
 Not quite as men are base or good. 
 But as their nerves may be endued;) 
 With nought perhaps to grieve: — 
 The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
 And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
 Appears, to his distemper'd eyes. 
 Arrived to rob him of his prize, 
 The tree of his new Paradise. 
 To-morrow would have given him all, 
 Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall; 
 To-morrow would have been the first 
 Of days no more deplored or curst, 
 But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
 Seen dazzling through the mist of tears. 
 Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
 To-morrow would have given him power 
 To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
 And must it dawn upon his grave? 
 
 "The sun was sinking — still I lay 
 Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed, 
 I thought to mingle there our clay; 
 And my dim eyes of death had need. 
 No hope arose of being freed : 
 I cast my last looks up the sk}', 
 And there between me and the sun 
 I saw the expecting raven fly 
 Who scarce would wait till both should die. 
 Ere his repast begun; 
 He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
 And each time nearer than before; 
 I saw his wing through twilight flit. 
 And once so near me he alit 
 I could have smote, but lack'd the strength ; 
 
.^LVZEPPA. 
 
 129 
 
 But the slight motion of my hand, 
 
 A.nd feeble scratching of the sand, 
 
 The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
 
 Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, 
 
 Together scared him off at length. — 
 
 [ know no more — my latest dream 
 
 [s something of a lovely star 
 
 Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 
 
 Ajid went and came with wandering beam, 
 
 A.nd of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
 
 Sensation of recurring sense, 
 
 fA.nd then subsiding back to death, 
 
 Ajid then again a little breath, 
 
 A. little thrill, a short suspense, 
 
 A.n icy sickness curdling o'er 
 
 My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain - 
 
 \ gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
 
 Al. sigh, and nothing more. 
 
 "I woke — Where was I? — Do I see 
 A. human face look down on me ? 
 And doth a roof above me close? 
 Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 
 [s this a chamber where I lie? 
 And is it mortal yon bright eye, 
 That watches me with gentle glance ? 
 [ closed my own again once more. 
 As doubtful that the former trance 
 Could not as yet be o'er. 
 A. slender girl, long hair'd, and tall, 
 Sate watching by the cottage-wall ; 
 The sparkle of her eye I caught. 
 Even with my first return of thought ; 
 Per ever and anon she threw 
 A. prying, pitying glance on me 
 With her black eyes so wild and free : 
 [ gazed, and gazed, until I knew 
 No vision it could be, — 
 But that I lived, and was released 
 From adding to the vulture's feast : 
 A.nd when the Cossack-maid beheld 
 My heavy eyes at length unseal'd. 
 She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 
 iBut fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 
 Witli lip and finger signs that said, 
 I must not strive as yet to break 
 The silence, till my strength should be 
 
 Enough to leave my accents free; 
 And then her hand on mine she laid, 
 And smooth'd the pillow for my head. 
 And stole along on tiptoe tread, 
 And gently oped the door, and spake 
 In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet! 
 Even music foUow'd her light feet ! — 
 But those she call'd were not awake. 
 And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd. 
 Another look on me she cast, 
 Another sign she made, to say, 
 That I had nought to fear, that all 
 Were near, at my command or call, 
 And she would not delay 
 Her due return ; — while she was gone 
 Methought I felt too much alone. 
 
 "She came with mother and with sire — 
 What need of more ? I will not tire 
 With long recital of the rest. 
 Since I became the Cossack's guest: 
 They found me senseless on the plain — 
 They bore me to the nearest hut — 
 They brought me into life again — 
 Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 
 Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
 His rage, refining on my pain. 
 Sent me forth to the wilderness. 
 Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone. 
 To pass the desert to a throne. — 
 ^hat mortal his own doom may guess ? 
 Let none despond, let none despair ! 
 To-morrow the Borysthenes 
 ^lay see our coursers graze at case 
 ^pon his Turkish bank, — and never 
 ilad I such welcome for a river 
 As I shall yield when safely there. 
 Comrades, good night !" — The Hetman threw 
 His length beneath the oak-tree-shade. 
 With leafy couch already made, 
 A bed nor comfortless nor new 
 To him who took his rest whene'er 
 The hour arrived, no matter where: — 
 His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
 And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
 To thank his tale, he wonder'd not, — 
 The king had been an hour asleep. 
 
130 
 
 BEPPO, 
 
 A VENETIAN STORY. 
 
 Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller: Look, you liiip, and wear strange suits; disable all the 
 benefits of your own country ; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for makinf; 
 you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think that you have swam in a Go.NDOLi. 
 
 As You LiKB IT, Act IV Sc. I. 
 
 Annotation of the Commentators. 
 
 That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, 
 and was then what Paris is now — the seat of all dissoluteness. 
 
 1. 
 
 'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout 
 All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 
 Some weeks before Shrove-Tuesday comes about, 
 The people take tlieir fill of recreation. 
 And buy repentance, ere they grow devout. 
 However high their rank, or low their station. 
 With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masking, 
 And other things which may be had for asking. 
 
 2. 
 
 The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
 
 The skies (and the more duskily the better). 
 
 The time less liked by husbands than by lovers 
 
 Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter; 
 
 And gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers, 
 
 Giggling with all the gallants who beset her ; 
 
 And there are songs, and quavers, roaring, humming, 
 
 Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 
 
 3. 
 
 And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
 Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 
 And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 
 Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 
 All kinds of dress, except tlie ecclesiastical, 
 All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, 
 But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy. 
 Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I charge ye. 
 
 4. 
 
 You'd better walk about begirt with briars. 
 
 Instead of coat and small clothes, than put on 
 
 A single stitch reflecting upon friars, 
 
 Although you swore it only was in fun ; 
 
 They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 
 
 Of Phlegethon with every mother's son, 
 
 Nor say one mass to cool the cauldron's bubble 
 
 That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double. 
 
 But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
 
 You like, by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 
 
 Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag-Fair, 
 
 Would rig you out in seriousness or joke; 
 
 And even in Italy such places are 
 
 With prettier names in softer accents spoke. 
 
 For, bating Covent-Garden, I can hit on 
 
 No place that's called "Piazza" in Great-Britain. 
 
 6. 
 
 This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
 Interpreted, implies "farewell to flesh :" 
 So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing. 
 Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. 
 But why they usher Lent with so much glee in. 
 Is more than I can tell, although I guess 
 'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting. 
 In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 
 
 And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes. 
 And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts, 
 To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes, 
 Because they have no sauces to their stews, 
 A thing which causes many "poolis" and "pisiies," 
 And several oaths (which w ould not suit the Muse) 
 From travellers accustom'd from a boy 
 To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy; 
 
 8. 
 
 And therefore humbly I Avould recommend 
 The curious in fish-sauce, before they cross 
 The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, 
 Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross 
 (Or if set out beforehand these may send 
 By any means least liable to loss), 
 Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Hervey, 
 Or, by tlic Lord! a Lent will well nigh starve ye; 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 131 
 
 9. 
 
 That is to say, if your religion's Roman, 
 knd you at Rome would do as Romans do, 
 According to the proverb, — although no man, 
 [f foreign, is obliged to fast; and you. 
 If protestant, or sickly, or a woman. 
 Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 
 Dine, and bed — d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 
 But that's the penalty, to say no worse. 
 
 10. 
 
 Of all the places where the Carnival 
 Was most facetious in the days of yore. 
 For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, 
 And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more 
 Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
 Venice the bell from every city bore, 
 And at the moment when I fix my story. 
 That sea-born city was in all her glory. 
 
 11. 
 
 They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
 Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still, 
 Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
 In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill; 
 And like so many Venuses of Titian's 
 (The best's at Florence — see it, if ye will), 
 They look when leaning over the balcony. 
 Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione, 
 
 12. 
 
 Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best; 
 And when you to Manfrini's palace go. 
 That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 
 Is loveliest to my mind of all the show : 
 It may perhaps be also to j/ovr zest, 
 And that's the cause I rhyme upon ii so, 
 *Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife, 
 And self; but *mcA a woman ! love in life! 
 
 13. 
 
 Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 
 
 No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 
 
 But something better still, so very real. 
 
 That tlie sweet model must have been tlie same; 
 
 A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 
 
 Wer't not impossible, besides a shame: 
 
 The facerecall'ssome face, as 'twere with pain, 
 
 You once have seen, but ne'er will see again ; 
 
 14. 
 
 One of those forms which flit by us, when we 
 
 Are young, and fix our eyes on every face; 
 
 And, oil ! the loveliness at times we see 
 
 In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 
 
 The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, 
 
 In many a nameless being we retrace. 
 
 Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know. 
 
 Like t!ic lost Pleiad seen no more below. 
 
 15. 
 
 I said that like a picture by Giorgione 
 Venetian women were, and so they are. 
 Particularly seen from a balcony, 
 (For beauty's sometimes best set off afar). 
 And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 
 They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar; 
 And, truth to say, they're mostly very pretty. 
 And rather like to show it, more's the pity ! 
 
 16. 
 
 For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 
 Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter. 
 Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, 
 Who do such things because they know no better; 
 And then, God knows what mischief may arise, 
 When love links two young people in one fetter, 
 Vile assignations, and adulterous beds, 
 Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 
 
 17. 
 
 Shakespeare described the sex in Desdemoua 
 As very fair, but yet suspect in fame. 
 And to tliis day from Venice to Verona 
 Such matters may be probably the same. 
 Except that since those times was never known a 
 Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
 To suUocate a wife no more than twenty, 
 Because she had a "cavalier servente." 
 
 18. 
 
 Their jealousy (if they are ever, jealous) 
 Is of a fair complexion altogetlier. 
 Not like that sooty devil of Othello's 
 Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 
 But wortliier of these much more jolly fellows; 
 When weary of the matrimonial tether 
 His bead for such a wife no mortal bothers. 
 But takes at once another, or another's. 
 
 19. 
 
 Didst ever see a gondola? For fear 
 
 You should not, I'll describe it you exactly ; 
 
 'Tis a long cover'd boat that's common here. 
 
 Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, 
 
 Row'd by two rowers, each called "Gondolier," 
 
 It glides along the water looking blackly, 
 
 Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, 
 
 Where none can make out what you say or do. 
 
 20. 
 
 And up and down the long canals they go. 
 
 And under tlie Rialto shoot along, 
 
 By night and day, all paces, swift or slow. 
 
 And round the theatres, a sable throng. 
 
 They wait in their dusk livery of woe; 
 
 But not to them do woeful things belong, 
 
 For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
 
 Like mourning-coaches when the funeral's done. 
 
132 
 
 BEPPO. 
 
 21. 
 
 But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago, 
 It may be thirty, forty, more or less. 
 The Carnival was at its height, and so 
 Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress; 
 A certain lady went to sec the show, 
 Her real name I know not, nor can guess. 
 And so we'll call her Laura, if you please, 
 Because it slips into my verse with ease. 
 
 22. 
 
 She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
 Which certain people call a "certain age". 
 Which yet the most uncertain age appears. 
 Because I never heard, nor could engage 
 A person yet by prayers, or bribes or tears, 
 To name, define by speech, or write on page. 
 The period meant precisely by that word, — 
 Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 
 
 23, 
 
 Lama was blooming still, had made the besf 
 Of time, and time return'd tlie compliment, 
 And treated her genteelly, so that, drest, 
 She look'd extremely well where'er she went: 
 A pretty woman is a welcome guest. 
 And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent. 
 Indeed slie shone all smiles, and scem'd to flattc 
 Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 
 
 24. 
 
 She was a married woman ; 'tis convenient, 
 
 Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule 
 
 To view tiieir little slips with eyes more lenient ; 
 
 Whereas if single ladies play tlie fool, 
 
 (Unless, witiiin the period intervenient, 
 
 A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 
 
 I don't know how they ever can get over it, 
 
 Except they manage never to discover it. 
 
 25. 
 
 Her husband saii'd upon the Adriatic, 
 
 And made some voyages, too, in other seas. 
 
 And when he lay in quarantine for pratique 
 
 (A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), 
 
 His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 
 
 For thence she could discern the ship with ease: 
 
 He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 
 
 His name Giuseppe, call'd, more briefly, Beppo. 
 
 26. 
 
 He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
 Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure; 
 Though, colour'd, as it were, within a tanyard, 
 He was a person both of sense and vigour — 
 A better seaman never yet did man yard : 
 And she, although her manners show'd no rigour. 
 Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle. 
 So much as to be thought almost invincible. 
 
 27. 
 
 But several years elapsed since they had met, 
 Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
 That he had somehow blunder'd into debt. 
 And did not like the thoughts of steering home; 
 And there were several offer'd any bet. 
 Or tliat he would, or that he would not come, 
 For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 
 Will back their own opinions with a wager. 
 
 28. 
 
 'Tis said that their last parting Avas pathetic. 
 As partings often are, or ought to be. 
 And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
 That they should never more each other see, 
 (A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic. 
 Which I have known occur in two or three) 
 When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, 
 He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 
 
 29. 
 
 And Laura waited long, and wept a little. 
 
 And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; 
 
 She almost lost all appetite for victual. 
 
 And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 
 
 She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 
 
 Against a daring house-breaker or sprite, 
 
 And so she thought it prudent to connect her 
 
 With a vice-husband, chiefy to protect her. 
 
 30. 
 
 She chose, (and what is there they Avill not choose, 
 If only you will but oppose their choice?) 
 'Till Beppo should return from his long cruise. 
 And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 
 A man some women like, and j'et abuse — 
 A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 
 A Count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 
 And in his pleasures of great liberality. 
 
 31. 
 
 And then he was a Count, and then he knew 
 Music,and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscan; 
 The last not easy, be it known to you, 
 For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 
 He was a critic upon operas too, 
 And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin ; 
 And no Venetian audience could cndnre a 
 Song, scene, or air, when he cried "seccatura." 
 
 32. 
 
 His "bravo" was decisive, for that sound 
 Hush'd "academic," sigh'd in silent awe; 
 The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 
 For fear of some false note's detected flaw. 
 The "prima donna's" tuneful heart would bound, 
 Dreading the deep damnation of his "bah !" 
 Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 
 Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 133 
 
 33. 
 
 He patronized the Improvisatori, 
 
 Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas. 
 
 Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 
 
 Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 
 
 Italians can be, though in this their glory 
 
 Must surely yield the palm to that which France has ; 
 
 [n short, he was a perfect cavaliero, 
 
 i^nd to his very valet seem'd a hero. 
 
 34. 
 
 Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous ; 
 
 So that no sort of female could complain, 
 
 Uthough they're now and then a little clamorous, 
 
 fie never put the pretty souls in pain : 
 
 JHis heart was one of those which most enamour us. 
 
 Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
 
 He was a lover of the good old scliool, 
 
 Who still become more constant as they cool. 
 
 35. 
 
 ^0 wonder sueli accomplishments should turn 
 V female head, however sage and steady — 
 W^ith scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
 :n law he was almost as good as dead, he 
 *for sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 
 Vnd she had waited several years already : 
 \.nd really if a man won't let us know 
 That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so. 
 
 36. 
 
 Besides, within the Alps, to every woman 
 [^Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,) 
 Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 
 [ can't tell who first brought the custom in; 
 But "Cavalier Serventcs" are quite common, 
 Ynd no one notices, nor cares a pin ; 
 kad we may call this (not to say tiie worst) 
 \ second marriage which corrupts iXxe first. 
 
 37. 
 
 I 
 
 irhe word was formerly a "Cicisbco," 
 
 ny^iat is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 
 
 jriiropaniards call tiie person a "Cortcjo," 
 
 ?or the same mode subsists in Spain, tliough recent; 
 
 [n short it reaches from the Po to Teio, 
 
 |Vnd may perhaps at last be o'er tlie sea sent. 
 
 But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses ! 
 
 3r Avhat becomes of damage and divorces ? 
 
 38. 
 
 However, I still think, with all due deference 
 To the fair sinylc part of the Creation, 
 Tiiat married ladies should preserve the preference 
 [n tite-a-ti'te or -general conversation — 
 And this I say without peculiar reference 
 To England, France, or any other nation — 
 Because they know the world, and are at ease, 
 And being natural, naturally please. 
 
 39. 
 
 'Tis true, your budding JVIiss is very charming, 
 But shy and awkward at first coming out. 
 So much alarra'd, that she is quite alarming, 
 AH Giggle, Blush; — half Pertness, and half Pout; 
 And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in 
 What you, she, it, or they, may be about, 
 The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 
 Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 
 
 40. 
 
 But "Cavalier Servente" is the phrase 
 Used in politest circles to express 
 This supernumerary slave, who stays 
 Close to the lady as a part of dress. 
 Her word the only law which he obeys. 
 His is no sinecure, as you may guess; 
 Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
 And carries fan, and tippet, gloves, and shawl, 
 
 41. 
 
 With all its sinful doings,, I must say, ; - : . 
 
 That Italy's a pleasant place to me. 
 
 Who love to see the sun shine every day. 
 
 And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
 
 Festoon'd, much like the back-scene of a play, 
 
 Or melodrame, which people flock to see, 
 
 When the first act is ended by a dance 
 
 In vineyards copied from the south of France. 
 
 42. 
 
 I like on autumn-evenings to ride out. 
 Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
 My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about. 
 Because the skies are not the most secure; 
 I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, 
 Where the green alleys windingly allure. 
 Reeling Avith grapes red waggons choke the way — 
 In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 
 
 43. 
 
 I also like to dine on beccaficas, 
 To see the sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow. 
 Not through a misty morning twinkling w eak as 
 A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow. 
 But with all heaven t'himsclf; that day will break as 
 Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
 That sort of farthing-candlelight which glimmers 
 Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers. 
 
 44. 
 
 I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
 Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 
 And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 
 Witli syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 
 And gentle liquids gliding all so pat ill, 
 Tiiat not a single accent seems uncouth. 
 Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, 
 Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 
 
134 
 
 BEPPO. 
 
 45. 
 
 I like the women too (forgive my folly), 
 From tlie rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, 
 And large black eyes that flasli on you a volley 
 Of rays that say a thousand things at once, 
 To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, 
 But clear, and with a wild and liquid glanCe,. 
 Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 
 Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 
 
 46. 
 
 Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 
 Italian Beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
 Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies 
 With all we know of Heaven, or can desire. 
 In what he hath bequeath'd us? — in what guise, 
 Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre, 
 Would words describe thy past and present glow. 
 While yet Canova can create below? *) 
 
 47. 
 
 "England ! with all thy faults I love thee still," 
 
 I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; 
 
 I like to speak and lucubrate my fill; 
 
 I like the government (but that is not it) ; 
 
 I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 
 
 I like tiic Habeas Corpus (when we've got it); 
 
 I like a parliamentary debate. 
 
 Particularly when 'tis not too late; 
 
 48. 
 
 I like the taxes, when they're not too many ; 
 
 I like a seacoal-fire, when not too dear; 
 
 I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any; 
 
 Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
 
 I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 
 
 That is, I like two months of every year, 
 
 And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! 
 
 Which means that I like all and every thing. 
 
 49. 
 
 Our standing army, and disbanded seamen. 
 Poor's rate, reform, my own, the nation's debt, 
 Our little riots just to show we are freemen, 
 Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 
 Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women. 
 All these I can forgive, and those forget. 
 And greatly venerate our recent glories. 
 And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 
 
 *) In talking thus, the writer, more especially 
 Of women, would be understood to say, 
 He speaks as a spectator, not officially, 
 And always, reader, in a modest way; 
 Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he 
 Appear to have offended in this lay. 
 Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 
 Would seemunfinish'dliketheiruntrimm'd bonnets. 
 
 (Signed) Printer's Devil. 
 
 50. 
 
 But to my tale of Laura — for I find 
 Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
 Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind. 
 And, therefore, may the reader too displease — 
 The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, 
 And, caring little for the author's ease. 
 Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
 And hapless situation for a bard. 
 
 61. 
 
 Oh, that I had the art of easy writing 
 
 What should be easy reading ! could I scale 
 
 Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
 
 Those pretty poems never known to fail. 
 
 How quickly would I print (the world delighting) 
 
 A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale; 
 
 And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism. 
 
 Some samples of the finest Orientalism. 
 
 52. 
 
 But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
 
 (A broken Dandy lately on my travels) 
 
 And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on. 
 
 The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, 
 
 And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
 
 Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 
 
 I've half a mind to tumble down to prose. 
 
 But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 
 
 63. 
 
 The Count and Laura made their new arrangement. 
 
 Which lasted as arrangements sometimes do. 
 
 For half a dozen years without estrangement; 
 
 They had their little differences too; 
 
 Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant ; 
 
 In such affairs there probably are few 
 
 Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble. 
 
 From sinners of high station to the rabble. 
 
 [•a 
 
 64. 
 
 But on the whole they were a happy pair. 
 
 As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 
 
 The gentleman was fond, the lady fair. 
 
 Their chains so sligiit, 'twas not worth while to brei 
 
 The world beheld them with indulgent air; 
 
 The pious only wish'd "the devil take them!" 
 
 He took them not; he very often waits, 
 
 And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits 
 
 55. 
 
 But they were young: Oh! what without our youth 
 Would love be ! What would youth be without love! 
 Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth. 
 Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 
 But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
 One of few things experience don't improve, 
 Which is, perhaps, tlie reason why old fellows 
 Are always so preposterously jealous. 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 135 
 
 56. 
 
 [t was the Carnival, as I have said 
 
 Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 
 
 Laura the usual preparations made, 
 
 Which you do when your mind's made up to go 
 
 To-night to "Mrs. Boelim's masquerade, 
 
 Spectator, or partaker in the showj 
 
 The only difference known between the cases 
 
 Is — here, we have six weeks of "varnish'd faces." 
 
 57. 
 
 Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before) 
 
 IV. pretty woman as was ever seen, 
 
 Presh as the angel o'er a new inn-door, 
 
 Or frontispiece of a new magazine, 
 
 With all the fashions which the last month wore, 
 
 Colour'd, and silver-paper leaved between 
 
 That and the title-page, for fear the press 
 
 Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 
 
 58. 
 
 They went to the Ridotto; — 'tis a hall 
 Where people dance, and sup, and dance again; 
 [ts proper name, perhaps, were a mask'd ball, 
 But that's of no importance to my strain ; 
 Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
 Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 
 The company is "mix'd" (the phrase I quote is, 
 'ks much as saying, they're below your notice) ; 
 
 69. 
 
 R'or a "mixt company" implies that, save 
 ■fourself and friends, and half a hundred more. 
 Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 
 pThe rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 
 3f public places, where they basely brave 
 I The fashionable stare of twenty score 
 i 3f well-bred persons, called "the World;" but I, 
 i Although I know them, really don't know why. 
 
 ! m. 
 
 i 
 
 Phis is the case in England; at least was 
 
 during the dynasty of Dandies, now 
 
 Perchance succeeded by some other class 
 
 Df imitated imitators: — how 
 
 rreparably soon decline, alas! 
 
 The demagogues of fashion : all below 
 
 s frail; how easily the world is lost 
 
 iy love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 
 
 61. 
 
 >ush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
 Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 
 itopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 
 \. blundering novice in his new French grammar ; 
 jJood cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 
 Vnd as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her, 
 iiccause were I to ponder to infinity. 
 The more I should believe in her divinity. 
 
 62. 
 
 She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 
 She gives us luck in lotteries, love,and marriage; 
 I cannot say that she's done much for me yet; 
 Not that I mean her bdunties to disparage, 
 We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 
 How much she'll make amends for past miscarriage; 
 Meantime the goddess I'll no more importune. 
 Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune. 
 
 63. 
 
 To turo, — and to return; — the devil take it, 
 This story slips for ever through my fingers, 
 Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, 
 It needs must be — and so it rather lingers; 
 This form of verse begun, I can't well break it. 
 But must keep time and tune like public singers ; 
 But if I once get tlirough my present measure, 
 I'll take another when I'm next at leisure. 
 
 64. 
 
 They went to the Ridotto : ('tis a place 
 To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 
 Just to divert my thoughts a little space. 
 Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow 
 Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 
 May lurk beneath each mask, and as my sorrow 
 Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find 
 Something shall leave it half an iiour behind.) 
 
 6-5. 
 
 Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
 Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips; 
 To some she whispers, others speaks aloud; 
 To some she curtsies, and to some she dips. 
 Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, 
 Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 
 She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 
 Her dearest friends for being drest so ill. 
 
 66. 
 
 One has false curls, another too much paint, 
 A third — where did she buy that frightful turban ? 
 A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, 
 A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 
 A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 
 A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane. 
 And lo! an eighth appears, — "I'll see no more!" 
 For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 
 
 67. 
 
 Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
 
 Others were levelling their looks at her; 
 
 She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising, 
 
 And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir; 
 
 The women only thought it quite amazing 
 
 That at her time of life so many were 
 
 Admirers still, — but men are so debased, 
 
 Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 
 
136 
 
 BEPPO, 
 
 68. 
 
 For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 
 
 Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 
 
 A thing which is a scandal to the land, 
 
 I only don't see why it should be thus; 
 
 And if I were but in a gown and band, 
 
 Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
 
 I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 
 
 Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 
 
 69. 
 
 While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, . 
 Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, 
 So tJiat her female friends, with envy broiling. 
 Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that; 
 And well drest males still kept before her filing, 
 And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 
 More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 
 With pertinacity that's rather rare. 
 
 70. 
 
 He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany ; 
 And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
 Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 
 Although their usage of their wives is sad; 
 'Tis said they use no better than a dog any 
 Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad: 
 They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em. 
 Four wives by law, and concubines "ad libitum." 
 
 7L 
 
 They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily. 
 They scarcely can behold their male relations, 
 So that their moments do not pass so gaily 
 As is supposed the case with northern nations; 
 Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely : 
 And as the Turks abhor long conversations, 
 Their days are either past in doing nothing. 
 Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 
 
 72. 
 
 They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 
 Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse ; 
 Were never caught in epigram or witticism. 
 Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
 In harams learning soon would make a pretty schism ! 
 But luckily these beauties are no "blues," 
 No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
 "That charming passage in the last new poem." 
 
 73. 
 
 No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
 Who having angled all his life for fame. 
 And getting but a nibble at a time, 
 Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 
 Small "Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
 Of mediocrity, the furious tame. 
 The echo's echo, usher of the school 
 Of female wits, boy-bards — in short, a fool ! 
 
 74. 
 
 A stalking oracle of awful phrase, 
 The approving "Good!" (by no means good in law) 
 Humming like flies around the newest blaze, 
 The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw. 
 Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise. 
 Gorging the little fame he gets all raw. 
 Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, 
 And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 
 
 75. 
 
 One hates an author, that's all author, fellows 
 
 In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink. 
 
 So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous. 
 
 One don't know what to say to them, or think, 
 
 Unless to puftthem with a pair of bellows; 
 
 Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 
 
 Are preferable to these shreds of paper. 
 
 These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight-taper. 
 
 76. 
 
 Of these same we see several, and of others. 
 Men of the world, who know the world like men, 
 S — tt, R — s, M — re, and all the better brotiiers. 
 Who think of something else besides the pen; 
 But for the children of the "mighty mother's," 
 The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 
 I leave them to their daily "tea is ready," 
 Snug coterie, and literary lady. 
 
 77. 
 
 The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 
 Have none of these instructive pleasant people. 
 And one would seem to them a new invention. 
 Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple; 
 I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension 
 (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) 
 A missionary author, just to preach 
 Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 
 
 78. 
 
 No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses, 
 No metaphysics are let loose in lectures. 
 No circulating library amasses 
 Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 
 Upon the living manners as they pass us; 
 No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; 
 They stare not on the stars from out their attics. 
 Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics. 
 
 79. 
 
 Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
 
 I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 
 
 And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, ^ 
 
 I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose; 
 
 I fear I have a little turn for satire, j 
 
 And yet methinks the older that one grows i 
 
 Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughtei 
 
 Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 137 
 
 80. 
 
 Oil, mirth and innocence! Oh, milk and water! 
 Ye happy mixtures of more happy days! 
 Tn these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 
 Abominable Man no more allays 
 His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 
 I love you both, and both shall have my praise: 
 Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
 Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 
 
 81. 
 
 Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon lier, 
 Less in the Mussulman than Christian^^'ay, 
 Which seems to say, "Madam, I do you honour, 
 And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay;" 
 Could staring win a woman this had won her, 
 But Laura could not thus be led astray. 
 She had stood fire too long and well to boggle 
 Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 
 
 82. 
 
 The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
 A turn of time at which I would advise 
 Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 
 In any other kind of exercise. 
 To make their preparations for forsaking 
 The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise. 
 Because when once the lamps and candles fail. 
 His blushes make them look a little pale. 
 
 83. 
 
 I've seen some balls and revels in my time. 
 
 And staid them over for some silly reason, 
 
 And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime). 
 
 To sec what lady best stood out the season; 
 
 And though I've seen some thousands in their prime, 
 
 Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 
 
 I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn). 
 
 Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 
 
 84. 
 
 The name of this Aurora I'll not mention. 
 Although I might, for she was nought to me 
 More than that patent-work of God's invention, 
 A charming woman, whom we like to see; 
 But writing names would merit reprehension, 
 You, if you like to find out this fair she, 
 At the next London or Parisian ball 
 Yet still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 
 
 85. 
 
 Laura, who knew it-would not do at all 
 
 To meet the daylight after seven hours sitting 
 
 Among three thousand people at a ball. 
 
 To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting; 
 
 The Count was at her elbow with her shawl. 
 
 And they the room were on the point of quitting. 
 
 When lo! those cursed gondoliers had got 
 
 Just in the very place where they should not. 
 
 86. 
 
 In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause 
 
 Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling, 
 
 With blasphemies, enough to break their jaws. 
 
 They make a never intermitted bawling. 
 
 At home, our Bow-street gcmmen keep the laws. 
 
 And here a sentry stands within your calling; 
 
 But, for all that, there is a deal of swearing. 
 
 And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 
 
 87. 
 
 The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 
 And homeward floated o'er the silent tide. 
 Discussing all the dances gone and past; 
 The dancers and their dresses, too, beside; 
 Some little scandals eke: but all aghast 
 (As to their palace-stairs the rowers glide), 
 Sate Laura by the side of her adorer, 
 When lo! the Mussulman was there before her. 
 
 88. 
 
 "Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding gfrave, 
 
 "Your unexpected presence here will make 
 
 It necessary for myself to crave 
 
 Its import? But perhaps 'tis a mistake; 
 
 I hope it is so ; and at once to wave 
 
 All compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 
 
 You understand my meaning, or you shall." 
 
 "Sir," (quoth the Turk) "'tis no mistake at all. 
 
 89. 
 
 That lady is my wife!" Much wonder paints 
 
 The lady's changing cheek, as well it might: 
 
 But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
 
 Italian females don't do so outright; 
 
 They only call a little on their saints. 
 
 And then come to themselves, almost or quite; 
 
 Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, 
 
 And cutting stays, as usual in such cases, 
 
 90. 
 
 She said, — what could she say ? Why not a word ; 
 
 But the Count courteously invited in 
 
 The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 
 
 "Such things perhaps we'd best discuss within," 
 
 Said he, "don't let us make ourselves absurd 
 
 In public, by a scene, nor raise a din. 
 
 For then the chief and only satisfaction 
 
 Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 
 
 91. 
 
 They enter'd and for coffee call'd, — it came, 
 A beverage for Turks and Christians both. 
 Although the way they make it's not the same. 
 Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 
 To speak, cries "Bcppo ! what's your pagan-name? 
 Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
 And how came you to keep away so long? 
 Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong? 
 
 9* 
 
138 
 
 BEPPO. 
 
 92. 
 
 "And are you really, truly, now a Turk? 
 With any other women did you wive ? 
 Is't true tliey use their fingers for a fork? 
 Well, that's the prettiest shawl — as I'm alive! 
 You'll give it me? They say you eat no pork. 
 And how so many years did you contrive 
 To — Bless me! did I ever? No, T never 
 Saw a man grown so yellow ! How's your liver? 
 
 93. 
 
 "Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you not, 
 It shall be shaved before yon're a day older: 
 Why do you wear it? Oh ! I had forgot — 
 Pray don't you think the weatlier here is colder? 
 How do I look? You shan't stir from this spot 
 In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
 Should find you out, and make the story known. 
 How short your hair is ! Lord ! how gray it's grown !' 
 
 94. 
 
 What answer Beppo made to these demands, 
 
 Is more than I know. He was cast away 
 
 About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands; 
 
 Became a slave of course, and for his pay 
 
 Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
 
 Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, 
 
 He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became 
 
 A renegado of indifferent fame. 
 
 95. 
 
 But he grew rieh, and with his riches grew so 
 Keen the desire to see his home again, 
 He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 
 And not be always thieving on the main; 
 Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 
 And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 
 Bound for Corfu; she was a fine polacca, 
 Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 
 
 96. 
 
 Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten) cash, 
 He then embark'd, with risk of life and limb, 
 And got clear oft', altliough the attempt was rash; 
 He said that Providence protected him — 
 For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 
 In our opinions: — well, the ship was trim, 
 Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 
 Except three days of calm when oft" Cape Bonn. 
 
 97. 
 
 They rcach'd the island, he transferred his lading, 
 
 And self and live-stock, to another bottom. 
 
 And pass'd for a true Turkey-mercliant, trading 
 
 With goods of various names, but I've forgot 'em. 
 
 However, he got off by this evading, 
 
 Or else the people would perhaps have shot him ; 
 
 And tiius at Venice landed to reclaim 
 
 His wife, religion, bouse, and Christian name. 
 
 98. 
 
 His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized him, 
 (He made the church a present by the way ;) 
 He then threw off" the garments which disguised him,. 
 And borrow'd the Count's small-clothes for a day; 
 His friends the more for his long absence prized him, 
 Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay. 
 With dinners, where he oft became the laugii of them. 
 For stories, — but J don't believe the half of them. 
 
 99. 
 
 Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age 
 With wealth and talking made him some amends; 
 Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 
 I've heard the Count and he were always friends. 
 JVIy pen is at the bottom of a page, 
 Which being finish'd here the story ends; 
 'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 
 But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 
 
On the back of the Poet's MS. of Canto I. 
 
 WOULD to heaven that I were so much clay, ^^ 
 
 ls I am blood, bone, marrow, passioa, feeling — 
 tecausc at least the past were pass'd away — 
 ind for the future — (but I write this reeling', 
 laving got drunk exceedingly to-day, 
 !o that I seem to stand upon the ceiling) 
 say — the future is a serious matter — ""'^ 
 
 Lnd so — for God's sake — hock and soda-water! 
 
 August. 24, 1819. — "Keep the anonymous : it bclps what fun there 
 lay be. But if the matter grow serious about 'Don Juan ,' and yon feel 
 ourself in a scrape, or me either, own that i am the author. I will 
 ever shrink; and if von do, 1 can always answer you in the question of 
 uatimozin to his minister — each being on his own coals. I wish that 1 
 ad been in better spirits; but 1 am out of sorts, out of nerves, and, now 
 nd then, (I begin to fear) out of my senses." (Byron f o_ Murray., 
 
 139 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Difficile est proprie coramunia dicere. 
 
 Horace. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 1. 
 
 Job Southey ! You're a poet — Poet-laureate, 
 
 knd representative of all the race, 
 
 Llthough 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at 
 
 Fast, — yours has lately been a common case, — 
 
 Lnd now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at? 
 
 iVith all the Lakers, in and out of place? 
 
 i nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
 
 iike "four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye; 
 
 2. 
 
 Which pye being open'd they began to sing" 
 This old song and new simile holds good), 
 'A dainty dish to set before the King," 
 )r Regent, who admires such kind of food; — 
 l.nd Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, 
 Jut like a hawk encurabcr'd with his hood, — 
 Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 
 wish he would explain his Explanation. 
 
 fou. Bob! are rather insolent, you know, 
 j U being disappointed in your wish 
 To supersede all warblers here below, 
 ^nd be the only Blackbird in the dish; 
 Vnd then you overstrain yourself, or so, 
 ^nd tumble downward like the flying fish 
 I3asping on deck, because you soar too high. Bob, 
 A.nd fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob! 
 
 And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion" 
 (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages), 
 Has given a sample from the vasty version 
 Of his new system to perplex the sages; 
 'Tis poetry — at least by his assertion, 
 And may appear so when the dog-star rages — 
 And he who understands it would be able 
 To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 
 
 5. 
 
 You — Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion 
 
 From better company, have kept your own 
 
 At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion 
 
 Of one another's minds, at last have grown 
 
 To deem as a most logical conclusion. 
 
 That Poesy has wreaths for you alone : 
 
 There is a narrowness in such a notion. 
 
 Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean, 
 
 6. 
 
 I would not imitate the petty thought. 
 Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice. 
 For all the glory your conversion brought. 
 Since gold alone should not have been its price. 
 You have your salary; was't for that you wrought? 
 And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. 
 You're shabby fellows — true — but poets still, 
 And duly seated on the immortal hill. 
 
 Your bays may liide the boldness of your brows — 
 
 Perhaps some virtuous blushes; — let them go — 
 
 To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 
 
 And for the fame you would engross below, 
 
 The field is universal, and allows 
 
 Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow: 
 
 Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try 
 
 'Gainst you the question with posterity. 
 
 8. 
 
 For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, 
 
 Contend not wit!) you on the winged steed, 
 
 I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, 
 
 The fame you envy, and the skill you need; 
 
 And recollect a poet nothing loses 
 
 In giving to his brethren their full meed 
 
 Of merit, and complaint of present days 
 
 Is not the certain path to future praise. 
 
140 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 9. 
 
 He that reserves his laurels for posterity 
 
 (Who does not often claim tlie bright reversion) 
 
 Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
 
 Being only injured by his own assertion; 
 
 And although here and there some glorious rarity 
 
 Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, 
 
 The major part of such appellants go 
 
 To — God knows where — for no one else can know. 
 
 10. 
 
 If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 
 
 Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 
 
 If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs, 
 
 And makes the word "Miltonic" mean "sublime," 
 
 He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs, 
 
 Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 
 
 He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 
 
 But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 
 
 11. 
 
 Think'st thou, could he — the blind Old Man — arise 
 
 Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more 
 
 The blood of monarchs witli his prophecies. 
 
 Or be alive again — again all hoar 
 
 With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, 
 
 And heartless daughters — worn — and pale — and poor ; 
 
 Would he adore a sultan ? he obey 
 
 The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ? 
 
 12. 
 
 Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant! 
 Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, 
 And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, 
 Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister-shore. 
 The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want, 
 With just enough of talent, and no more, 
 To lengthen fetters by another fix'd, 
 And ofl'er poison long already mix'd. 
 
 13. 
 
 An orator of such set trash of phrase 
 Inefl'ably, legitimately vile, 
 TJiat even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, 
 Nor foes — all nations — condescend to smile, — 
 Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze 
 From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, 
 That turns and turns to give the world a notion 
 Of endless torments and perpetual motion. 
 
 14. 
 
 A bungler even in its disgusting trade. 
 And botching, patching, leaving still behind 
 Something of which its masters are afraid, 
 States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined. 
 Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
 Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 
 A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains. 
 With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. 
 
 15. 
 
 If we may judge of matter by the mind, 
 Emasculated to the marrow. It 
 Hath but two objects : how to serve, and bind, 
 Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, 
 Eutropius of its many masters, — blind 
 To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit. 
 Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice. 
 Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 
 
 16. 
 
 Where shall I turn me not to vieiv its bonds. 
 For I will never/<?e/ them ; — Italy! 
 Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds 
 Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee - 
 Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds, 
 Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for me. 
 Europe has slaves — allies — kings — armies still. 
 And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 
 
 17, 
 
 Meantime — Sir Laureate — I proceed to dedicate. 
 
 In honest simple verse, this song to you. 
 
 And, if in flattering strains I do no predicate, 
 
 'Tis that I still retain my "buff' and blue;" 
 
 My politics as yet are all to educate: 
 
 Apostasy's so fashionable, too, 
 
 To keep one creed's a task grown quite Herculean ; 
 
 Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian ? 
 
 Venice, September 16, 1818. 
 
CANTO 1. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 141 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 I 4. / 1. 
 
 I WANT a hero : an uncommon Avant, '■ 
 
 When every year and month sends forth a new one, 
 
 Till, after cloying tlie gazettes with cant. 
 
 The age discovers he is not the true one; 
 
 Of such as these I shouTd not care to vaunt, 
 
 I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan; 
 
 We all have seen him in the Pantomime . - 
 
 Sent to the devil, somewhat ere his time. 
 
 Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawkc, 
 Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Kcppel, Howe, 
 Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, 
 And lill'd their sign-posts tlien, like Wellcsley now; 
 Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, 
 Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow : 
 France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier, 
 Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 
 
 j 
 
 I Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 
 
 Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 
 
 Were French, and famous people, as we know; 
 
 And there were otliers, scarce forgotten yet, 
 
 Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Dessaix, Moreau, 
 
 With many of the military set, 
 
 Exceedingly remarkable at times, 
 
 But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 
 
 4. 
 
 elson was once Britannia's god of war, 
 And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd ; 
 There's no more to be said of Trafalgar, si. 
 'Tis with our hero quietly inurn'd ; -•■-■ 
 Because the army's grown more popular. 
 At which the naval people are concern'd : 
 Besides, the Prince is all for the land-service. 
 Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. c 
 
 Brave men were living before Agamemnon 
 
 And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 
 
 A good deal like liim too, though quite the same none; 
 
 But then they shone not on the poet's page. 
 
 And so have been forgotten : — I condemn none, 
 
 But can't find any in the present age 
 
 Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one) ; y 
 
 So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. / 
 
 6. 
 
 Most epic poets plunge in "medias res," 
 (Horace makes this the heroic turnpike-road) 
 And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 
 What went before — by way of episode, 
 While seated after dinner at his ease. 
 Beside his mistress in some soft abode, 
 Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern. 
 Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 
 
 7. 
 
 That is the usual method, but not mine — 
 My way is to begin with the beginning; 
 The regularity of my design 
 Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning. 
 And therefore I shall open with a line 
 (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) 
 Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father. 
 And also of bis mother, if you'd rather. 
 
 8. 
 
 In Seville was he born, a pleasant city. 
 Famous for oranges and women — he 
 Who has not seen it will be much to pity, 
 So says the proverb — and I quite agree ; 
 Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 
 Cadiz perhaps — but that you soon may see: — 
 Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
 A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. 
 
 9. 
 
 His father's name was Jose — Don, of course, "^ 
 
 A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 
 
 Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
 
 Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain; 
 
 A better cavalier ne'er mounted liorse, 4^ ^Hb 
 
 Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, >^- ^^P 
 
 Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 
 
 Begot — but that's to come — Well, to- renew: 
 
 10. 
 
 His mother was a learned lady, famed 
 For every branch of every science known — 
 In every christian language ever named, • 
 With virtues equall'd by her wit alone. 
 She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, 
 And even the good with inward envy groan, 
 I Finding themselves so very much exceeded 
 1^ In their own way by all the things that she did. 
 
142 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 11. 
 
 Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart < 
 
 All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 
 
 So that if any actor miss'd his part 
 
 She could have served him for the prompter's copy; 
 
 For her Feinagle's were an useless art, 
 
 And he hifciself obliged to shut up shop — he 
 
 Could never make a memory so fine as 
 
 That wliich adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez. 
 
 12. 
 
 Her favourite science was the mathematical, 
 
 Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, 
 
 Her wit (she sometimes fried at wit) was Attic all, 
 
 Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity; 
 
 In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
 
 A prodigy : — her morning dress was dimity, 
 
 Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 
 
 And other stutfs, with which I won't stay puzzling. 
 
 13. 
 
 She knew the Latin — that is, "the Lord's prayer," 
 And Greek — the alphabet — I'm nearly sure; 
 She read some French romances here and there, 
 Although her mode of speaking was not pure ; 
 For native Spanish she had no great care. 
 At least her conversation was obscure ; 
 Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, 
 As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 
 
 14. 
 
 She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue. 
 
 And said there was analogy between 'em ; 
 
 She proved it somehow out of sacred song, 
 
 But I must leave the proofs to those who've seen 'em; 
 
 But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong. 
 
 And all may think which way their judgments lean 'em, 
 
 "'Tis strange — the Hebrew noun which means "I aiii,' 
 
 The English always use to govern d — ii." 
 
 15. 
 
 V 
 
 Some women use their tongues — she look'd a lecture, 
 
 Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily. 
 
 An all-in-all-sufficient self-director, 
 
 Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Rorailly, 
 
 Tlie Law's expounder, and the State's corrector, 
 
 Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — 
 
 One sad example more, that "All is vanity," — 
 
 (The jury brought their verdict in "Insanity.") 
 
 16. 
 
 In short, she was a walking calculation. 
 
 Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers. 
 
 Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education. 
 
 Or "Coelebs' Wife" set out in quest of lovers, 
 
 Morality's prim personification. 
 
 In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers; 
 
 To others' share let "female errors fall," 
 
 For she had not even one — the worst of all. 
 
 17. 
 
 Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 
 
 Of any modern female saint's comparison; 
 
 So far above the cunning powers of iiell, 
 
 Her guardian angel had given up his garrison; 
 
 Even her minutest motions went as well 
 
 As those of tiie best time-piece made by Harrison; 
 
 In virtues notiiing earthly could surpass her. 
 
 Save thine "incomparable oil," Macassar! 
 
 18. 
 
 Perfect she was, but as perfection is 
 
 Insipid in this naughty world of ours. 
 
 Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 
 
 Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, 
 
 Where all was peace, and innoctflace, and bliss 
 
 (I wonder how they got through the twelve hours), 
 
 Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 
 
 Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 
 
 19. 
 
 He was a mortal of the careless kind, 
 JWith no great love for learning, or the learn'd. 
 Who chose to go where'er he had a mind. 
 And never dream'd his lady was concern'd ; 
 Tiie world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
 To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 
 Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two. 
 But for domestic quarrels one will do. 
 
 T- 
 
 30. 
 
 i Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
 A great opinion of her own good qualities; 
 Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it. 
 And such, indeed, she was in her moralities; 
 But then she had a devil of a spirit. 
 And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities, 
 And let few opportunities escape 
 Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 
 
 21. 
 
 This was an easy matter with a man 
 Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard; 
 And even the wisest, do the best they can. 
 Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, 
 That you might "brain them with their lady's fan ;" 
 And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard. 
 And fans turn into falchions in fair hands. 
 And why and wherefore no one understands. 
 
 22. 
 
 *Tis pity learned virgins ever wed 
 
 With persons of no sort of education. 
 
 Or gentlemen, Avho, though well-born and bred, 
 
 Grow tired of scientific conversation: 
 
 I don't choose to say mucli upon this head, 
 
 I'm a plain man and in a single station. 
 
 But — Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual. 
 
 Inform us truly, Jhave they not hcn-j)eck'd you all ? 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 143 
 
 23. 
 
 Don Jose and his lady quaireU'd — why. 
 Not any of the many could divine, 
 Though several thousand people chose to try ; 
 'Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine: ^ 
 I loatlie that low vice — curiosity ; *t>^ 
 
 But if there's any thing in which I shine, 
 'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs. 
 Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 
 
 34. 
 
 And so I interfered, and with the best 
 Intentions, but their treatment was not kind; 
 I think the foolish people were possess'd, 
 For neither of them could I ever find. 
 Although their porter afterwards confess'd — 
 But that's no matter, and the worst's behind, 
 For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 
 A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 
 
 25. 
 
 A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, ^ 
 
 And mischief-making monkey from his birth ; 9 
 His parents ne'er agreed except in doting ^' 
 Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 
 Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in 
 Their senses, they'd have sent young master forth 
 To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home, 
 To teach him manners for the time to come. 
 
 V^ 
 
 2«. -rif, 
 
 Don Jose and the Donna Inez led T 
 For some time an unhappy sort of life. 
 Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
 They lived respectably as man and wife. 
 Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 
 And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 
 Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, 
 And put the business past all kind of doubt. 
 
 27. 
 
 For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians. 
 And tried to prove her loving lord was mad, 
 But as he had some lucid intermissions. 
 She next decided he was only bad; 
 Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions. 
 No sort of explanation could be had. 
 Save that her duty both to man and God 
 Required this conduct — which seem'd very odd. 
 
 28. 
 
 She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, 
 And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, J 
 All which miglit, if occasion served, be quoted; 
 And then she had all Seville for abettors, 
 Besides her good old grandmother (who doted) ; 
 The hearers of her case became repeaters, 
 Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges. 
 Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 
 
 29. 
 
 And then this best and meekest woman bore 
 
 With such serenity her husband's woes, 
 
 Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore. 
 
 Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose 
 
 Never to say a word about them more — 
 
 Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 
 
 And saw his agonies with such sublimity. 
 
 That all the world exclaim'd, "What magnanimity !" 
 
 30. 
 
 No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning us. 
 Is philosophic in our former friends; 
 'Tis also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous, ^ ' 
 The more so in obtaining our own ends; 
 And what the lawyers call a "matus animus," 
 Conduct like this by no means comprehends: 
 Revenge in person's certainly no virtue. 
 But then 'tis not my fault, if others hurt you. 
 
 31. 
 
 And if our quarrels should rip up old stories, 
 
 And help them with a lie or two additional, 
 
 I'm not to blame, as you well know, no more is 
 
 Any one else — they were become traditional, 
 
 Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 
 
 By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all: 
 
 And science profits by this resurrection — 
 
 Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. ^' 
 
 32. 
 
 Their friends had tried at reconciliation, 
 Then their relations, who made matters worse 
 ('Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion 
 To whom it may be best to have recourse — 
 I can't say much for friend or yet relation) : 
 The lawyers did their utmost for divorce. 
 But scarce a fee was paid on either side 
 Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 
 
 33. 
 
 He died: and most unluckily, because. 
 According to all hints I could collect. 
 From counsel learned in those kinds of laws 
 (Although their talk's obscure and circumspect), 
 His death contrived to spoil a charming cause; 
 A thousand pities also with respect 
 To public feeling, which on this occasion 
 Was manifested in a great sensation. 
 
 34. 
 
 But ah! he died; and buried with him lay 
 The public feeling and the lawyer's fees; 
 His house was sold, his servants sent away, 
 A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 
 A priest the other — at least so they say: 
 I ask'd the doctors after his disease, 
 He died of the slow fever called the tertian. 
 And left his widow to her own aversion. 
 
144 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 35. 
 
 Yet Jose was an honourable man, 
 That I must say, wlio knew him very well ; 
 • Therefore his frailties I'll no further scan, 
 \ Indeed there were not many more to tell; 
 And if his passion now and then outran 
 Discretion, and were not so peaceable 
 As Numa's (wiio was also named Pompilius), 
 i He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious. 
 
 36. 
 
 Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
 Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him; 
 Let's ow«, since it can do no good on earth ; 
 It was a trying moment that which found him 
 Standing alone beside his desolate liearth, 
 Where all his household-gods lay shiver'd round him; 
 No choice was left his feelings or his pride 
 Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 
 
 37. 
 
 / 
 
 Dying intestate, Juan was sole hear 
 
 To a chancery-suit, and messuages, and lands, 
 
 Which, with a long minority and care, 
 
 Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 
 
 Inez became sole guardian, which was fair. 
 
 And answer'd but to nature's just demands: 
 
 An only son left with an only mother 
 
 Is brought up much more wisely than another. 
 
 38. 
 
 Sagest of women, even of widows, she 
 Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, 
 And worthy of the noblest pedigree 
 . (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arragon) : 
 J Then for accomplishments of chivalry. 
 
 In case our lord the king should go to war again, 
 He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, 
 And how to scale a fortress — or a niwinery. 
 
 39. 
 
 - But that which Donna Inez most desired. 
 And saw into herself each day before all 
 The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 
 1 Was that his breeding should be strictly moral; 
 Much into all his studies she inquired. 
 And so they were submitted first to her, all. 
 Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 
 To Juau's eyes, excepting natural history. 
 
 40. 
 
 t The languages, especially the dead, 
 \ The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, 
 « The arts, at least all such as could be said 
 To be the most remote from common use, 
 In all these he was much and deeply read; 
 But not a page of any thing that's loose. 
 Or hints continuation of the species, 
 •^ Was ever sufFer'd, lest he should grow vicious. 
 
 41. 
 
 His classic studies made a little puzzle, 
 Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 
 Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle. 
 But never put on pantaloons or bodices; 
 His reverend tutors had at times a tussle. 
 And for their .^neids, Iliads and Odysseys, 
 Were forced to make an odd sort of apology. 
 For Donn^ Inez dreaded the mythology. 
 
 42. 
 
 Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him, 
 Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample; 
 Catullus scarcely has a decent poem; 
 I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example. 
 Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn 
 Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample: 
 But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one 
 Beginning with *'Formosum Pastor Corydon." 
 
 43. 
 
 Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 
 For earljAstomachs, to prove wholesome food ; 
 I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, 
 Although no doubt his real intent was good. 
 For speaking out so plainly in his song. 
 So much indeed as to be downright rude; 
 And then what proper person can be partial 
 To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial ? 
 
 L 
 
 44. 
 
 Juan was taught from out the best edition, 
 Expurgated by learned men, who place. 
 Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision. 
 The grosser parts ; but fearful to deface 
 Too much their modest bard by this omission, 
 ♦And pitying sore his mutilated case. 
 They only add them all in an appendix. 
 Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index; 
 
 45. 
 
 For there we have them all "at one fell swoop," 
 
 Instead of being scatter'd through the pages; 
 
 They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop. 
 
 To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 
 
 Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 
 
 To call them back into their separate cages. 
 
 Instead of standing staring altogether, 
 
 Like garden-gods — and not so decent, either. 
 
 46. 
 
 The missal too (it was the family-missal) 
 Was ornamented in a sort of way 
 Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all 
 Kinds of grotesques illumined; and how they. 
 Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all. 
 Could turn their optics to the text and pray 
 Is more than I know — but Don Juan's mother 
 Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 
 
1 CANTO I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 145 
 
 47. 
 
 Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, 
 And homilies, and lives of all the saints; 
 To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, 
 He did not take such studies for restraints: 
 But how faith is acquired, and then insured. 
 So well not one of the aforesaid paints 
 As Saint Augustine, in his fine Confessions, 
 Which make the reader envy his transgressions. 
 
 48. 
 
 This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
 I can't but say that his mamma was right, 
 If such an education was the true one. 
 She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; 
 Her maids were old, and if she took a new one 
 You might be sure she was a perfect fright. 
 She did this during even her husband's life — 
 I recommend as much to every wife. 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 49. 
 
 Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace; 
 
 At six a charming child, and at eleven . 
 
 With all the promise of as fine a face 
 
 As e'er to man's raaturcr growth was given: 
 
 He studied steadily and grew apace, 
 
 And scem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven; 
 
 For lialf his days were pass'd at cliurch, the other N/^ 
 
 Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 
 
 60. 
 
 At six, I said, he was a charming child, 
 At twelve he was a fine but quiet boy ; 
 Although in infancy a little wild, 
 They tamed him down amongst them; to destroy 
 His natural spirit not in vain they toii'd. 
 At least it seem'd so; and his mother's joy 
 Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 
 Her young philosopher was grown already. 
 
 61. 
 
 I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, 
 But what I say is neither here nor there: 
 1 knew his father well, and have some skill 
 In character — but it would not be fair 
 From sire to son to augur good or ill: 
 He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 
 But scandal's my aversion — I protest ^^ 
 Against all evil speaking, even in jest, 
 
 62. 
 
 For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 
 
 'rim I will say — my reasons are my own — 
 
 That if I liad an only son to put 
 
 To school (as God be praised that I have none) 
 
 'Tis not with Donna Inez I would shut 
 
 Him up to learn his catechism alone; 
 
 No — no — I'd send him out betimes to college, 
 
 For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. 
 
 53. 
 
 • 
 
 •For there one learns — 'tis not for me to boast, 
 Though I acquired — but I pass over that. 
 As well as all the Greek I since have lost: 
 I say that there's the place — but " Verhum sat." 
 I think I pick'd up, too, as well as most. 
 Knowledge of matters — but no matter what — 
 • I never married — but, I think, I know 
 That sous should not be educated so. 
 
 54. 
 
 Young Juan now was sixteen years of age. 
 
 Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit; he seem'd 
 
 Active, though not so sprightly, as a page; 
 
 And every body but his mother deem'd 
 
 Him almost man ; but she flew ia a rage. 
 
 And bit her lips (for else she might have scream' d) 
 
 If any said so, for to be precocious 
 
 Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 
 
 56. 
 
 Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 
 Selected for discretion and devotion. 
 There was the Donna Julia , w hom to call 
 Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
 Of many charms, in her as natural 
 As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
 Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid 
 (But this last simile is trite and stupid). 
 
 56. 
 
 The darkness of her oriental eye 
 Accorded with her Moorish origin ; 
 (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by; 
 In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 
 When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, 
 Boabdill wept, of Donna Julia'^s kin 
 Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
 Her great great grandmamma chose to remain. 
 
 67. 
 
 She married (I forget the pedigree) 
 
 With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 
 
 His blood less noble than such blood should be; 
 
 At such alliances his sires would frown. 
 
 In that point so precise in each degree 
 
 That they bred in and in, as might be shown. 
 
 Marrying their cousins — nay, their aunts and nieces, 
 
 Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 
 
 68. 
 
 This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
 Ruin'd its blocd, but much improved its flesh; 
 For, from a root, the ugliest in Old Spain, 
 Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 
 The sons no more were short, the daughters plain : 
 But there's a rumour which I fain would hush — 
 'Tis said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 
 Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 
 
 10 
 
 l^ 
 
146 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 1 
 
 59. 
 
 However this might be, tlie race went on 
 
 Improving still through every generation, 
 
 Until it centred in an only son 
 
 Who left an only daughter ; my narration 
 
 May have suggested that this single one 
 
 Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion 
 
 I shall have much to speak about), and she 
 
 Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. 
 
 60. 
 
 Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
 
 Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
 
 Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 
 
 Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
 
 And love than either ; and there would arise 
 
 A something in them which was not desire, 
 
 But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 
 
 Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole, 
 
 61. 
 
 Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 
 Bright with intelligence, and fair,and smooth; 
 Her eyebrows' shape was like the aerial bow ; 
 Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 
 Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow. 
 As if her veins ran lightning; she, in sooth, 
 Possess'd an air and grace by no means common: ,- 
 Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. %^ 
 
 62. 
 
 Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
 Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty ; 
 And yet, I think, instead of such a one ,, 
 'Twere better to have two of five-an4,-twenty, 
 Especially in countries near the sun : 
 And now I think on't, "mi vien in mente," 
 Ladies, even of the most uneasy virtue. 
 Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 
 
 63. 
 
 'Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 
 And all the fault of that indecent sun, 
 Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 
 But will keep baking, broiling, burning on. 
 That howsoever people fast and pray 
 The flesJi is frail, and so the soul undone: 
 What men call gallantry, and gods adulterj'. 
 Is much more common where the climate's sultry. 
 
 64. 
 
 Happy the nations of the moral north ! 
 
 Where all is virtue, and the winter-season 
 
 Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth 
 
 ('Twas snoAv that brought Saint Anthony to reason) ; 
 
 Where juries cast up what a wife is worth 
 
 By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on 
 
 The lover, who must pay a handsome price. 
 
 Because it is a marketable vice. 
 
 i 
 
 65. 
 
 Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 
 A man well looking for his years, and who 
 •^ Was neither much beloved, nor yet abhorr'd: 
 They lived together as most people do, 
 Sufl'ering each other's foibles by accord, 
 And not exactly either one. or two; 
 Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, ,. 
 For jiftlousy dislikes the world to know it. #^'' 
 
 m. 
 
 Julia was — yet I never could see why — 
 With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend ; 
 Between their tastes there was small sympathy, 
 For not a line had Julia ever penn'd : 
 Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie, 
 For malice still imputes some private end) 
 That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 
 Forgot with him her very prudent carriage; 
 
 67. 
 
 And that, still keeping up the old connexion. 
 
 Which time had lately render'd much more chaste. 
 
 She took his lady also in aflection. 
 
 And certainly this course was much the best: 
 
 She fiat<cr'd Julia with her sage protection. 
 
 And complimented Don Alfonso's taste; 
 
 And if she could not (who can ?) silence scandal, 
 
 At least she left it a more slender handle. 
 
 68. 
 
 I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
 With other people's eyes, or if her own 
 Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
 Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown ; 
 Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 
 Indifferent from the first, or callous grown: 
 I'm really puzzled what to think or say. 
 She kept her counsel in so close a wa) . 
 
 69. 
 
 Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 
 Caress'd him often; such a thing might be 
 Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, 
 When she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; 
 But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
 When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three: 
 These few short years make wondrous alterations. 
 Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. 
 
 70. 
 
 Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 
 Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy. 
 Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, 
 And much embarrassment in either eye; 
 There surely will be little doubt with some 
 That Donna Julia knew the reason why. 
 But as for Juan, he had no more notion 
 Than hie who never saw the sea of ocean. 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
-7^^i>.^u.^-^^^. r, 
 
 CANTO 1. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 71. 
 
 , Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 
 And tremulously gentle iier small hand 
 ' Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
 I A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 
 And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
 -i 'Twas but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand 
 i Wrought change with all Armida's fairy-art 
 Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 
 
 72. 
 
 And if she met liim, though she smiled no more, 
 i She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 
 i As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 
 iShe must not own, but cherished more the while, 
 [For that compression in its burning core; 
 lEven innocence itself has many a wile, / 
 
 And will not dare to trust itself with truth, / 
 And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 
 
 73. 
 
 But passion most dissembles, yet betrays, 
 I Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky 
 iForetels the heaviest tempest, it displays 
 ■Its workings through the vainly-guarded eye, / 
 jAnd in whatever aspect it arrays / 
 
 (Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy: 
 iColdncss or anger, even disdain or hate, 
 (Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 
 
 74. 
 
 Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, 
 
 .And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 
 
 'And burning blushes, though for no transgression, 
 
 JTremblings when met, and restlessness when left; 
 
 JAll these are little preludes to possession, 
 
 jOf which young passion cannot be bereft, 
 
 {And merely tend to show how greatly love is 
 
 Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. '-^' 
 
 76. 
 
 Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state; 
 
 IShe felt it going, and resolved to make 
 
 iThe noblest efforts for herself and mate, 
 
 iFor honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake: 
 
 jHer resolutions were most truly great, 
 
 I And almost might have made a Tarquin quake; 
 
 She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 
 
 lAs being the best judge of a lady's case. 
 
 ' 76. 
 
 She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
 JAnd next day paid a visit to his mother, 
 'And look'd extremely at the opening door, 
 I Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another; 
 I Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
 Again it opens, it can be no other, 
 'Tis surely Juan now — No! I'm afraid 
 That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 
 
 
 V' 
 
 i^'r:L,'-t- 
 
 •^^y^-^ . 
 
 147 
 
 77. 
 
 She now determined that a virtuous woman 
 Should rather face and overcome temptation ; 
 That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
 Should ever give her heart the least sensation ; 
 That is to say a thought beyond the common 
 Preference, that we must feel upon occasion, 
 For people who are pleasanter than others. 
 But then they only seem so many brothers. 
 
 78. 
 
 And even if by chance — and who can tell? 
 
 The Devil's so very sly — she should discover 
 
 Tliat all within was not so very well, 
 
 And if, still free, that such or such a lover 
 
 Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell ly^ 
 
 Such thoughts, and be the better when they're over ; 
 
 And, if the man should ask, 'tis but denial: 
 
 I recommend young ladies to make trial. 
 
 79. 
 
 And then there are such things as love divine, 
 Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, 
 Such as the angels think so very fine. 
 And matrons, who would be no less secure, 
 Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine:' 
 Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure. 
 And so I'd have her think, were I the man 
 On whom her reveries celestial ran. 
 
 80. 
 
 Such love is innocent, and may exist 
 Between young persons without any danger, . 
 A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd; 
 For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger. 
 But hear these freedoms form the utmost list 
 Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger: 
 If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime. 
 But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 
 
 v^ 
 
 81. 
 
 Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 
 Was Julia's innocent determination 
 In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its 
 Exertion might be useful on occasion ; 
 And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 
 Etherial lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
 He might be taught, by love and her together, 
 1 really don't know what, nor Julia either. 
 
 82. 
 
 Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced ^^ 
 In mail of proof — her purity of soul, 
 She, for the future of her strength convinced, 
 And that her honour was a rock, or mole. 
 Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 
 With any kind of troublesome control- 
 But whether Julia to the task was equal 
 Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. 
 
148 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 83. 
 
 Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, 
 
 And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 
 
 Not scandal's fangs conld fix on much that's seizable ; 
 
 Or if they did so, satisfied to mean 
 
 Nothing but what was good, her breast was peapeable • 
 
 A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! / 
 
 Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded 
 
 That all the Apostles would have done as they did. 
 
 84. 
 
 And if, in the mean time, her husband died, 
 
 But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross 
 
 Her brain, though in a dream ! (and tlien slie sigh'd) 
 
 Never could she survive that common loss; 
 
 But just suppose that moment should betide, 
 
 I only say suppose it — inter nos 
 
 (This should be entre nous, for Julia thought 
 
 In French, but then the rhyme would go for nought) ; 
 
 85. 
 
 I only say suppose this supposition: 
 Juan being then grown up to man's estate 
 Would fully suit a widow of condition; 
 Even seven years hence it would not be too late; 
 And in the interim (to pursue tliis vision) 
 The mischief, after all, could not be great. 
 For he would learn the rudiments of love, 
 I mean the seraph- way of those above. 
 
 86. 
 
 So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan, 
 
 Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
 
 Of his own case, and never liit the true one ; 
 
 In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
 
 He puzzled over what he found a ncAv one, 
 
 But not as yet imagined it could be a 
 
 Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
 
 Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 
 
 87. 
 
 Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow. 
 His home deserted for the lonely wood. 
 Tormented with a wound he could not know, 
 His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude. 
 I'm fond myself of solitude or so. 
 But then I beg it may be understood 
 By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 
 A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. 
 
 88. 
 
 "Oh I^ove ! in such a wilderness as this, 
 Where transport and security entwine, 
 Here is the empire of tliy perfect bliss, 
 And here thou art a god indeed divine." 
 The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, 
 With the exception of the second line, 
 For that same twining "transport and security" 
 Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 
 
 Vi 
 
 89. 
 
 The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
 To the good sense and senses of mankind, 
 The very thing which every body feels. 
 As all have found on trial, or may find, ^ 
 
 That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals '^' 
 Or love : — I won't say more about "entwined" 
 Or "transport," as we knew all that before, 
 But beg "Security" will bolt the door. 
 
 90. 
 
 Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks. 
 Thinking unutterable things; he threw 
 Himself at length within the leafy nooks 
 Where the wild branch of the cork-forest grew; 
 There poets find materials for their books, 
 And every now and then we read them through. 
 So that their plan and prosody are eligible. 
 Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 
 
 91. 
 
 He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued 
 His self-communion with his own high soul. 
 Until his mighty heart, in its great mood. 
 Had mitigated part, though not the whole 
 Of its disease; he did the best he could 
 With things not very subject to control, 
 And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, 
 Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 
 
 92. 
 
 He thought about himself, and the whole earth. 
 
 Of man, the wonderful, and of the stars. 
 
 And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 
 
 And then he thought of earthquakes and of Avars, 
 
 How many miles the moon miglit have in girth. 
 
 Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 
 
 To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies; 
 
 And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 
 
 93. 
 
 In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 
 Longings sublime, and aspirations high. 
 Which some are born with, but the most part learn 
 To plague themselves withal, they know not why: 
 'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern 
 His brain about the action of the sky; 
 liyou think 'twas philosophy that this did, 
 I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 
 
 94. 
 
 He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, 
 
 And heard a voice in all the winds; and then 
 
 He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers. 
 
 And how the goddesses came down to men : 
 
 He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours. 
 
 And when he look'd upon liis watch again, 
 
 He found how nmch old Time had been a winner — 
 
 He also found that he liad lost his dinner. 
 
CANTO 1. 
 
 149 
 
 93. 
 
 Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 
 Boscan, or Garcilasso; — by the wind 
 Even as the page is rustled while we look, 
 So by the poesy of his own mind 
 Over the mystic leaf his soul was siiook, 
 As if 'twere one whereon magicians bind 
 Tlieir spells, and give them to tlie passing gale, 
 According to some good old woman's tale. 
 
 96. 
 
 Thus would he while his lonely hours away 
 Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted; 
 Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, 
 Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, — 
 A bosom whereon he his head might lay, 
 And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, 
 With — several other things, which I forget. 
 Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 
 
 97. 
 
 Those lonely walks and lengthening reveries 
 Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 
 She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 
 But that which chiefly may and must surprise. 
 Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
 Her only son with question or surmise : 
 Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 
 Or, like all very clever people, could not. 
 
 y 
 
 98. 
 
 This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very common : 
 For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
 Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, 
 
 Andbreakthe Which commandment is'tthey break? 
 
 (I have forgot the number, and think no man 
 Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake ;) 
 I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous. 
 They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. 
 
 y 
 
 99. 
 
 A real husband always is suspicious. 
 
 But still no less suspects in the wrong place. 
 
 Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 
 
 Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace 
 
 By harbouring some dear friend extremely vicious; 
 
 The last indeed's infallibly the case: 
 
 And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly. 
 
 He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 
 
 100. 
 
 Thus parents also are at times short-sighted ; 
 Though watcliful as the lynx, they ne'er discover, 
 The while the wicked world beholds, delighted. 
 Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, 
 Till some confounded escapade has bliglitcd \/' 
 The plan of twenty years, and all is over; 
 And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
 And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 
 
 101. 
 
 But Inez was so anxious and so clear 
 Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, 
 She had some other motive much more near 
 For leaving Juan to his new temptation ; 
 But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here 
 Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 
 Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, 
 In case he thought his wife too great a prize 
 
 102. 
 
 J 
 
 y 
 
 It was upon a day, a summer's day; — 
 
 Summer's indeed a ver}' dangerous season, 
 
 And so is spring about the end of May ; 
 
 The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason; 
 
 But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say, 
 
 And stand convicted of more truth than treason, [in — 
 
 That there are months which nature grows more merry 
 
 March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. "^ 
 
 103. 
 
 'Twas on a summer's day — the sixth of June : — 
 I like to bt particular in dates, 
 Not only of the age, and j'car, but moon: 
 They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates 
 Change horses, making history change its tune. 
 Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states. 
 Leaving at last not much besides chronology. 
 Excepting the post-obits of tlieology. 
 
 104. 
 
 'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 
 Of half-past six — perhaps still nearer seven. 
 When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
 As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven 
 Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon-Moore, 
 To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, 
 With all the trophies of triumphant song — 
 He won them well, and may he wear them long ! 
 
 105. 
 
 She sate, but not alone; I know not well 
 How this same interview had taken place. 
 And even if I knew, I should not tell — 
 People should hold their tongues in any case; 
 No matter how or why the thing befell. 
 But there were she and Juan face to face — 
 When two such faces are so, 'twould be wise. 
 But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 
 
 106. 
 
 How beautiful she look'd ! her conscious heart 
 
 Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. 
 
 Oh Love! how perfect is thy mystic art, 
 
 Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong; • 
 
 How self-deceitful is the sagest part 
 
 Of mortals whom thy lure hatli led along! 
 
 The precipice she stood on was immense — 
 
 So was her creed in her own innocence. 
 
150 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO I 
 
 107. 
 
 She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, 
 
 And of the folly of all prudish fears, 
 
 Victorious virtue, and domestic truth, 
 
 And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: 
 
 I wisli these last had not occurr'd, in sooth. 
 
 Because that number rarely much endears, 
 
 And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, 
 
 Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 
 
 108. 
 
 When people say, "I've told you fifty times," 
 They mean to scold, and very often do; 
 When poets say, "I've v/rhten fi/ti/ rhymes," 
 They make you dread that they'll recite them too; 
 In gangs oiJifli/,thie\es commit their crimes; 
 Ki fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true; 
 But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 
 A good deal may be bought tor fifty Louis. 
 
 109. 
 
 Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love, 
 For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore, 
 By all the vows below to powers above, 
 She never would disgrace the ring she wore, 
 Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove; 
 And while she ponder'd this, besides much more. 
 One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, 
 Quite by mistake — she thought it was her own; 
 
 110. 
 
 Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other, 
 
 Which play'd within the tangles of her hair; 
 
 And to contend with thoughts she could not smother 
 
 She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 
 
 'Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
 
 To leave together this imprudent pair, 
 
 She who for many years had watch'd her son so — 
 
 I'm very certain mine would not have done so. 
 
 111. 
 
 The hand, which still held Juan's, by degrees 
 Gently, but palpably, confirm'd its grasp, 
 A.S if it said : "detain me, if you please;" 
 Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp 
 His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze ; 
 She would have shrunk as from a toad or asp, 
 Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 
 A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 
 
 112. 
 
 I cannot know what Juan thought of this, 
 
 8ut what he did, is much what you would do ; 
 
 His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss, 
 
 And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew 
 
 [n deep despair, lest he had done amiss,. 
 
 Love is so very timid when 'tis new : ^' 
 
 Slie blush'd and frown'd not, but she strove to speak, 
 
 And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 
 
 113. 
 
 The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon : 
 The devil's in the moon for mischief; they 
 Who call'd her chaste, raethinks, began too soon 
 Their nomenclature; there is not a day, 
 The longest, not tiie twenty-first of June, 
 Sees half the business in a wicked way ^ 
 
 On which three single hours of moonshine smile — 
 And then she looks so modest all the while. 
 
 114. 
 
 There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 
 A stillness which leaves room for the full soul 
 To open all itself, without the power 
 Of calhng wholly back its self-control; 
 The silver-light which, hallowing tree and tower, 
 Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, 
 Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 
 A loving languor, which is not repose. 
 
 115. 
 
 And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced 
 
 A nd half retiring from the glowing arm, 
 
 Which trembled like the bosom where 'twas placed ; 
 
 Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, 
 
 Or else 'twere easy to withdraw her waist; 
 
 I5ut then the situation had its charm. 
 
 And then God knows what next — I can't go on ; 
 
 I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 
 
 116. 
 
 Oh Plato ! Plato ! you have paved the way, 
 With your confounded fantasies, to more 
 Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 
 Your system feigns o'er the controlless core 
 Of human hearts, than all the long array 
 Of poets and romancers; — You're a bore, 
 A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 
 At best, no better than a go-between. 
 
 117. 
 
 And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs. 
 
 Until too late for useful conversation ; 
 
 The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 
 
 I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion; 
 
 But who, alas ! can love, and then be wise? 
 
 Not that remorse did not oppose temptation, 
 
 A little still she strove, and much repented, 
 
 And whispering : "I will ne'er consent" — consented. f1 
 
 118. 
 
 'Tis said that Xerxes offer'd a reward 
 To those who could invent him a new pleasure; 
 Methinks the requisition's rather hard. 
 And must have cost his majesty a treasure: 
 For my part, I'm a moderate-minded bard. 
 Fond of a little love (which I call leisure) ; 
 I care not for new pleasures, as the old 
 Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 151 
 
 119. 
 
 <^h Pleasure ! you're indeed a pleasant thing'. ^ 
 
 Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt; / 
 
 I make a resolution every spring 
 
 Of reformation ere the year run out; 
 
 Uut, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing. 
 
 Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 
 
 I'm verry sorry, very much ashamed, 
 
 And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 
 
 120. 
 
 f^ere my chaste Muse a liberty must take — 
 Start not ! still chaster reader — she'll be nice hence- 
 jForward, and there is no great cause to quake; 
 jThis liberty is a poetic license, 
 jWhich some irregularity may make 
 jln the design, and as 1 have a high sense 
 jOf Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit 
 beg his pardon when I err a bit. 
 
 121. 
 
 riiis license is to hope the reader will 
 
 Suppose from June the sixth (tiie fatal day, 
 
 Without whose epoch my poetic skill, 
 
 For want of facts, would all be thrown away), 
 
 8at keeping Julia and Don Juan still 
 
 [n sight, that several raontlis have pass'd ; we'll say 
 
 Twas in November, but I'm not so sure 
 
 \bout the day — the era's more obscure. 
 
 122. 
 
 i^e'll talk of that anon. — 'Tis sweet to hear 
 Vt midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 
 The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 
 3y distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 
 Tis sweet to sec the evening-star appear; 
 Tis sweet to Jisten as the night-winds creep 
 From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 
 The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky ; 
 
 123. 
 
 Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's fionest bark 
 Jay dcep-raouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 
 Tis sweet to krow there is an eye will mark 
 3ur coming, and look brighter when we come; 
 Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 
 !)r lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 
 )f bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds. 
 Phe lisp of children, and their earliest words ; 
 
 124. 
 
 5weet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 
 n Bacchanal profusion reel to earth 
 Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes 
 ?rom civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
 ?weet to the miser are his glittering heaps ; 
 5weet to the father is his first-born's birth; 
 5weet is revenge — especially to women, 
 Pillage to soldiers prize-money to seamen ; 
 
 126. , •'•^''^';X^. ,' 
 
 Sweet is a legacy; and passing sweet 
 
 The unexpected death of some old lady 
 
 Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 
 
 Who've made "us youth" wait too — too long already 
 
 For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, 
 
 Still breaking, but with stamina so vSteady, 
 
 That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 
 
 Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits; 
 
 126. 
 
 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels 
 
 By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end 
 
 To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels. 
 
 Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 
 
 Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; 
 
 Dear is the helpless creature wc defend 
 
 Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy-spot 
 
 We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot ; 
 
 127. 
 
 But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, y 
 
 Is first and passionate love — it stands alone. *^ 
 
 Like Adam's recollection of his fall; 
 
 The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd — all's known — 
 
 And life yields nothing further to recall 
 
 Worthy of this ambrosial sin so shown, 
 
 No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 
 
 Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 
 
 128. 
 
 Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use 
 
 Of his own nature and the various arts. 
 
 And likes particularly to produce 
 
 Some new experiment to show his parts : 
 
 Tliis is the age of oddities let loose, 
 
 Where different talents find their different marts ; 
 
 You'd best begin with truth, and when you've lost your 
 
 Labour, there's a sure market for imposture. 
 
 129. 
 
 What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 
 
 (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets) 
 
 One makes new noses, one a guillotine. 
 
 One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets; 
 
 But vaccination certainly has been 
 
 A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets, 
 
 With which the Doctor paid off an old pox. 
 
 By borrowing a new one from an ox. 
 
 130. 
 
 Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes. 
 
 And galvanism has set some corpses grinning. 
 
 But has not answer'd like the apparatus 
 
 Of the Humane Society's beginning. 
 
 By which men are unsuffocatcd gratis; — 
 
 Wiiat wondrous new macliines have late been spinning! 
 
 I said the rmall-pox has gone out of late; 
 
 Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great. 
 
152 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 131. 
 
 'Tis said the great came from America; 
 
 Perhaps it may set out on its return, — 
 
 The population there so spreads, they say 
 
 'Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn, — 
 
 With war, or plague, or famine, any way, 
 
 So that civilisation they may learn; 
 
 And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is — 
 
 Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis? 
 
 132. 
 
 t^' This is the patent-age of new inventions 
 For killing bodies, and for saving souls. 
 All propagated with the best intentions: 
 Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals 
 Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, 
 Tombuctoo-travels, voyages to the Poles, 
 Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, 
 Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 
 
 133. 
 
 Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what. 
 
 And wOnderful beyond all wondrous measure; 
 
 'Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that y 
 
 Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure; \^ 
 
 Few mortals know what end they would be at. 
 
 But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, 
 
 The path is tlirough perplexing ways, and when 
 
 The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and then 
 
 134. 
 
 What then? — I do not know, no more do you — 
 And so goodnight. — Return we to our story : 
 'Twas in November, when fine days are few, 
 And the far mountains wax a little hoary, 
 And clap a white cape on their mantles blue, 
 And the sea dashes round the promontory, 
 And the loud breaker boils against the rock, 
 And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 
 
 135. 
 
 'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; 
 No moon, no stars, the win4 was low or loud 
 By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright 
 With the piled wood, round which the family crowd; 
 There's something cheerful in that sort of light, l/ 
 Even as a summer sky's without a cloud : 
 I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
 A lobster-salad, and champagne, and chat. 
 
 136. 
 
 'Twas midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 
 
 Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 
 
 Arose a clatter might awake the dead, 
 
 If they had never been awoke before — 
 
 And that they have been so we all have read. 
 
 And are to be so, at the least, once more — 
 
 The door was fasten'd, but, with voice and fist. 
 
 First knocks were heard, then "Madam — Madam— hist! 
 
 137. 
 
 "For God's sake. Madam — Madam — here's my maste 
 
 With more than half the city at his back — 
 
 Was ever heard of such a curst disaster? 
 
 'Tis not my fault — I kept good watch — Alack ! 
 
 Do, pray, undo the bolt a little faster — 
 
 They're on the stair just now, and in a crack 
 
 Will all be here; perhaps he yet may fly — 
 
 Surely the window's not so very high !" 
 
 138. 
 
 By this time Don Alfonso was arrived 
 
 With torches, friends, and servants in great number; 
 
 The major part of them had long been wived. 
 
 And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber 
 
 Of any wicked woman, who contrived 
 
 By stealth herjmsband's temples to encumber: 
 
 Examples of this kind are so contagious, 
 
 Were one not punished, all would be outrageous. 
 
 139. 
 
 I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 
 
 Could enter into Don Alfonso's head : 
 
 But for a cavalier of his condition 
 
 It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, 
 
 Witliout a word of previous admonition. 
 
 To hold a levee round his lady's bed, 
 
 And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword. 
 
 To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 
 
 140. 
 
 Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep 
 (Mind — that I do not say — she had not slept), 
 Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep; 
 Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, 
 Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap, 
 As if she had just now from out them crept: 
 I can't tell why she should take all this trouble 
 To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 
 
 141. 
 
 But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 
 Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 
 Of goblins, but still more of men, afraid, 
 Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two, 
 And therefore side by side were gently laid, 
 Until the hours of absence should run through. 
 And truant husband should return, and say, 
 "My dear, I was the first who came away." 
 
 142. 
 
 Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 
 
 "In Heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d'ye mean? 
 
 Has madness seized you? would that I had died 
 
 Ere such a monster's victim I had been ! 
 
 What may this midnight-violence betide, 
 
 A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen? 
 
 Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill? 
 
 Search, then, the room!" — Alfonso said, "I will." 
 
CANTO 1. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 153 
 
 143. 
 
 He search'd, ihey search'd, and rummaged every where, 
 Closet and clothcs'-press, chest and window-scat, 
 And found mucli linen, lacc, and several pair 
 Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, 
 With other articles of ladies fair, 
 To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat : 
 Arras they prick'd and curtains with their sw^ords, 
 And wounded several shutters, and some boards, 
 
 144. 
 
 Under the bed they search'd, and there they found — 
 No matter what — it was not that tliey sought; 
 Tliey open'd windows, gazing if the ground 
 Had signs or foot-marks, but the earth said nought ; 
 , And then they stared each other's faces round: 
 t 'Tis odd, not one of all these seekers thought. 
 And seems to me almost a sort of blunder,* 
 Of looking in the bed as well as under. 
 
 : 145. 
 
 During this inquisition Julia's tongue 
 
 Was not asleep — "Yes, search and search," she cried, 
 
 "Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong! 
 
 jit was for this that I became a bride! 
 
 JFor this in silence I have sufler'd long 
 
 ; A husband like Alfonso at my side; 
 
 ;But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain, 
 
 i If there be law, or lawyers, in all Spain. 
 
 I 146. 
 
 "Yes, Don Alfonso! husband now no more, 
 \ If ever you indeed deserved the name, 
 Is't worthy of your years? — you have threescore, 
 Fifty, or sixty — it is all the same — 
 Is't wise or fitting causeless to explore 
 For facts against a virtuous woman's fame? 
 Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso ! 
 How dare you think your lady would go on so ? 
 
 147. 
 
 "Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 
 The common privileges of my sex? 
 That I have chosen a confessor so old 
 And deaf, that any other it would vex, 
 And never once he has had cause to scold, 
 iBut found my very innocence perplex 
 |So much, he always doubted I was married — 
 jHow sorry you will be when I've miscarried ! 
 
 148. 
 
 "Was it for this that no Cortejo ere 
 
 |I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville? 
 
 Is it for this I scarce went any where. 
 
 Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel? 
 
 Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, 
 
 I favour 'd none — nay, was almost uncivil? 
 
 Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
 
 Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely? 
 
 149. 
 
 "Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 
 Sing at my heart six months at least in vain? 
 Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, 
 Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? 
 Were there not also Russians, English, many? — 
 The Count Strongstroganofll put in pain. 
 And Lord Mount Cofleehoiigp, the Irish peer. 
 Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 
 
 150. 
 
 "Have I not had two bishops at my feet ? 
 
 The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez, 
 
 And is it thus a faithful wife you treat? 
 
 I wonder in what quarter now the moon is : 
 
 I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 
 
 Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
 
 Oh, valiant man ! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger, 
 
 Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure? 
 
 151. 
 
 "Was it for this you took your sudden journey. 
 Under pretence of business indispensible. 
 With that sublime of rascals your attorney. 
 Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible 
 Of having play'd the fool? though both I spurn, he 
 Deserves the w orst, his conduct 's less defensible, 
 Because, no doubt, 'twas for his dirty fee, 
 And not from any love to you nor me. 
 
 152. 
 
 "If he comes here to take a deposition, 
 
 By all means let the gentleman proceed ; 
 
 You've made the apartment in a fit condition : 
 
 There's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need — 
 
 Let every thing be noted with precision, 
 
 I would not you for nothing should be fee'd — 
 
 But, as my maid's undress'd, pray turn your spies out." 
 
 "Oh!" sobb'd Antonia, "I could tear their eyes out." 
 
 153. 
 
 "There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
 
 The anti-chamber — search them under, over : 
 
 There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair. 
 
 The chimney — which would really Jiold a lover, 
 
 I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
 
 And make no further noise till you discover 
 
 The secret cavern of this lurking treasure — 
 
 And, when 'tis found, let me, too, have that pleasure. 
 
 154. 
 
 "And now, Hidalgo ! now that you have thrown 
 Doubt upon me, confusion over all. 
 Pray have the courtesy to make it known 
 Who is the man you search for? how d'ye call 
 Him? what's his lineage? let him but be shown — 
 I hope he's young and handsome — is he tall? 
 Tell me — and be assured, that since you stain 
 My honour thus, it shall not be in vain. 
 10* 
 
154 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANT< 
 
 155. 
 
 "At least, perhaps, lie has not sixty years — 
 At tliat age he would be too old for slaughter, 
 Or for so young a husband's jealous fears — 
 (Antonia ! let me have a glass of jvater.) 
 I am ashamed of having shed these tears, 
 They are unworthy of my father's daughter; 
 My mother dream'd not in my natal hour 
 That I should fall into a monster's power. 
 
 156. 
 
 "Perhaps 'tis of Antonia you are jealous, 
 
 You saw that she was sleeping by my side 
 
 When you broke in upon us with your fellows: 
 
 Look where you please — we've nothing, sir, to hide; 
 
 Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us, 
 
 Or for the sake of decency abide 
 
 A moment at the door, that we may be 
 
 Dress'd to receive so much good company. 
 
 157. 
 
 "And now, sir, I have done, and say no more; 
 The little I have said may serve to show 
 The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 
 The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow: — 
 I leave you to your conscience as before, 
 'Twill one day ask you ivhy you used me so ? 
 God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! — 
 Antonia! where's my pocket-handkerchief?" 
 
 158. 
 
 She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale 
 She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears, 
 Like skies that rain and lighten ; as a veil. 
 Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 
 Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but fail, 
 To hide the glossy shoulder which uprears 
 Its snow through all; — her soft lips lie apart. 
 And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 
 
 159. 
 
 The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 
 Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room, 
 And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 
 Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom 
 Not one, except the attorney, was amused; 
 He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb, 
 So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause. 
 Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 
 
 160. 
 
 With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood. 
 Following Antonia's motions here and there, 
 With much suspicion in his attitude; 
 For reputations he had little care; 
 So that a suit or action were made good, 
 Small pity had he for the young and fair, 
 And ne'er believed in negatives, till these 
 Were proved by competent false witnesses. 
 
 161. 
 
 But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks. 
 And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 
 When, after searching in five hundred nooks. 
 And treating a young wife with so much rigour, 
 He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes. 
 Added to those his lady with such vigour 
 Had pour'd upon him for the last half hour. 
 Quick, thick, and heavy — as a thunder-shower. 
 
 162. 
 
 At first he tried to hammer an excuse. 
 To which the sole reply were tears and sobs, 
 And indications of hysterics, whose 
 Prologue is always certain throes and throbs, 
 Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose : — 
 Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's; 
 He saw too, in perspective, her relations, 
 And then he tried to muster all his patience. 
 
 163. 
 
 He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer. 
 
 But sage Antonia cut him short before 
 
 The anvil of his speech received the hammer, 
 
 With "Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more. 
 
 Or madam dies." — Alfonso mutter'd "D — n her," 
 
 But nothing else, the time of words was o'er ; 
 
 He cast a rueful look or two, and did, 
 
 He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 
 
 164. 
 
 With him retired his "posse comitatus," 
 The attorney last, who linger'd near the door, 
 Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 
 Antonia let him — not a little sore 
 At this most strange and unexplain'd "hiatus" 
 In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now Avore 
 An awkward look ; as he revolved the case, 
 The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 
 
 165. 
 
 No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame! 
 Oh sin! Oh sorrow! and Oh womankind! 
 How can you do such things and keep your fame. 
 Unless this world, and t'other too, be blind ? 
 Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name! 
 But to proceed — for there is more behind: 
 With much heart-felt reluctance be it said. 
 Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from the bed. 
 
 166^ 
 
 He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 
 How, nor can I indeed describe the where — 
 Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay. 
 No doubt, in little compass, round or square; 
 But pity him I neither must nor may 
 His suffocation by that pretty pair; 
 'Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut 
 With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey-butt. 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 155 
 
 167. 
 
 And, secondly, ^ity not, because 
 He had no business to commit a sin, 
 Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, — 
 At least 'twas rather early to begin; 
 But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 
 So much as when we call our old debts in 
 At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 
 And find a deuced balance with the devil. 
 
 168. 
 
 Of his position I can give no notion: 
 'Tis written iii the Hebrew Chronicle, 
 How the physicians, Icavijig pill and potion, 
 Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, 
 Wlien old King David's blcod grew dull in motion, 
 And that the medicine answer'd very well; 
 Perhaps 'twas in a diflerent way applied, 
 For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 
 
 169. 
 
 What's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 
 The moment he has sent his fools away. 
 Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, 
 But no device could be brought into play — 
 And how to parry the renew'd attack? 
 Besides, it wanted but few hours of day: 
 Antonia puzzled; Julia did not speak, 
 But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 
 
 170. 
 
 He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
 Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair; 
 Even then their love they could not all command, 
 And half forgot their danger and despair: 
 Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 
 "Come, come, 'tis no time now for fooling there," 
 She whisper'd in great wrath — "I must deposit 
 This pretty gentleman within the closet: 
 
 171. 
 
 "Pray keep your nonsense for some luckier night — 
 Who can have put my master in this mood? 
 What will become on't? — I'm in such a fright ! 
 The devil's in the urchin, and no good — 
 Is this a time for giggling? this a plight? 
 Why, don't you know that it may end in blood? 
 You'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place. 
 My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 
 
 172. 
 
 "Had it but been for a stout cavalier 
 
 Of twenty-five or thirty — (Come, make haste) 
 
 But for a child, what piece of work is here ! 
 
 I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 
 
 (Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near. 
 
 There, for the present, at the least he's fast, 
 
 And, if we can but till the morning keep 
 
 Our counsel — (Juan, mind, you must not sleep." 
 
 173. 
 
 Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone. 
 Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 
 She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone. 
 An order somewhat sullenly obcy'd; 
 However, present remedy was none, 
 And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd; 
 Regarding both with slow and sidelong view. 
 She snufi''d the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 
 
 174. 
 
 Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 
 Some strange excuses for his late proceeding; 
 He would not justify what he had done. 
 To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding. 
 But there were ample reasons for it, none 
 Of which he specified in this his pleading: 
 His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, 
 Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call "rigmarole" 
 
 176. 
 
 Julia said nought; though all the while there rose 
 
 A ready answer, which at once enables 
 
 A matron, who her husband's foible knows, 
 
 By a few timely words to turn the tables. 
 
 Which, if it does not silence, still must pose, / 
 
 Even if It should comprise a pack of fables ; "^ 
 
 'Tis to retort with firmness, and when he 
 
 Suspects with one, do you reproach with three. 
 
 176. 
 
 Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, 
 
 Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known; 
 
 But whether 'twas that one's own guilt confounds — 
 
 But that can't be, as has been often shown ; 
 
 A lady with apologies abounds : 
 
 It might be that her silence sprang alone 
 
 From delicacy to Don Juan's ear. 
 
 To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 
 
 177. 
 
 There might be one more motive, which makes two: 
 
 Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, 
 
 Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 
 
 Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
 
 Conceal'd amongst his premises ; 'tis true. 
 
 His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded; 
 
 To speak of Inez now were, one may say. 
 
 Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. 
 
 178. 
 
 A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; y^' 
 
 Silence is best, besides there is a tact 
 
 (That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff, 
 
 But it will serve to keep my verse compact) 
 
 Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough, 
 
 A lady always distant from the fact — 
 
 The charming creatures lie with such a grace, 
 
 There's nothing so becoming to the face. 
 
156 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 179. 
 
 They blush, and we believe them : at least I 
 
 Have always done so; 'tis of no great use, 
 
 In any case, attempting- a reply, 
 
 For then their eloquence grows quite profuse; 
 
 And when at length they are out of breath, they sigh. 
 
 And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose 
 
 A tear or two, and then we make it up ; 
 
 And then — and then — and then — sit down and sup. 
 
 180. 
 
 Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon. 
 Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, 
 And laid conditions, he thought, very hard on, 
 Denying several little things he wanted ; 
 He stood, like Adam, lingering near his garden. 
 With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted, 
 Beseeching she no further would refuse. 
 When lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 
 
 181. 
 
 A pair of shoes! — what then? not much, if they 
 Are such as fit with lady's feet, but these 
 (No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 
 Were masculine; to see them and to seize 
 Was but a moment's act. — Ah ! Well-a-day ! 
 My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze — 
 Alfonso first examined well tlieir fashion. 
 And then flew out into another passion. 
 
 182. 
 
 He left the room for his relinquish'd sword. 
 And Julia instant to the closet flew. 
 "Fly, Juan, fly ! for Heaven's sake — not a word — 
 The door is open — you may yet slip through 
 The passage you so often have explored — 
 Here is the garden-key — Fly — fly — Adieu ! 
 Haste — haste! — I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 
 Day has not broke — there's no one in the street." 
 
 183. 
 
 None can say that this was not good advice. 
 
 The only mischief was, it came too late; 
 
 Of all experience 'tis the usual price, ^ 
 
 A sort of income-tax laid on by Fate : 
 
 Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice. 
 
 And might have done so by the garden-gate, 
 
 But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown, 
 
 Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him down. 
 
 184. 
 
 Dire was the scuflle, and out went the light, 
 Antonia cried out "Rape !" and Julia "Fire!" 
 But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 
 Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire. 
 Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night; 
 And Juan, too, blaspliemed an octave higher; 
 His blood was up; though young, he was a Tartar, 
 And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 
 
 185. 
 
 Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he c(^p draw it, 
 
 And they continued battling hand to hand, 
 
 For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 
 
 His temper not being under great command. 
 
 If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 
 
 Alfonso's days had not been in the land 
 
 Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' lives! 
 
 And how you may be doubly widows — wives ! 
 
 186. 
 
 Alfonso grappled to detain the foe. 
 And Juan throttled him to get away. 
 And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow; 
 At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, 
 Juan contrived to give an awkward blow. 
 And then his only garment quite gave way ; 
 He fled, like Joseph, leaving it — but there, 
 I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 
 
 187. 
 
 Lights came at length, and men and maids, who foand 
 An awkward spectacle their eyes before; 
 Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 
 Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door; 
 Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground, 
 Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more; 
 Juan tlie gate gain'd, turn'd the key about. 
 And liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 
 
 188. 
 
 Here ends this Canto. — Need I sing or say, 
 How Juan, naked, favour'd by the night 
 (Who favours what she should not), found his way. 
 And reach'd liis home in an unseemly plight? 
 The pleasant scandal which arose next day, 
 The nine days' wonder which was brought to light, 
 And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 
 •"Were in the English newspapers, of course. 
 
 189. 
 
 If you would like to see the whole proceedings, 
 
 The depositions, and the cause at full. 
 
 The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 
 
 Of counsel to non-suit or to annul. 
 
 There's more than one edition, and the readings 
 
 Are various, but they none of them are dull ; 
 
 The best is that in short-hand, ta'en by Gurney, 
 
 Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 
 
 1 
 
 190. 
 
 But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
 Of one of tlie most circulating scandals 
 That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
 At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 
 First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 
 To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles ; 
 And then, by the advice of some old ladies, 
 She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 157 
 
 / 
 
 191. 
 
 She had resolved that he should travel through 
 
 All European climes by land or sea, 
 
 To mend his former morals, and get new, 
 
 Especially in France and Italy? 
 
 (At least this is the thing most people do). ^ 
 
 Julia was sent into a convent ; she 
 
 Grieved, but perhaps her feelings may be better 
 
 Shown in the following copy of her letter: 
 
 192. 
 
 "They tell me 'tis decided ; you depart : 
 'Tis wise — 'tis well, but not the less a pain; 
 I have no further claim on your young heart, 
 Mine is the victim, and would be again; 
 To love too much has been the only art 
 I used; — I write in haste, and if a stain 
 Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears — 
 My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 
 
 193. 
 
 "I loved, I love you, for this love have lost 
 
 State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, 
 [ And yet cannot regret what it hath cost, 
 I So dear is still the memory of that dream; 
 
 Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast, — 
 ; None can deem harshlier of me than I deem : 
 ' I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
 
 I've nothing to reproach or to request. 
 
 i 194. 
 
 I 
 
 i "Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 
 i'Tis woman's whole existence ; man may range 
 
 \ The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart. 
 
 Sword, gown, gain, glory, ofl'er in exchange 
 
 Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart. 
 
 And few there are whom these can not estrange : 
 
 Men have all these resources ; we but one — 
 
 To love again, and be again undone. 
 
 195. 
 
 "You will proceed in pleasure and in pride. 
 Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 
 For me on earth, except some years to hide 
 My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core; 
 These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 
 The passion, which still rages as before. 
 And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, 
 That word is idle now — but let it go. 
 
 196. 
 
 "My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; 
 But still, I think, I can collect my mind; 
 My blood still rushes where my spirit's set, 
 lAs roll the waves before the settled wind; 
 iMy heart is feminine, nor can forget — 
 JTo all, except one image, madly blind: 
 So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole. 
 As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. 
 
 197. 
 
 "I have no more to say, but linger still, 
 
 And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 
 
 And yet I may as well the task fulfil, 
 
 My misery can scarce be more complete : 
 
 I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill; 
 
 Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet. 
 
 And I must even survive this last adieu. 
 
 And bear with life, to love and pray for you !" 
 
 198. 
 
 This note was written upon gilt-edged paper. 
 With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new ; 
 Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper 
 It trembled as magnetic needles do, 
 And yet she did not let one tear escape her; 
 The seal a sun-flower: "Elle vous suit partout," 
 The motto, cut upon a white cornelian; 
 The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 
 
 199. 
 
 This was Don Juan's earliest scrape; but whether 
 I shall proceed with his adventures is 
 Dependant on the public altogether; 
 We'll see, however, what they say to this 
 (Their favour in an author's cap's a feather, 
 And no great mischi^s done by their caprice) ; 
 And, if their approbation we experience. 
 Perhaps they'll have some more about a year hence. 
 
 200. 
 
 My poem's epic, and is meant to be 
 
 Divided in twelve books; each book containing. 
 
 With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 
 
 A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, 
 
 New characters; the episodes are three: '' 
 
 A panoramic view of hell 's in training, 
 
 After the style of Virgil and of Homer, y* 
 
 So that my name of Ep icJa-Ofljoaisnomer. *^ 
 
 201. 
 
 All these things will be specified in time,,/ 
 With strict regard to Aristotle's Rules, 
 The vade mecum of the true sublime. 
 Which makes so many poets and some fools; 
 Prose-poets like blank-verse, I'm fond of rhyme, ,, 
 Good workmen never quarrel with their tools ; 
 I've got my mythological machinery, 
 And very handsome supernatural scenery. 
 
 202. 
 
 There's only one slight difference between 
 Me and my epic brethren gone before, 
 And here the advantage is my own, I ween ; 
 (Not that I have not several merits more. 
 But this will more peculiarly be seen;) 
 They so embellish, that 'tis quite a bore 
 Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, 
 Whereas this story's actually true. 
 
 / 
 
158 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 ^ 
 
 203. 
 
 If any person doubt it, I appeal 
 To history, tradition, and to facts, 
 To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, 
 To plays in five, and operas in three acts; 
 All these confirm my statement a good deal, 
 But that which more completely faith exacts 
 Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, 
 Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. 
 
 204. 
 
 If ever I should condescend to prose, 
 I'll write poetical commandments, which 
 Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
 That went before; in these I shall enrich 
 My text with many things that no one knows, 
 And carry precept to tlie highest pitch : 
 I'll call the work "Longinus o'er a Bottle, 
 Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle." 
 
 205. 
 
 Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; 
 
 Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey ; 
 
 Because the first is crazed beyond all hope. 
 
 The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthey : 
 
 With Crabbe it may be difiicult to cope. 
 
 And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 
 
 Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
 
 Commit — flirtation v/ith the muse of Moore. 
 
 206. 
 
 Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotlieby's Muse, 
 His Pegasus, nor any thing tiiat's his : 
 Thou shalt not bear false witness, like "the Blues" 
 (There's one, at least, is very fond of this) : 
 Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose: 
 This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 
 Exactly as you please, or not — the rod. 
 But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G — d ! 
 
 207. 
 
 If any person should presume to assert 
 This story is not moral, first, I pray. 
 That they Avill not cry out before they're hurt ; 
 Then, that tiiey'll read it o'er again, and say 
 (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert) 
 That this is not a moral tale, though gay; 
 Besides, in canto twelfth, I mean to show 
 The very place where wicked people go. 
 
 208. 
 
 If, after all, there should be some so blind ^ 
 
 To tlieir own good this warning to despise. 
 
 Led by some tortuosity of mind. 
 
 Not to believe ray verse and tlieir own eyes, 
 
 And cry that they "the moral cannot find," 
 
 I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies — 
 
 Should captains the remark, or critics, make, 
 
 They also lie too — under a mistake. 
 
 209. 
 
 The public approbation I expect. 
 
 And beg they'll take my word about the moral, 
 
 Which I with their amusement will connect 
 
 (So children cutting teeth receive a coral) ; 
 
 Meantime, they'll doubtless please to recollect 
 
 My epical pretensions to the laurel : 
 
 For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, 
 
 I've bribed my grandmother's review — the British. 
 
 210. 
 
 I sent it in a letter to the editor, 
 
 Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 
 
 I'm for a handsome article his creditor; 
 
 Yet if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 
 
 And break a promise after having made it her. 
 
 Denying the receipt of what it cost, 
 
 And smear his page with gall instead of honey. 
 
 All I can say is — that he had the money. 
 
 211. 
 
 I think that with this holy new alliance 
 I may insure the public, and defy 
 All other magazines of art or science. 
 Daily, or monthly, or three-monthly ; I 
 Have not essay'd to multiply their clients. 
 Because they tell me 'twere in vain to try, 
 And that the Edinburgh-Review and Quarterly 
 Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 
 
 212. 
 
 "Non effo hocferrem calida juventH 
 
 Consule Planco" Horace said, and so 
 
 Say I, by which quotation there is meant a 
 
 Hint that some six or seven good years ago 
 
 (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta) 
 
 I was most ready to return a blow. 
 
 And would not brook at all this sort of thing 
 
 In my hot youth — when George the Third was King. 
 
 213. 
 
 But now, at thirty years, my hair is gray 
 
 (I wonder what it will be like at forty ? 
 
 I thought of a peruke the other day). 
 
 My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I , X 
 
 Have squander 'd my whole summer while 'twas May, 
 
 And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 
 
 Have spent my life, both interest and principal, 
 
 And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 
 
 214. 
 
 No more — no more — Oh ! never more on me 
 The freshness of the heart can fall like dew. 
 Which out of all the lovely things we see 
 Extracts emotions beautiful and new. 
 Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee: 
 Thinkst thou the honey with those objects grew? 
 Alas! 'twas not in them, but in thy power 
 To double even the sweetness of a flower. 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 159 
 
 216. 
 
 No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my heart. 
 Canst thou be my sole world, my universe! 
 Once all in all, but now a thing apart, 
 Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: 
 The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art 
 Insensible, I trust, but none the worse; 
 And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment. 
 Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. 
 
 216. 
 
 My days of love are over; me no more 
 Tlie charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, 
 Can make the fool of, which they made before — 
 In short, I must not lead the life I did do : 
 The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er; 
 Tlie copious use of claret is forbid, too; 
 So, for a good old-gentlemanly vice, 
 I tiiink I must take up with avarice. 
 
 217. 
 
 Ambition was my idol which was broken 
 Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure; 
 And the two last have left me many a token 
 O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 
 Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken, 
 Time is, Time was, Time's past:" a chymic treasure 
 Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes — 
 My heart in passion, and my head on rliymes. 
 
 218. 
 
 What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill 
 
 A certain portion of uncertain paper : 
 
 Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 
 
 Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour; 
 
 For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, 
 
 And bards burn what they call their "midnight-taper,' 
 
 To have, when the original is dust, 
 
 A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 
 
 219. 
 
 What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King, 
 
 Cheops, erected the first pyramid 
 
 .\nd largest, thinking it was just the thing 
 
 To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; 
 
 But somebody or other, rummaging, 
 
 Burglariously broke his coffin's lid : 
 
 Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
 
 Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 
 
 220. 
 
 But I, being fond of true philosophy, 
 Say very often to myself; "Alas ! 
 All things that have been born were born to die. 
 And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass; 
 You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, 
 And if you had it o'er again — 'twould pass — 
 So thank your stars that matters are no worse, 
 And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse." 
 
 221. 
 
 But for the present, gentle reader ! and 
 
 Still gentler purchaser! the bard — that's I — 
 
 Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, 
 
 And so your humble servant, and good bye! 
 
 We meet again, if we should understand 
 
 Each other; and, if not, I shall not try 
 
 Your patience further than by this short sample — 
 
 'Twcre well if others follow'd my example. 
 
 222. 
 
 "Go, little book, from this my solitude! 
 
 I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways ! 
 
 And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 
 
 The world will find thee after many days." 
 
 When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood, 
 
 I can't help putting in my claim to praise — 
 
 The four first rhymes are Southey's, every line: 
 
 For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. 
 
 Nl 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 1. 
 
 3n ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
 Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, 
 pray ye flog them upon all occasions ; i^ 
 t mends their morals ; never mind the pain : 
 The best of mothers and of educations, 
 11 Juan's case, were but employed in vain, XfA^ 
 iincc in a way, that's rather of the oddest, he "^ 
 
 iecame divested of his native modesty. 
 
 V" 
 
 2. 
 
 Had he but been placed at a public school. .-* 
 In the third form, or even in the fourth, 
 His daily task had kept his fancy cool, 
 At least had he been nurtured in the north; 
 Spain may prove an exception to the rule. 
 But then exceptions always prove its worth — 
 A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 
 Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. 
 
160 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO I 
 
 J 
 
 3. 
 
 I can't say that it puzzles me at all, 
 
 If all things be consider 'd : first, there was 
 
 His lady-mother, mathematical, 
 
 A never mind; his tutor, an old ass; ;, ^ 
 
 A pretty woman — (tliat's quite natural, '=^»>-V;^^ 
 
 Or else the thing had hardly come to pass) ; 
 
 A husband rather old, not much in unity 
 
 With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 
 
 Well — well, the world must turn upon its axis, 
 And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, 
 And live and die, make love, and pay our taxes,- V':)-' 
 And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails; 
 The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us. 
 The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, 
 A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame. 
 Fighting, devotion, dust — perhaps a name. ^^ 
 
 5. 
 
 I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz — 
 
 A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
 
 'Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is 
 
 (Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel), 
 
 And such sweet girls — I mean such graceful ladies, 
 
 Their very walk would make your bosom swell ; 
 
 I can't describe it, though so much it strike, 
 
 Nor liRen it — I never saw the like : 
 
 6. 
 
 An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 
 New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle, 
 No — none of tliese will do; — and then their garb ! 
 Their veil and petticoat — Alas! to dwell 
 Upon such tilings would very near absorb 
 A canto — then their feet and ancles ! — well, 
 Thank Heaven I've got no metaphor quite ready 
 (And so, my sober Muse — come, let's be steady — 
 
 7. 
 
 Chaste Muse! — well, if you must, you must) — the veil 
 Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand. 
 While tl»c o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, 
 Flashes into the heart: — All sunny land 
 Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 
 To — say my prayers — but never was there plann'd 
 A dress through which the eyes give such a volley. 
 Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. 
 
 8. 
 
 But to our tale; the Donna Inez sent 
 
 Her son to Cadiz only to embark ; 
 
 To stay there had not answer'd her intent, 
 
 But why? — we leave the reader in the dark — 
 
 'Twas for a voyage that the young man was meant. 
 
 As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark. 
 
 To wean him from the wickedness of earth, 
 
 And send him like a dove of promise forth. 
 
 9. 
 
 Don Juan bade his valet pack liis things 
 
 According to direction, then received 
 
 A lecture and some money: for four springs 
 
 He was to travel; and, though Inez grieved 
 
 (As every kind of parting has its stings). 
 
 She hoped he would improve — perhaps believed: 
 
 A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
 
 Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 
 
 10. 
 
 In the mean time, to pass her hours away. 
 Brave Inez now set up a Sunday-scliool 
 For naughty children, who would rather play 
 (Like truant rogues) the devi],or the fool; 
 Infants of three years old were taught that day, 
 Dunces were whipp'd or set upon a stool; 
 The great success of Juan's education 
 Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 
 
 11. 
 
 Juan embark'<i — the ship got under way. 
 The wind was fair, the water passing rough; 
 A devil of a sea rolls in that bay. 
 As I, who've cross'd it oft, know well enough; 
 And, standing upon deck, tlie dashing spray 
 Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough: 
 And there he stood to take, and take again, 
 His first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 
 
 12 . 
 
 I can't but say it is an awkward sight 
 
 To sec one's native land receding through 
 
 The growing waters — it unmans one quite; 
 
 Especially when life is rather new : 
 
 I recollect Great-Britain's coast looks white. 
 
 But almost every other country's blue. 
 
 When, gazing on them, mystified by distance, 
 
 We enter on our nautical existence. 
 
 13. 
 
 So Juan stood bewilder'd on the deck : 
 
 The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore. 
 
 And the ship creak' d, the town became a speck. 
 
 From which away so fair and fast they bore. — 
 
 The best of remedies is a beef-steak 
 
 Against sea-sickness; try it, sir, before 
 
 You sneer, and I assure you this is true, 
 
 For I have found it answer — so may you. 
 
 14. 
 
 Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern. 
 Beheld his native Spain receding far : 
 First partings form a lesson hard to learn. 
 Even nations feel this when they go to war; 
 There is a sort of unexpress'd concern, 
 A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar : 
 At leaving even the most unpleasant people 
 And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 
 
;anto II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 161 
 
 15. 
 
 But Juan had got many things to leave — 
 His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, 1 
 So tliat he had much better cause^o grieve (_ 
 Than many persons more advanced in life ; 
 And, if we now and then a sigh must heave 
 At quitting even those we quit in strife, 
 No doubt we weep for those the heart endears — 
 That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 
 
 16. 
 
 So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
 By Babel's water, still remembering Sion : 
 ['d weep, but mine is not a weeping Muse, 
 And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 
 young men should travel, if but to amuse >-' 
 rhemselves ; and the next time their servants tic on 
 Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 
 Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 
 
 17. 
 
 \.ud Juan wept, and much he sigh'd, and thought, 
 llVhile his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea, 
 'Sweets to the sweet;" (I like so much to quote; 
 ifou must excuse this extract, 'tis where she, 
 The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
 lowers to the grave) and, sobbing often, he 
 leflected on his present situation, 
 Vnd seriously resolved on reformation. 
 
 18. 
 
 Farewell, my Spain ! a long farewell !" he cried, 
 Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
 Jut die, as many an exiled heart hath died, 
 )f its own thirst to see again thy shore; 
 'arewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide! 
 'arewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er, 
 "arewell, too, dearest Julia !" (here he drew 
 [er letter out again, and read it through) 
 
 19. 
 
 And oh ! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 
 lut that's impossible, and cannot be — 
 Doner shall this blue ocean melt to air, 
 ooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 
 'han I resign thine image, oh ! my fair! 
 •r think of any thing, excepting thee ; 
 mind diseased no remedy can physic" 
 Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick) 
 
 ^y 
 
 20. 
 
 Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (here he fell sicker) 
 
 >h, Julia ! what is every other woe? — 
 
 For God's sake, let me have a glass of liquor — 
 
 'edro! Battista! help me down below !) 
 
 ulia, my love! — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) — 
 
 >h, Julia ! — (this cursed vessel pitches so) — 
 
 kloved Julia! hear me still beseecliing" — 
 
 Here he grew inarticulate with retching) 
 
 21. 
 
 He felt that chilling heaviness of heart. 
 
 Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 
 
 Beyond the best apothecary's art. 
 
 The loss of love, the treachery of friends. 
 
 Or death of those we doat on, when a part 
 
 Of us dies with them, as each fond hope ends : 
 
 No doubt he would have been much more pathetic. 
 
 But the sea acted as a strong emetic;. 
 
 22. 
 
 Love's a capricious power; I've known it hold 
 Out through a fever caused by its own heat, 
 But be much puzzled by a cough and cold. 
 And find a quinsy very hard to treat ; 
 Against all noble maladies he's bold. 
 But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet. 
 Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, 
 Nor inflammations redden bis blind eye. 
 
 23. 
 
 But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 
 About the lower region of the bowels; 
 Love, who heroically breathes a vein. 
 Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 
 And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, 
 Sea-sickness death ; his love was perfect, how else 
 Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar. 
 Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before? 
 
 24. 
 
 The ship, called the most holy "Trinidada," 
 Was steering duly for the port Leghorn; 
 For there the Spanish family Moncada 
 Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born : 
 They were relations, and for them he had a 
 Letter of introduction, which the morn 
 Of his departure had been sent himl)y 
 His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 
 
 25. 
 
 His suite consisted of three servants and 
 A tutor, the licenciate Pedrillo, _ 
 Who several languages did understand. 
 But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, 
 And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land. 
 His headache being increased by every billow; 
 And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
 His birth a little damp, and him afraid. 
 
 26. 
 
 'Twas not without some reason, for the wind 
 Increased at night, until it blew a gale; 
 And though 'twas not much to a naval mind, 
 Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, / 
 For sailors are, in fact, a different kind ; 
 At sunset they began to take in sail, 
 For the sky showed it would come on to blow, 
 And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 
 11 
 
162 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 C\NTO II 
 
 27. 
 
 At one o'clock the wind with sudden sliifi 
 Threw the sliip right into the trough of the sea, x. 
 Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, 
 Started tlie stern-post, also shatter'd the \ 
 
 Whole of her stern-frame, and ere she could lift 
 Herself from out her present jeopardy 
 The rudder tore away: 'twas time to sound 
 The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 
 
 28. 
 
 One gang of people instantly was put 
 
 Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
 
 To get up part of the cargo, and what not, 
 
 But they could not come at the leak as yet; 
 
 At last they did get at it really, but 
 
 Still their salvation was an even bet : 
 
 The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling, 
 
 While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin, 
 
 29. 
 
 Into the opening; but all such ingredients 
 
 Would have been vain, and thc}^ must have gone down, 
 
 Despite of all their efforts and expedients. 
 
 But for the pumps : I'm glad to make them known 
 
 To all the brothcr-tars who may have need hence, 
 
 For lift J tons of water were upthrown 
 
 By them per hour, and they had all been undone 
 
 But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 
 
 30. 
 
 As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate, 
 And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce. 
 And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
 Kept two hand- and one chain-pump still in use. 
 Tiie wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 
 A squall came on, and, while some guns broke loose, 
 A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 
 Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 
 
 31. 
 
 There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset; 
 The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks, 
 And made a scene men do not soon forget; 
 For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 
 Or any other thing that brings regret, 
 ■.,_^ Or breaks tkcir hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks^: , 
 Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers' 
 And swimmers who may chance to be survivors. 
 
 32. 
 
 Immediately the masts were cut away, 
 Both main and mizen; tirst the mizen went. 
 The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay 
 Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 
 Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
 Eased her at last (although we never meant 
 To part with all till every hope was blighted). 
 And then with violence the old ship righted. 
 
 33. 
 
 It may be easily supposed, while this 
 
 Was going on, some people were unquiet ; 
 
 That passengers would find it much amiss 
 
 To lose their lives, as well as spoil_tlieir diet; 
 
 That even the able seaman, deeming his 
 
 Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot. 
 
 As upon such occasion tars will ask 
 
 For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 
 
 34. 
 
 There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms 
 As rum and true religion; thus it was. 
 Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psaloii 
 The high wind made the treble, and as bass [quali| 
 
 The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured tl 
 Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws : 
 Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 
 Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 
 
 35. 
 
 Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
 Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years. 
 Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
 It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears, 
 As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
 Of fire than water, spite of oatlis and tears. 
 Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk. 
 Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 
 
 36. 
 
 "Give us more grog," they cried, "for it will be 
 
 All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, "No ! 
 
 'Tis true that death awaits both you and me. 
 
 But let us die like men, not sink below 
 
 Like brutes : " — and thus his dangerous post kept h 
 
 And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 
 
 And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 
 
 Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 
 
 37. 
 
 The good old gentleman was quite aghast. 
 
 And made a loud and pious lamentation; 
 
 Repented all his sins, and made a last 
 
 Irrevocable vow of reformation; 
 
 Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) 
 
 To quit his academic occupation. 
 
 In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 
 
 To follow Juan's wake like Sancho Panca. 
 
 38. 
 
 But now there came a flash of hope once more; 
 Day broke, and the wind lull'd : the masts Avere gone«l 
 The leak increased; shoals round her, but no shore; 
 The vessel swam, yet still she lield iier own. 
 They tried the pumps again, and though before 
 Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, 
 A glimpse of sunshime set some hands to bale — 
 The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumra'd a sail. 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 163 
 
 39. 
 
 ! Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd, 
 1 And for the moment it liad some effect ; 
 IBut with a leak, and not a stick of raast, 
 'Nor rag of canvass, what could they expect? 
 I But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 
 I'Tis never too late to be wholly wrcck'd : 
 And though 'tis true that man can only die once, 
 I'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 
 
 40. 
 
 iThere winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence, 
 jWitliout their will, they carried them away ; 
 
 or they were forced with steering to dispense, 
 
 nd never had as yet a quiet day 
 jOn which they might repose, or even commence 
 |A jury-mast or rudder, or could say 
 The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck, 
 fstill swam — though not exactly like a duck. 
 
 41. 
 
 p 
 
 The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, 
 put the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope 
 jTo weather out much longer; the distress 
 as also great with which they had to cope 
 or want of water, and their solid mess 
 ^Vas scant enough: in vain the telescope 
 *Vas used — nor sail nor shore appcar'd in sight, 
 
 f^ought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 
 
 I 
 
 42. 
 
 igain the weather threaten'd, — again blew 
 k gale, and in the fore- and after-hold 
 ^Vater appear'd; yet, though the people knew 
 lU this, the most were patient, and some bold, 
 Jntil the chains and leathers were worn through 
 )f all our pumps : — a wreck complete she roll'd, 
 it mercy of the waves, whose mercies arc 
 like human beings' during civil war. 
 
 43. 
 
 ' 'hen came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
 a his rough eyes, and told the captain, he 
 iould do no more; he was a man in years, 
 Lnd long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, 
 
 ' .nd if he wept at length, they were not fears 
 'hat made his eyelids as a woman's be, 
 >ut he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, 
 'wo things for dying people quite bewildering.- 
 
 44. 
 
 'he ship was evidently settling now 
 
 'ast by the head; and, all distinction gone, 
 
 ome went to prayers again, and made a vow 
 
 •f candles to their saints — but there were none 
 
 o pay them Avith; and some look'd o'er the bow; 
 
 ome lioistcd out tlie boats; and there was one 
 
 liat bcgg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, 
 
 Vlio told him to be damn'd — in his confusion. 
 
 45. 
 
 Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on 
 Their best clothes, as if going to a fair; 
 Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 
 And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore tlieir hair; 
 And others went on, as they had begun, 
 Getting the boats out, being well aware 
 , That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 
 Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 
 
 46. 
 
 The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
 Having been several days in great distress, 
 'Twas difficult to get out such provision 
 As now might render their long suffering less; 
 Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 
 Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress : 
 Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter 
 Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 
 
 47. 
 
 But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 
 
 Some pounds of bread, though injured by tlte wet; 
 
 Water, a twenty-gallon-cask or so; 
 
 Six flasks of wine; and they contrived to get 
 
 A portion of their beef up from below. 
 
 And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 
 
 But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon — 
 
 Then there was rum, eight gallons iit a puncheon. 
 
 48. 
 
 The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
 Been stove in the beginning of the gale; 
 And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
 As there were but two blankets for a sail. 
 And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
 Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail; 
 And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, 
 To save one half (he people then on board. 
 
 49. 
 
 'Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down 
 Over the waste of waters; like a veil, 
 Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
 Of one who hates us, so the night was shown. 
 And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale, 
 And hopeless eyes, which o'er the deep alone 
 Gazed dim and desolate; twelve days had Fear 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 
 
 50. 
 
 Some trial had been making at a raft. 
 With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
 A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd. 
 If any laughter at such times could be. 
 Unless with people who too much have quaff'd. 
 And have a kind of wild and horrid glee. 
 Half epilcptical, and half hysterical: — 
 Their preservation would have been a miracle. 
 
164 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 G\NTO II 
 
 61. 
 
 At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars, 
 And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, 
 That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
 For yet they strove, although of no great use : 
 There was no light in heaven but a few stars ; 
 The boats put offo'ercrowded with their crews ; 
 She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 
 And, going down head-foremost — sunk, in short. 
 
 62. 
 
 Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell! 
 
 Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave; 
 
 Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell. 
 
 As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
 
 And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 
 
 And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, 
 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy. 
 
 And strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
 63. 
 
 And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
 Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
 Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd. 
 Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
 Of billows; but at intervals there gusli'd, 
 Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
 A solitary shriek — the bubbling cry 
 ■*0f some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 64. 
 
 The boats, as stated, had got off before, 
 And in them crowded several of the crew ; 
 And yet their present hope was hardly more 
 Than what it had been, for so strong it blew 
 There was slight chance of reaching any shore; 
 And then they were too many, though so few — 
 Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, 
 Were counted in them when they got afloat. 
 
 66. 
 
 AH the rest perish'd ; near two hundred souls 
 Had left their bodies; and, what's worse, alas ! 
 When over catholics the ocean rolls, 
 They must wait several weeks before a mass 
 Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals. 
 Because, till people know what's come to pass, 
 They won't lay out their money on the dead — 
 It costs three francs for every mass that's said. 
 
 66. 
 
 Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
 
 Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place; 
 
 It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care. 
 
 For Juan wore the magisterial face 
 
 Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
 
 Of eyes were crying for their owner's case: 
 
 Battista, though, (a name cali'd shortly Tita) 
 
 Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita; 
 
 67. 
 
 Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save ; 
 
 But the same cause, conducive to his loss. 
 
 Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave ' 
 
 As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross. 
 
 And so he found a wine-and-watery grave : 
 
 They could not rescue him, although so close, 
 
 Because the sea ran higher every minute, 
 
 And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 
 
 68. 
 
 A small old spaniel, — which had been Don Jose's, 
 His father's, whom he loved, as ye may tliink. 
 For on such things the memory reposes 
 With tenderness, — stood howling on tlie brink, 
 Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses !) 
 No doubt, the vessel was about to sink; 
 And Juan caught him up, and ere he stcpp'd 
 Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 
 
 69. 
 
 He also stuff'd his money where he could 
 About his person, and Pedrillo's too, 
 Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, 
 Not knowing what himself to say or do, 
 As every rising wave his dread rencw'd ; 
 But Juan, trusting they might still get through. 
 And deeming there were remedies for any ill. 
 Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 
 
 60. 
 
 'Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet. 
 That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, 
 Though on the wave's high top too much to set. 
 They dared not take it in for all the breeze; 
 Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wot. 
 And made them bale without a moment's ease. 
 So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 
 And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 
 
 61. 
 
 Nine souls more went in her : the long-boat still 
 Kept above water, with an oar for mast. 
 Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill 
 Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast; 
 Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill, 
 And present peril all before surpass'd, 
 They grieved for those Avho perish'd with the cutter, 
 And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 
 
 62. 
 
 The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
 
 Of the continuance of the gale : to run 
 
 Before the sea, until it should grow fine, 
 
 Was all that for the present could be done : 
 
 A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine *• 
 
 Were served out to the people, who begun 
 
 To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 
 
 And most of them had little clothes but rags. 
 
CANTO 11. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 165 
 
 63 
 
 They counted thirty, crowded in a space 
 Which left scarce room for motion or exertion; 
 They did their best to modify their case, 
 One lialf sate up, though numb'd with the immersion, 
 While t'other half were laid down in their place. 
 At watcii and watch ; thus, shivering like the tertian 
 Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat. 
 With nothing but the sky for a great-coat. 
 
 64. 
 
 ; 'Tis very certain the desire of life 
 1 Prolongs it ; this is obvious to physicians, 
 [ When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, 
 I Survive through very desperate conditions, 
 j Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
 I Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 
 Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, 
 And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 
 
 65. 
 
 'Tis said that persons living on annuities -—■ 
 Are longer-lived than others, — God knows whj', 
 Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is. 
 That some, I really think, do never die; 
 Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, / 
 
 And that's their mode of furnishing supply; 
 In my young days thc}'^ lent me casli that way, 
 Which I found very troublesome to pay. 
 
 'Tis thus with people in an open boat, 
 They live upon the love of life, and bear 
 More than can be believed, or even thought. 
 And stand, like rocks, the tempest's wear and tear; 
 And hardship still has been the sailor's lot. 
 Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there — 
 She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 
 Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 
 
 67. 
 
 y 
 
 But man is a carnivorous production, 
 
 A.nd must have meals, at least one meal a day; 
 
 He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction. 
 
 But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey : 
 
 Although his anatomical construction 
 
 (Bears vegetables in a grumbling way. 
 
 Your labouring people think beyond all question, 
 
 licef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 
 
 68. 
 
 Viid thus it was with this our hapless crew; 
 "or on the third day there came on a calm, 
 Vnd though, at first, their strength it might renew, 
 ^nd, lying on their weariness like balm, 
 ^ull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 
 )f ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, 
 Uid fell all ravenously on their provision, 
 astcad of hoarding it with due precision. 
 
 69. 
 
 The consequence was easily foreseen — 
 
 They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, 
 
 In spite of all remonstrances, and then 
 
 On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? 
 
 They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men! 
 
 And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine, 
 
 But, as they had but one oar, and that brittle. 
 
 It Avould have been more wise to save their victual. 
 
 70. 
 
 The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
 And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child ; 
 The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there. 
 The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — 
 With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
 What could they do? and hunger's rage grew wild : 
 So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating. 
 Was kiird, and portiou'd out for present eating. 
 
 71. 
 
 On the sixth day they fed upon his hide. 
 And Juan, who had still refused, because 
 The creature was his father's dog that died. 
 Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws. 
 With some remorse received (though first denied^. 
 As a great favour, one of the fore-paws, \ 
 
 Which he divided with Pedrillo, who \ 
 
 Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 
 
 72. 
 
 The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 
 Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea, 
 They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none. 
 Save in the breeze that came not ; savagely 
 They glared upon each other — all was done, 
 Water, and wine, and food, — and you might see 
 The longings of the cannibal arise 
 (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 
 
 73. 
 
 At length one whisper'd his companion, who 
 
 Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, 
 
 And then into a hoarser murmur grew. 
 
 An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 
 
 And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew, 
 
 'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he found: 
 
 And out they spoke of lots for flesii and blood, 
 
 And who should die to be his fellows' food. 
 
 74. 
 
 But ere they came to this, they that day shared 
 Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes : 
 And then they look'd around them, and dcspair'd. 
 And none to be the sacrifice would clioose<{ 
 At length the lots were torn up and prepared, 
 But of materials that much shock the Muse — 
 Having no paper, for the want of better, 
 They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. 
 
166' 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 11. 
 
 75. 
 
 The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed, 
 
 In silent horror, and their distribution 
 
 LulI'd even the savage hunger wliicli demanded, 
 
 Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution; 
 
 None in particular had sought or plann'd it; 
 
 'Twas nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, 
 
 By which none were permitted to be neuter — 
 
 And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 
 
 76. 
 
 He but requested to be bled to death ^ 
 
 The surgeon had his instruments, and bled > 
 
 Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath, ) 
 
 You hardly could perceive when he was dead.^ 
 
 He died as born, a Catholic in faith, \ 
 
 Like most in the belief in which they're bred, 2. 
 
 And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, ^7 
 
 And then held out his jugular and wrist. ) 
 
 77. 
 
 The surgeon, as there was no other fee, 
 Had his first choice of morsels for his pains ; 
 But being thirstiest at the moment, he 
 Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins : 
 Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, 
 And such things as the entrails and the brains 
 Regaled two sharks, who foUovv'd o'er the billow — 
 The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 
 
 78. 
 
 The sailors ate him, all save three or four, 
 Who were not quite so fond of animal food ; 
 To these was added Juan, who, before 
 Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 
 Feel now his appetite increased much more; 
 'Twas not to be expected that he should, 
 Even in extremity of their disaster. 
 Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 
 
 79. 
 
 'Twas better that he did not; for, in fact. 
 The consequence was awful in the extreme ; 
 For they, who were most ravenous in the act. 
 Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blaspheme ! 
 And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd, 
 Drinking salt-water like a mountain-stream. 
 Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, 
 And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing. 
 
 80. 
 
 Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, 
 And all the rest were thin enough. Heaven knows; 
 And some of them had lost their recollection, 
 Happier than .they who still perceived their woes; 
 But others ponder'd on a new dissection, 
 As if not warn'd sufficiently by those 
 Who had already perish'd, sufl"cring madly, 
 For having used their appetites so sadly. 
 
 81. 
 
 And next they thought upon the master's mate. 
 As fattest ; but he saved liimsclf, because, 
 Besides being much averse from such a fate. 
 There were some other reasons : the first was, 
 He had been rather indisposed of late. 
 And that which chiefly proved his saving clause, 
 Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 
 By general subscription of the ladies. 
 
 82. 
 
 Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd, 
 But was used sparingly, — some were afraid. 
 And others still their appetites constrain'd. 
 Or but at times a little supper made; 
 All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd, 
 Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead: 
 At length they caught two boobies and a noddy. 
 And then they left ofl' eating the dead body. 
 
 83. 
 
 And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 
 
 Remember Ugolino condescends 
 
 To eat the head of his arch-enemy 
 
 The moment after he politely ends 
 
 His tale ; if foes be food in hell, at sea 
 
 'Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends, 
 
 When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty. 
 
 Without being much more horrible than Dante. 
 
 84. 
 
 And the same night there fell a shower of rain. 
 
 For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth 
 
 When dried to summer-dust; till taught by pain, 
 
 Men really know not what good water's worth : 
 
 If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 
 
 Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth, 
 
 Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, 
 
 You'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a well. 
 
 86. 
 
 It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer. 
 Until they found a ragged piece of sliect. 
 Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, 
 And when they deem'd its moisture was complete. 
 They wrung it out, and, though a thirsty ditcher 
 Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet 
 As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 
 They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 
 
 86. 
 
 And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
 Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd; 
 Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black 
 As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scrcam'd 
 To beg the beggar, who could not rain back 
 A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 
 To taste of heaven — if this be true, indeed, , /' 
 Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 167 
 
 87. 
 
 There were two fathers in tliis ghastly crew, 
 
 And with tiiem their two sons, of whom the one 
 
 Was more robust and hardy to the view. 
 
 But lie died early; and when he was gone. 
 
 His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
 
 One glance on him, and said, "Heaven's will be done ! 
 
 I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown 
 
 Into the deep, without a tear or groan. 
 
 The other father had a weaklier child. 
 
 Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate; 
 
 But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 
 
 And patient spirit, held aloof his fate; 
 
 Little he said, and now and then he smiled, 
 
 As if to win a part from oflthe weight 
 
 He saw increasing on his father's heart. 
 
 With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 
 
 89. 
 
 And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
 His eyes from oft" his face, but wiped the foam 
 From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed; 
 And when the wished-for shower at length was come, 
 And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
 Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, 
 He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 
 Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 
 
 90. 
 
 The boy expired — the father held the clay, 
 And look'd upon it long, and when at last 
 Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay 
 Stiffen his heart, and pulse and hope were past. 
 He watch'd it wistfully, until away 
 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; 
 Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shivering. 
 And gave no signs of life, save his limbs quivering. 
 
 91. 
 
 Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through I 
 The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, 2. 
 Resting its bright base on the quivering bluc^ 
 And all within its arch appear'd to be "^ 
 Clearer than that without, and its wide huel 
 iWax'd broad and waving like a banner free, X 
 jThen changed like to a bow that's bent, and then 
 iForsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 
 
 3 
 3 
 
 92. 
 
 It changed, of course; a heavenly cameleon, 
 The airy child of vapour and tlie sun, 
 Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 
 jBaptised in molten gold, and swathed in dun, 
 Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 
 JAnd blending every colour into one, 
 Just like a black eye in a recent scuIHe, 
 (For sometimes we must box without the muffle). 
 
 93. 
 
 Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen — 
 It is as well to think so, now and then; 
 'Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 
 And may become of great advantage when 
 Folks are discouraged; and most surely no men 
 Had greater need to nerve themselves again 
 Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope — 
 Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 
 
 94. 
 
 About this time a beautiful white bird, 
 Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size 
 And plumage (probably it might have err'd 
 Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes, 
 And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 
 The men within the boat, and in this guise 
 It came and went, and flutter'd round them till 
 Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen still. 
 
 95. 
 
 But in this case I also must remark, 
 'Twas well this bird of promise did not perch, 
 Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 
 Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 
 And had it been the dove from Noah's ark. 
 Returning there from her successful search, 
 Whicli in their way that moment chanced to fall. 
 They would have eat her, olive-branch .and all. 
 
 96. 
 
 With twilight it again came on to blow. 
 But not with violence ; the stars shone out, 
 The boat made way; yet now they were so low. 
 They knew not where nor what they were about ; 
 Some fancied they saw land, and some said "No!" 
 The frequent fog-banks gave tbem'tause to doubt — 
 Some swore that theyjieatlfbieakers, others gunsj 
 And all mi^tocrtTalSout the latter once. 
 
 97. 
 
 As morning broke the light wind died away, 
 
 When he who had the watch sung out, and swore. 
 
 If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's ray. 
 
 He wish'd that land he never might see more: 
 
 And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay, 
 
 Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore; 
 
 For shore it was, and gradually grew 
 
 Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. 
 
 98. 
 
 And then of these some part burst into tears. 
 
 And others, looking with a stupid stare, 
 
 Could not yet separate their liopcs from fears. 
 
 And seem'd as if they had no further care; 
 
 While a few pray'd — (tlie first time for some years) — 
 
 And at the bottom of the boat three were 
 
 Asleep ; they shook them by the hand and head. 
 
 And tried to awaken them, but found tliem dead. 
 
168 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 1 
 
 99. 
 
 The day before, fast sleeping on the water. 
 They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, 
 And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, 
 Which yiclded'a day's life, and to their mind 
 Proved even still a more nutricious matter, 
 Because it left encouragement behind: 
 They thought that, in such perils, more than chance 
 Had sent them this for their deliverance. ?, •" " 
 
 100. 
 
 The land appcar'd a high and rocky coast. 
 
 And higher grew the mountains as they drew, 
 
 Set by a current, toward it : they were lost 
 
 In various conjectures, for none knew 
 
 To what part of the earth they had been toss'd. 
 
 So changeable had been the winds that blew; 
 
 Some thought it was Mount Aetna, some the highlands 
 
 Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 
 
 101. 
 
 Meantime the current, with a rising gale. 
 
 Still set them onwards to the welcome shore. 
 
 Like Cliaron's bark of spectres, dull and pale: 
 
 Their living freight was now reduced to four. 
 
 And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
 
 To heave into the deep with those before. 
 
 Though the two sharks still foUow'd them, and dash'd 
 
 The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 
 
 102. 
 
 Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat had done 
 Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 
 Such things, a mother had not known her son 
 Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew; 
 By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one 
 They perish'd, until wither'd to these few. 
 But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 
 In washing down Pedrillo with salt-water. 
 
 103. 
 
 As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen 
 Unequal in its aspect here and there. 
 They felt the freshness of its growing green. 
 That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd the air, 
 And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen 
 From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare — 
 Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
 Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 
 
 104. 
 
 The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man. 
 
 And girt by formidable waves; but they 
 
 Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran. 
 
 Though right aliead the roaring breakers lay: 
 
 A reef between tiiem also now began 
 
 To show its boiling surf and bounding spray. 
 
 But finding no place for their landing better. 
 
 They ran the boat for shore, and overset her. 
 
 105. 
 
 But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
 Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; 
 And having learn'd to swim in that sweet river, 
 Had often turn'd the art to some account. 
 A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. 
 He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 
 As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 
 Leaudcr, Mr. Ekeuhead, and I did. 
 
 106. 
 
 So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
 He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 
 With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, 
 The beach which lay before him, high and drj : 
 The greatest danger here was from a shark, 
 That carried oil' his neighbour by the thigh; 
 As for the otiier two, they could not swim, 
 So nobody arrived on shore but him. 
 
 107. 
 
 Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar. 
 
 Which, providentially for him, was wash'd 
 
 Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, 
 
 And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 'twas dash'd 
 
 Within his grasp; he clung to it, and sore 
 
 The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 
 
 At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 
 
 Roil'd on the beach, half senseless, from the sea ; 
 
 108. 
 
 There, breathless, with his digging nails he clujig 
 Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave. 
 From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung, 
 Should suck him back to her insatiate grave: 
 And there he lay, full-length, where he was ilung, 
 Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave, 
 With just enough of life to feel its pain. 
 And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain. 
 
 » 109. 
 
 With slow and staggering effort he arose. 
 But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 
 And quivering hand; and then he look'd for those 
 Who long had been his mates upon the sea, 
 But none of them appear'd to share his woes. 
 Save one, a corpse from out the famish'd three. 
 Who died two days before, and now had found 
 An unknown barren beach for burial-ground. 
 
 110. 
 
 And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, 
 And down he sunk : and as he sunk, the sand 
 Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd: 
 He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand 
 Droop'd drippijig on the oar (their jury-mast). 
 And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 
 His slender frame and pallid aspect lay. 
 As fair a tiling as e'er was form'd of clay. 
 
CANTO n. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 169 
 
 HI. 
 
 How long- in his damp trance young Juan lay 
 
 He knew not, for tiie earth was gone for liim, 
 
 And Time had nothing more of niglit nor day 
 
 For his congealing blood, and senses dim; 
 
 And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
 
 He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb, 
 
 And tingling vein, seem'd tiirobbing back to life. 
 
 For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife. 
 
 112. 
 
 His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed. 
 For all was doubt and dizziness; he thought 
 He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
 And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, 
 And wish'd it death in which he had reposed, 
 And then once more his feelings back were brought, 
 And slowly by his swimming eye was seen 
 A lovely female face of seventeen. 
 
 113. 
 
 'Twas bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
 Seem'd almost prying into his for breath; 
 And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
 Recall'd his answering spirits back from death ; 
 And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 
 Each pulse to aninWtion, till beneath 
 Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 
 To these kind efforts made a low reply, 
 
 114. 
 
 Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
 Around his scarce-clad limbs; and the fair arm 
 Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung; 
 And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 
 Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she wrung 
 His dewy curls, long dreuch'd by every storm; 
 And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 
 A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers too. 
 
 115. 
 
 And lifting him with care into the cave. 
 The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 
 Young, yet her elder, and of-brow less grave, 
 I And more robust of figure, — then begun 
 I To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
 ; Light to the rocks that roof d them, which the sun 
 i Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 
 She was, appear'd distinpt, and tall, and fair. 
 
 116. 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roU'd 
 In braids behind, and though her stature were 
 Even of the highest for a female mould. 
 They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air 
 There was a something which bespoke command, 
 As one who was a lady in tlic land. 
 
 117. 
 
 Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes 
 Were black as death, their lashes the same hue. 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk-shadow lies 
 Deepest attraction, for when to the view 
 Forth from its raven-fringe the full glance flies. 
 Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; 
 'Tis as the snake, late coil'd, who pours his length, 
 And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 
 
 118. 
 
 Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye 
 
 Like twilight rosy still with the set sun; 
 
 Short upper-lip — sweet-lips ! that make us sigh 
 
 Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 
 
 Fit for the model of a statuary 
 
 (A race of mere impostors, when all's done — 
 
 I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, ,; 
 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone-ideal). -< 
 
 119. 
 
 I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis just 
 
 One should not rail without a decent cause : 
 
 There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
 
 I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 
 
 A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 
 
 Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, 
 
 They will destroy a face which mortal thought 
 
 Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. 
 
 120. 
 
 And such was she, the lady of the cave: 
 Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 
 Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave; 
 For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 
 Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave 
 Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 
 The basquina and the mantilla, they 
 Seem %t the same time mystical and gay. 
 
 121. 
 
 But with our damsel this was not the case : 
 Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun ; 
 Her locks curl'd negligently round her face. 
 But through them gold and gems profusely shone; 
 Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
 Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 
 Flash'd on her little hand; but what was shocking. 
 Her small snow-feet had slippers, but no stocking. 
 
 122, 
 
 The other female's dress was not unlike. 
 But of inferior materials : she 
 Had not so many ornaments to strike; 
 Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
 Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike, 
 Was coarser; and her air, though firm, less free; 
 Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eyes 
 As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 
 11* 
 
170 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 CANTO 11 
 
 ^ 
 
 123. 
 
 And these two tended him, and checr'd him both 
 With food and raiment, and those soft attentions, 
 Which are (as I must own) of female growth, 
 And have ten thousand delicate inventions : 
 They made a most superior mess of broth, 
 A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, 
 But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's 
 Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 
 
 124. 
 
 I'll tell you who they were, this female pair. 
 Lest they should seem princesses in disguise ; 
 besides, I hate all mystery, and that air, 
 Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize; 
 And so, in short, the girls they really were 
 They shall appear before your curious eyes. 
 Mistress and maid; the first was only daughter 
 Of an old man who lived upon the water. 
 
 125. 
 
 A fisherman he had been in his youth, 
 And still a sort of fisherman was he; 
 But other speculations were, in sooth. 
 Added to his connexion with the sea, 
 Perhaps not so respectable, in truth : 
 A little smuggling, and some piracy, 
 Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 
 Of an ill-gotten million of piasters. 
 
 126. 
 
 A fisher, therefore, was he — though of men, 
 
 Like Peter the Apostle, — and he fish'd 
 
 For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then, 
 
 A.nd sometimes caught as many as he wish'd; 
 
 The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 
 
 He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 
 
 Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, 
 
 By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 
 
 127. 
 
 He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
 (One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 
 A very handsome house from out his guilt, 
 And there he lived exceedingly at ease; 
 Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, 
 A sad old fellow was he, if you please; 
 But this I know, it was a spacious building. 
 Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 
 
 128. 
 
 He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee,. 
 The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles : 
 Besides, so very beautiful was she. 
 Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles: 
 Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree 
 She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 
 Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
 How to accept a better in his turn. 
 
 129. 
 
 And walking out upon the beach, below 
 The <;liff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 
 Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 
 Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd; 
 But being naked, she was shock'd, you know, 
 Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound. 
 As far as in her lay, "to take him in, 
 A stranger," dying, with so white a skin. 
 
 130. 
 
 But taking him into her father's house 
 Was not exactly the best way to save, 
 But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
 Or people in a trance into their grave ; 
 Because the good old man had so much "vouf," 
 Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, 
 He would have hospitably cured the stranger. 
 And sold him instantly, when out of danger. 
 
 131. 
 
 And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best 
 (A virgin always on her maid relies) 
 To place him in the cave for present rest: 
 And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes. 
 Their charity increased about their guest ; 
 And their compassion grew to such "size, 
 It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven — 
 (St. Paul says 'tis the toll which must be given). 
 
 132. 
 
 They made a fire, but such a fire as they 
 
 Upon the moment could contrive with such 
 
 Materials as were cast up round the bay, 
 
 Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch 
 
 Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay, 
 
 A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch; 
 
 But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty, 
 
 That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty. 
 
 133. 
 
 He had a bed of furs and a pelisse. 
 
 For Haidee stripp'd her sables oft" to make 
 
 His couch ; and, that he might be more at ease, 
 
 And warm, in case by chance he should awake, 
 
 They also gave a petticoat apiece, j 
 
 She and her maid, and promised by day-break I 
 
 To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish 
 
 For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 
 
 134. 
 
 And thus they left him to his lone repose: 
 
 Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, 
 
 Who sleep at last, perhaps, (God only knows) 
 
 Just for the present ; and in his lull'd head 
 
 Not even a vision of his former woes 
 
 Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes spread I 
 
 Unwelcome visions of our former years. 
 
 Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 
 
CANTO IL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 171 
 
 135. 
 
 Young Juan slept all dreamless : — but the maid, 
 Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den 
 Look'd back upon him, and a moment staid, 
 ; And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. 
 Hcslumber'd; yet she thought, at least she said y 
 (The heart will slip even as the tongue and pen), ^ 
 He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 
 That at this moment Juan knew it not. 
 
 136. 
 
 \ And pensive to her father's house she went, 
 ' Enjoining silence strict to Zo'e, who 
 I Better than her knewr what, in fact, she meant, 
 [ She being wiser by a year or two; ^ 
 
 I A year or two 's an age when rightly spent, '/ 
 And Zo'e spent hers, as most women do, 
 \ In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
 j Which is acquired in Nature's good old college. 
 
 I 137. 
 
 1 The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still 
 ' Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 
 iHisrcst; the rushing of the neighbouring rill. 
 And the young beams of the excluded sun, 
 I Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill; 
 1 And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
 \ .Had sulTer'd more — his hardships were comparative 
 I To those related in my grand-dad's narrative. 
 
 138. 
 
 , Not so Haidee; she sadly toss'd and tumbled, 
 
 'And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, 
 
 jDream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled. 
 
 And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore; 
 
 And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, 
 
 And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore 
 
 In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek, — 
 
 They knew not what to think of such a freak. 
 
 139. 
 
 But up she got, and up she made them get, 
 With some pretence about the sun, that makes 
 Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set; 
 And 'tis, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks 
 Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet 
 With mist, and every bird with him awakes, 
 And night is flung off like a mourning-suit 
 Worn for a husband, or some other brute. 
 
 140. 
 
 [ say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 
 I've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late 
 [ liave sat up on purpose all the night, 
 Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate; y 
 Vnd so ail ye, who would be in the right '^ 
 
 [n health and purse, begin your day to date 
 ?rom day-break, and when coffm'd at fourscore, 
 Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four. 
 
 141. 
 
 And Haidee met the morning face to face ; 
 Her own was freshest, thoflgh a feverish flush 
 Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 
 From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush, 
 Like to a torrent which a mountain's base. 
 That overpowers some Alpine-river's rush. 
 Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread ; 
 Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 
 
 142. 
 
 And down the cliff the island- virgin came. 
 And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew. 
 While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 
 And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 
 Taking her for a sister; just the same 
 Mistake you would have made on seeing the two. 
 Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 
 Had all the advantage too of not being air, 
 
 143. 
 
 And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd. 
 
 All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
 
 That like an infant Juan sweetly slept; 
 
 And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe 
 
 (For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept 
 
 And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw. 
 
 Should reach his blood; then o'er him, still as death, 
 
 Bent with hush'd lips that drank his scarce-drawn breath. 
 
 144. 
 
 And thus, like to an angel o'er the dying, \^' 
 
 Who die in righteousness, she lean'd; and there 
 All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying. 
 As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air : 
 But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying. 
 Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 
 Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they should ask it, 
 She drew out her provision from the basket. 
 
 145. 
 
 She knew that the best feelings must have victual. 
 And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be; 
 Besides, being less in love, sheyawn'd a little, 
 And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea; 
 And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle; 
 I can't say that she gave them any tea. 
 But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey. 
 With Scio-wine, — and all for love, not money. 
 
 146. 
 
 And Zo'e, when the eggs were ready, and 
 The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan ; 
 But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand, 
 And without word, a sign her finger drew on 
 Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand; 
 And, the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a new one. 
 Because her mistress would not let her break 
 That sleep which secm'd as it would ne'er awake. 
 
172 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 147. 
 
 For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek 
 
 A purple hectic play'd like dyino^ day 
 
 On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak 
 
 Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, 
 
 Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and weak ; 
 
 And his black curls were dewy with the spray, 
 
 Whicii weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt, 
 
 Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault, 
 
 148. 
 
 And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
 Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 
 Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 
 Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest, 
 Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, 
 Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest; 
 In short, he was a very pretty fellow. 
 Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow. 
 
 149. 
 
 He woke and gazed, and would have slept again. 
 But the fair face which met his eyes forbade 
 Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
 Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; 
 For woman's face was never form'd in vain 
 For Juan, so that even when he pray'd 
 He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, 
 To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 
 
 150. 
 
 And thus upon his elbow he arose, 
 
 And look'd upon the lady in whose cheek 
 
 The pale contended with the purple rose, 
 
 As with an effort she began to speak ; 
 
 Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose, 
 
 Altliough she told him, in good modern Greek, 
 
 With an Ionian accent, low and sweet. 
 
 That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 
 
 151. 
 
 Now Juan could not understand a word, 
 Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear, 
 And her voice was the warble of a bird. 
 So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear. 
 That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard; 
 The sort of sound we echo with a tear. 
 Without knowing why — an overpowering tone, 
 Whence Melody descends as from a throne. 
 
 152. 
 
 And Juan gazed as one who is awoke 
 By a distant organ, doubting if he be 
 Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 
 By the watchman, or some such reality, 
 Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 
 At least it is a heavy sound to me, 
 Who like a morning-slumber — for the night 
 Shows stars and women in a better light. 
 
 \ 
 
 153. 
 
 And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream. 
 Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 
 A most prodigious appetite : the steam 
 Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 
 Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 
 Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling, 
 To stir her viands, made him quite awake 
 And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak. 
 
 154. 
 
 But beef is rare within these oxless isles; 
 
 Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, 
 
 And, when a holiday upon them smiles, 
 
 A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on: 
 
 But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, 
 
 For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on, 
 
 Others are fair and fertile, among Avhich 
 
 This, though not large, was one of the most rich. 
 
 155. 
 
 I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 
 That the old fable of the Minotaur — 
 / From which our modern morals, rightly slirinking, 
 Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 
 A cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 
 The allegory) a mere type, no more, 
 That Pasiphac promoted breeding cattle. 
 To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 
 
 156. 
 
 For we all know that English people are 
 Fed upon beef — I won't say much of beer. 
 Because 'tis liquor only, and, being far 
 From this my subject, has no business here; 
 We know, too, they arc very fond of war, 
 A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather dear ; 
 So were the Cretans — from which I infer 
 That beef and battles both were owing to her. 
 
 157. 
 
 But to resume. The languid Juan raised 
 
 His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
 
 A sight on which lie had not lately gazed. 
 
 As all his latter meals had been quite raw. 
 
 Three or four things, for which the Lord he praised. 
 
 And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw. 
 
 He fell upon whate'er was off'er'd, like 
 
 A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 
 
 158. 
 
 He ate, and he was well supplied; and she. 
 Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed 
 Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 
 Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead: 
 But Zoe, being older than Haidee. 
 Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 
 That famish'd people must be slowly nurst. 
 And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 
 
DON JUAN. 
 
 173 
 
 159. 
 
 And so she took the liberty to state, 
 Ratlicr by deeds than words, because the case 
 Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
 Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 
 The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
 Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 
 She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel, 
 Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. 
 
 160. 
 
 j Next they — he being naked, save a tatter'd 
 
 j Pair of scarce decent trowsers — went to work, 
 
 ' And in the fire his recent rags they scattcr'd, 
 
 l And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 
 
 i Or Greek — that is, although it not much matter'd, 
 
 I Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 
 
 i They furnish'd him, entire except some stitches, 
 
 1 With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 
 
 161. 
 
 And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking, 
 !But not a word could Juan comprehend. 
 Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 
 iHer earnestness would ne'er have made an end; 
 'And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
 iHcr speech out to her protege and friend, 
 Till, pausing at the last her breath to take, 
 ^he saw he did not understand Romaic. 
 
 162. 
 
 iAnd then she had recourse to nods, and signs, 
 JAnd smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, 
 jAnd read (the only book she could) the lines 
 Of liis fair face, and found, by sympathy. 
 The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
 And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 
 |A.nd thus in every look she saw exprest 
 i world of words, and things at which she gaess'd. 
 
 163. 
 
 \nd now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 
 Vnd words repeated after her, he took 
 V lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise, 
 >fo doubt, less of her language than her look: 
 ^s he who studies fervently the skies 
 farns oftcner to the stars than to his book, 
 Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 
 ■"rom Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 
 
 164. 
 
 ris pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 
 
 !y temale lips and eyes — that is, I mean, 
 
 Vhen both the teacher and the taught are young, 
 
 s was the case, at least, where I have been ; 
 
 liey smile so when one's right, and when one's wrong 
 
 licy smile still more, and then there intervene 
 
 'ressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss* — 
 
 learn'd the little that I know by this ; 
 
 165. 
 
 That is, some words of Spanisli, Turk, and Greek, 
 Italian not at all, having no teachers; 
 Much English I cannot pretend to speak, 
 Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, 
 Barrow, South, Tiilotson, whom every week 
 I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
 Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
 I hate your poets, so read none of those. 
 
 166. 
 
 As for the ladies, I have nought to say, 
 A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 
 Where I, like other "dogs," have had my day, 
 Like other men too, may have had my passion — 
 But that, like other things, has pass'd away: 
 And all her fools whom 1 could lay the lash on. 
 Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me 
 But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 
 
 167. 
 
 Return we to Don Juan. He begun 
 
 To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but 
 
 Some feelings, universal as the sun, 
 
 Were such as could not in his breast be shut 
 
 More than within the bosom of a nun : 
 
 He was in love — as you would be, no doubt. 
 
 With a young benefactress, — so was she, 
 
 Just in the way we very often see. 
 
 168. 
 
 And every day by day-break — rather early 
 For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 
 She came into the cave, but it was merely 
 To see her bird reposing in his nest; 
 And she would softly stir his locks so curly. 
 Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest. 
 Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, 
 As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 
 
 169. 
 
 And every morn his colour freshlier came, 
 And every day help'd on his convalescence; 
 'Twas w"ell, because health in the human frame 
 Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence ; 
 For health and idleness to passion's flame 
 Are oil and gunpowder; and some good lessons 
 Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 
 Without whom Venus will not long attack us. 
 
 170. 
 
 While Venus fills the heart (without heart really 
 
 Love, though good always, is not quite so good) 
 
 Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli — 
 
 For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood, — 
 
 While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly: 
 
 Eggs, oysters too, are amatory food ; 
 
 But who is their purveyor from above 
 
 Heaven knows, — it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 
 
174 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 171. 
 
 When Juan woke, he found some good things ready, 
 A bath, a breakfast, and tlie finest eyes 
 That ever made a youthful heart less steady, 
 Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size; 
 But I have spoken of all this already, 
 And repetition 's tiresome and unwise; 
 Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea. 
 Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 
 
 172. 
 
 Both were so young, and one so innocent, 
 That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan seem'd 
 To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent. 
 Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, 
 A something to be loved, a creature meant 
 To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd 
 To render happy; all who joy would win 
 Must share it, — Happiness was born a twin. 
 
 173. 
 
 It was such pleasure to behold him, such 
 Enlargement of existence to partake 
 Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch. 
 To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake: 
 To live with him for ever were too much; 
 But then the thought of parting made her quake: 
 He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast 
 Like a rich wreck — her first love and her last. 
 
 174. 
 
 And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 
 Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
 Such plentiful precautions, that still he 
 Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook : 
 At last her father's prows put out to sea. 
 For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
 Not as of yore to carry off an lo. 
 But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 
 
 176. 
 
 Then came lier freedom, for she had no mother. 
 So that, her father being at sea, she was 
 Ejccasaaaacoeji, woman, or such other - 
 
 Female, as where she likes may freely pass. 
 Without even the incumbrance of a brother, 
 The freest she that ever gazed on glass: 
 I speak of Christian lands in this comparison. 
 Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. 
 
 176. 
 
 Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk 
 
 (For they must talk), and he had leaVnt to say 
 
 So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
 
 For little had he wander'd since the day 
 
 On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk. 
 
 Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 
 
 And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, 
 
 And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 
 
 ^ 
 
 177. i 
 
 It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 
 With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, 
 Guarded by shoals and rooks as by an host. 
 With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 
 A better welcome to the tempest-tost ; 
 And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar. 
 Save on the dead-long summer-days, which make 
 The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake, 
 
 178. 
 
 And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 
 Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champaigne, 
 When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, 
 That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's rain! 
 Few things surpass old wine ; and they may preach 
 Who please, — the more because they preach in vain^.. 
 Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter,^ 
 ^ermons and soda-water the day after. 
 
 179. 
 
 Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ; / 
 I The best of life is but intoxication : ^ 
 
 Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 
 The hopes of all men, and of every nation; 
 Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk 
 Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion : 
 But to return, — get .very drunk; and when 
 You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then. 
 
 180. 
 
 Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 
 Some hock and soda-water, then you'll know 
 A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king; 
 For not the bless'd sherbet, sublimed with snow, 
 Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring. 
 Nor Burgundy in all its sunset-glow. 
 After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter, 
 Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water. 
 
 181. 
 
 /^he coast — I think it was the coast that I 
 N^as just describing — Yes, it was the coast — 
 Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 
 The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost, 
 And all was stil!ness,save the sea-bird's cry, 
 And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost 
 By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret 
 Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 
 
 182. 
 
 And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 
 As I have said, upon an expedition ; 
 And mother, brother, guardian, she had none. 
 Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
 She waited on her lady with the sun, 
 Thought daily service was her only mission. 
 Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses, 
 And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 175 
 
 183. 
 
 It was the cooling' hour, just when the rounded 
 Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill. 
 Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded, 
 Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, 
 With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded 
 On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 
 Upon the other^and the rosy sky, 
 With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 
 
 184. 
 
 And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand, 
 
 Over the shining pebbles and the shells, 
 
 Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand, 
 
 And in the worn and wild receptacles 
 
 Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd. 
 
 In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, 
 
 They turn'd to rest; and each clasp'd by an arm. 
 
 Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 
 
 They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
 Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; 
 They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 
 Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; 
 They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low, 
 And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 
 Into each other — and, beholding this, 
 Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 
 
 186. 
 
 A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, 
 
 And beauty, all concentrating like rays 
 
 Into one focus, kindled from above; 
 
 Such kisses as belong to early days. 
 
 Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move. 
 
 And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze. 
 
 Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, y 
 
 I think it must be reckon'd by its length. 
 
 187. 
 
 By length I mean duration ; theirs endured 
 
 Heaven knows how long — no doubtthey never reckon'd; 
 
 And if they had, they could not have secured 
 
 The sum of their sensations to a second : 
 
 They had not spoken ; but they felt allured, 
 
 As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, 
 
 Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung — 
 
 Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung. 
 
 188. 
 
 They were alone, but not alone as they 
 Who shut in chambers think it loneliness; 
 The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, 
 The twilight-glow, whicli momently grew less, 
 riie voiccles sands, and dropping caves, that lay 
 Ground them, made them to each other press, 
 Vs if there were no life beneath the sky 
 save theirs, and that their life could never die. 
 
 189. 
 
 They fear'd no eyes Jior ears on that lone beach, 
 They felt no terrors from the night, they were 
 All in all to each other : though their speech 
 Was broken words, they thought a language there, - 
 And all the burning tongues the passions teach 
 Found in one sigh the best interpreter 
 Of Nature's oracle — first love, — that all 
 Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. 
 
 190. 
 
 Haidce spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows. 
 Nor offer'd any; slie had never heard 
 Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 
 Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd; 
 She was all which pure ignorance allows, 
 And flew to her young mate like a young bird ; 
 And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 
 Had not one word to say of constancy. 
 
 191. 
 
 She loved, and was beloved — she adored. 
 And she was worshipp'd, after nature's fashion; 
 Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, 
 If souls could die, had pcrisli'd in that passion; — 
 But by degrees their senses were restored. 
 Again to be o'ereome, again to dash on; 
 And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidce's heart 
 Felt as if never more to beat apart. 
 
 192. 
 
 Alas! they were so young, so beautiful. 
 So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 
 Was that in which the heart is always full, 
 And, having o'er itself no further power, 
 Prompts deeds eternity can not annul. 
 But pays off moments in an endless shower 
 Of hell-fire — all prepared for people giving 
 Pleasure or pain to one another living. 
 
 193. 
 
 Alas! for Juan and Haidee ! they were 
 So loving and so lovely — till then never. 
 Excepting our first parents, such a pair 
 Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever; 
 And Haidee, being devout as well as fair. 
 Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river. 
 And hejl and purgatory — but forgot 
 Just in the very crisis she should not. ^ 
 
 194. 
 
 They look upon each other, and their eyes 
 Gleam in the moonlight; and her white arm clasps 
 Round Juan's head, and his around hers lies 
 Half buried in the tresses which it grasps ; 
 She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, 
 He hers, until they end in broken gasps ; 
 And thus they form a group that's quite antique. 
 Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 
 
176 
 
 \ DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 195. 
 
 And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, 
 And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, 
 She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
 Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms ; 
 And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, 
 '. And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, 
 Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants 
 With all it granted, and with all it grants. 
 
 196. 
 
 An infant when it gazes on a light, 
 
 A child the moment when it drains the breast, 
 
 A devotee when soars the Host in sight. 
 
 An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
 
 A sailor when the prize has struck in fighl, 
 
 A miser filling his most hoarded chest, \ 
 
 Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
 
 As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping. 
 
 197. 
 
 For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 
 All that it hath of life with us is living; 
 So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved. 
 And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giving; 
 All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 
 Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving; 
 There lies the thing we love with all its errors 
 I And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 
 
 V ' 
 
 198. 
 
 The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 
 Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 
 O'erflow'd her soul with their united power; 
 Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 
 She and her wave-worn love had made their bower. 
 Where nought upon their passion could intrude; 
 And all the stars that crowded the blue space 
 Saw nothing happier than her glowing face, 
 
 199. 
 
 Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 
 To be a lovely and a fearful thing; 
 For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 
 And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring 
 To them but mockeries of the past alone ; 
 And their revenge is as the tiger's spring. 
 Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real 
 Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel. 
 
 200. 
 
 Tliey are right; for man, to man so oft unjust. 
 Is always so to women ; one sole bond fy 
 
 Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; 
 Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond 
 Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 
 Buys them in marriage — and what rests beyond ? 
 A thankless husband, next a faithless lover. 
 Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over. 
 
 201. 
 
 Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers. 
 Some mind their household, others dissipation. 
 Some run away, and but exchange their cares. 
 Losing the advantage of a virtuous station; 
 Few changes e'er can better their affairs. 
 Theirs being an unnatural situation, '^' 
 
 From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 
 Some play the devil, and then write a novel. 
 
 202. 
 
 Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this; 
 Haidee was Passion's child, born where the Sun 
 Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss , / 
 Of his gazelle-eyed daughters; she was one 
 Made but to love, to feel that she was his 
 Who was her chosen : what was said or done 
 Elsewhere was nothing — She had nought to fear, 
 Hope, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here. 
 
 203. 
 
 And oh ! that quickening of the heart, that beat! 
 How much it costs us ! yet each rising throb , , 
 Is in its cause as its effect so sweet. 
 That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
 Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat 
 Fine truths ; even Conscience, too, has a tough job 
 To make us understand each good old maxim. 
 So good — I wonder Castlereagh don't tax'em. 
 
 204. 
 
 And now 'twas done — on the lone shore were plight 
 Their hearts; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 
 Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 
 Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, 
 By their own feelings hallow'd and united. 
 Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed : 
 And they were happy, for to their young eyes 
 Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 
 
 205. 
 
 Oh Love! of whom great Ciesar was the suitor, 
 Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
 Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 
 Sappho the sage blue- stocking, in whose grave 
 All those may leap who rather would be neuter— 
 (Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 
 Oh Love ! thou art the very god of evil, 
 For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 
 
 206. 
 
 Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious. 
 And jestest with the brows of mightiest men: 
 Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 
 Have much employ'd the muse of history's pen ; 
 Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, — 
 Such" worthies Time will never see again; — 
 Yet to these four in three things the same luckholds, 
 They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 177 
 
 207. 
 
 Thoumak'st pfiilosophcrs: there's Epicurus 
 
 And Aristippus, a material crew ! 
 
 Who to immoral courses would allure us 
 
 B3' theories, quite practicable too; 
 
 If only from the devil they would insure us, 
 
 How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), 
 
 "Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?" 
 
 So said the royal sage, Sardanapalus. 
 
 208. 
 
 But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia? 
 
 And should he have forgotten her so soon ? 
 
 I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 
 
 Perplexing question ; but, no doubt tlie moon, 
 
 Does these things for us, and whenever newly a 
 
 Palpitation rises, 'tis her boon ; 
 
 Else hoAv the devil is it that fresh features 
 
 Have such a charm for us poor human creatures? 
 
 209. 
 
 I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest, 
 
 Abiior, condemn, abjure the mortal made 
 
 Of such quicksilver-clay that in his breast 
 
 No permanent foundation can be laid; 
 
 Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, 
 
 And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 
 
 I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 7 
 
 Which gave me some sensations like a villain. 7 
 
 210. 
 
 fBat soon Philosophy came to my aid, 
 
 And whisper'd "think oif every sacred tie!" 
 
 "I will, my dear Philosophy !" I said, 
 
 "But then her teeth, and then, oh Heaven! her eye! 
 
 I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid, 
 
 Qr neither — out of curiosity." 
 
 TStop!" cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian, 
 
 (Though she was mask'd then as a fair Venetian) — 
 
 211. 
 
 "Stop 1" so I stopp'd. — But to return : that which 
 Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
 XBairadmiratTon due where nature's rich 
 Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 
 Some favoured object ; and as in the niche 
 A lovely statue we almost adore, 
 [This sort of adoration of the real 
 Is but a heighteoing of the "beau ideal." 
 
 212. 
 
 'Tis the perception of the beautiful, 
 
 A fine extension of the faculties, 
 
 Platonic, universal, wonderful, 
 
 Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies, 
 
 Without which life would be extremely dull ; 
 
 In short, it is the use of our own eyes, ^ 
 
 With one or two small senses added, just f 
 
 To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 1 
 
 M^ 
 
 A 
 
 213. 
 
 Yet 'tis a painful feeling, and unwilling ; 
 For surel y it w e always could perceive 
 In the same object graces quite as killing 
 As when she rose upon us like an Eve^^^.,^ 
 'Twould save us many a heart-ache, many a shilling 
 (For we must get them any how, or grieve) ; 
 Whereas, if one sole lady pleased for ever, 
 How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver ! 
 
 214. 
 
 The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven. 
 
 But changes night and day too, like the sky; 
 
 Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 
 
 And darkness and destruction as on high ; 
 
 But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven, 
 
 Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye 
 
 Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears. 
 
 Which make the English climate of our years. 
 
 215. 
 
 The liver is the lazaret of bile, 
 
 But very rarely executes its function, 
 
 For the first passion stays there such a while, 
 
 That all the rest creep in and form a junction, 
 
 Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil, 
 
 Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, 
 
 So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, 
 
 Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd "central." 
 
 216. 
 
 In the mean time, without proceeding more ) 
 In this anatomy, I've finish'd now / 
 
 Two hundred and odd stanzas as before, | 
 
 That being about the number I'll allow 
 Each canto of the twelYg, or twe nty-four; 
 And, laying down my pen, i makeiHy TJow, 
 Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead 
 For them and theirs with all who deign to read. 
 
 f 
 
 I 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 1. 
 
 Jt JAiL, Afyspi! e.tfp.te.ra.. — We left Juan sleeping, 
 
 Pillow'd upon a fair and liappy breast, 
 
 And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, 
 
 And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest 
 
 To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, 
 
 Or know who rested there; a foe to rest 
 
 Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, 
 
 And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears. 
 
 Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours 
 
 WIn'ch makes it fatal to be loved? Ah, why 
 
 With cypress-branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers. 
 
 And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? 
 
 As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, 
 
 And place them on their breast — but place to die — 
 
 Thus the frail beings we would fondly clierisli 
 
 Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 
 
 In her first passion woman loves her loyer, ^ 
 In all Ihe others all she loves is love. 
 Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, 
 And fits her loosely — like an easy glove, 
 As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her: 
 One man alone at first her heart can move; 
 She then prefers hini in the^lural number^ 
 Not finding that the additions much encumber. 
 
 I know not if the fault be men's or theirs; 
 But one thing's pretty sure: a woman planted — 
 (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers) — 
 After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
 Although, no doubt, her first of love-affairs 
 j Is that to which her lieart is wholly granted ; 
 I Yet there are some, they say, wlio have had none, 
 'vBut those who have ne'er end with only one. 
 
 'Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign 
 Of human frailty, folly, also crime, 
 That love and marriage rarely can combine, 
 Although they both are born in the same clime; 
 Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine — 
 A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
 Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour 
 Down to a very homely household savour. 
 
 6. 
 
 There's something of antipathy, as 'twere, 
 
 Between their present and their future state; 
 
 A kind of flattery that's hardly fajj 
 
 Is used until the truth arrives too late — 
 
 Yet what can people do, except despair? 
 
 The same things change their names at such a rate; 
 
 For instance -^i passion in a lover's glorious, 
 
 But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. V' 
 
 7. 
 
 Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 
 
 They sometimes also get a little tired 
 
 (But that, of course, is rare), and then despond : 
 
 The same things cannot always be admired ; 
 
 Yet 'tis "so nominated in the bond," 
 
 That both are tired till one shall have expired. 
 
 Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning 
 
 Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 
 
 8. 
 
 There's doubtless something in domestic doings, 
 Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis ; 
 Romances paint at full length people's wooings, 
 But only give a bust of marriages; 
 For no one cares for matrimonial cooings. 
 There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss : 
 Thi_nk you, if Laura iiad been Petrarch's wife, 
 He would have written sonnets all his life? 
 
 i 9. 
 
 All tragedies are finish'd by a death, ' 
 
 All comedies are ejided by a marriage ; 
 
 The future states of both, are left to faith. 
 
 For authors fear description might disparage 
 
 The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, 
 
 And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage| 
 
 So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, 
 
 Tliey say no more of Death or of the Lady. 
 
 10. 
 
 The only two that in my recollection 
 
 Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, arc 
 
 Dante and Milton, and of both the affection 
 
 Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 
 
 Of fault or temper ruin'd tin-, connexion 
 
 (Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar) ; 
 
 But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 
 
 Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. 
 
CANTO IIL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 179 
 
 11. 
 
 Some persons say that Dante meant theology 
 By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
 Althougli my opinion may require apology, 
 Deem this a commentator's pliantasy, 
 Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he 
 Decided thus, and show'd good reason why; 
 I tliink that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
 Meant to personify the mathematics. 
 
 12. ^}iyA.^ 
 
 Haid^e and Juan were not married, but 
 
 The fault wag_th eirs, not mine : it is not fair, 
 
 Cliaste reader, tlien, in any way to put 
 
 The blame on me, unless you wisli they were ; ,\ h vij^' 
 
 Then if you'd have them wedded, please to shut 
 ■yhe book which treats of this erroneous pair, 
 Before the consequences grow too awful — 
 'Tis dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 
 
 13. 
 
 Yet they were happy, — happy in the illicit 
 Indulgence of their innocent desires; 
 But more imprudent grown with every visit, 
 Haidee forgot the island was her sire's ; 
 When we have what we like, 'tis hard to mi&s it, 
 At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 
 Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 
 Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 
 
 X" 
 
 '^V 
 
 14. 
 
 Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 
 Although he fleeced the flags of every na^tion, 
 iFor into a prime-minister but change 
 jHis title, and 'tisHothing but taxation; 
 jBut he, more modest, took an humbler range 
 Of life, and in an honester vocation 
 Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 
 And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 
 
 15. 
 
 The good old gentleman had been dctain'd 
 
 By winds and waves, and some important captures; 
 
 And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd. 
 
 Although a squall or two had damp'd his raptures, 
 
 iBy swamping one of the prizes; he had chain'd 
 
 'His prisoners, dividing them like chapters. 
 
 In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars. 
 
 And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 
 
 16. 
 
 Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, 
 \mong his friends the Alainots ; soyie he sold 
 To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
 jFoss'd overboard unsaleable (being old) ; 
 irhc rest — save here and there some richer one, 
 {Reserved for future ransom in the hold, — 
 Were link'd alike ; as for the common people he 
 Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 
 
 # 
 
 17. 
 
 The merchandise was served in the same way. 
 
 Pieced out for difl'ereut marts in the Levant, 
 
 Except some certain portions of the prey. 
 
 Light classic articles of female want, 
 
 French stufls, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot-tray. 
 
 Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 
 
 All which selected from the spoil he.gathers, 
 
 Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 
 
 18. 
 
 A monkey, a Duch mastiff, a mackaw. 
 
 Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, 
 
 He chose from several animals he saw — 
 
 A terrier too, which once had been a Briton's, 
 
 Who dying on the coast of Itliaca, 
 
 The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance; 
 
 These to secure in this strong blowing weather. 
 
 He caged in one huge hamper altogctlier. 
 
 19. 
 
 Then having settled his marine-affairs, 
 
 Despatching single cruisers here and there, 
 
 His vessel having need of some repairs. 
 
 He shaped his course to where his daughter fair 
 
 Continued still her hospitable cares; 
 
 But that part of the coast being shoal and bare. 
 
 And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile, 
 
 His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 
 
 20. 
 
 And there he went ashore without delay, 
 Having no custom-house nor quarantine 
 To ask him awkward questions on the way 
 About the time and place where he had been: 
 He left his ship to be hove down next day, 
 With orders to the people to careen; 
 So that all hands were busy beyond measure. 
 In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 
 
 21. 
 
 Arriving at the summit of a hill 
 Which overlook'd the white walls of his home. 
 He stopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 
 Their bosoms who have been induced to roam ! 
 With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 
 With love for many, and with fears for some; 
 All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost. 
 And bring our hearts back to their starting-post. 
 
 22. ^f''' 
 
 The approach of home to husbands and to sires. 
 
 After long travelling by land or water. 
 
 Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 
 
 A female family's a serious matter; 
 
 (None trusts the sex more, or so much admires — 
 
 But they hate flattery, so I never flatter) ; 
 
 Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler,^ 
 
 And daughters sometimes run ofiF with the butler. '^ 
 
 /' 
 
180 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 111 
 
 23. 
 
 An honest gentleman at his return 
 May not have the good fortune of Ulysses ; 
 Not all lone matrons for their husbands niourn^ 
 Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses; '^ 
 The odds arc that lie finds a handsome urn 
 To his memory, and two or three young misses 
 Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches, 
 And that bis Argus bites him by — the breeches. 
 
 24. 
 
 If single, probably his plighted fair 
 
 Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; 
 
 But ail the better, for the happy pair 
 
 May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 
 
 He may resume his amatory care 
 
 As cavalier servente, or despise her; 
 
 And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 
 
 Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman. 
 
 25. 
 
 And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 
 
 Some chaste liaison of the kind — I mean 
 
 An honest friendship with a married lady — 
 
 The only thing of this sort ever seen 
 
 To last — of all connexions the most steady, 
 
 And the true Hymen (the first 's but a screen") — 
 
 Yet for all that keep not too long away, 
 
 Fve known the absent wronsf '^ fnnr fii[T'"° i-'jj^Yj 
 
 26. 
 
 Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 
 
 Mucli less experience of dry land than ocean. 
 
 On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad ; 
 
 But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 
 
 Of the true reason of liis not being sad. 
 
 Or that of any other strong emotion ; 
 
 He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her. 
 
 But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. 
 
 27. 
 
 He saw bis white walls shining in the sun, 
 His garden-trees all shadowy and green; 
 He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, 
 The distant dog-bark; and perceived between 
 The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun. 
 The moving figures and the sparkling sheen 
 Of arms (in the East all arm), and various dyes 
 Of colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 
 
 28. 
 
 And as the spot where they appear he nears. 
 Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, 
 He hears — alas ! no music of the splieres, 
 But an unhallo w'd, earthly sound of fiddling ! 
 A melody which made him doubt his ears, 
 The cause being past his guessing or unriddling; 
 A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, 
 A most unoriental roar of laughter. 
 
 . 29. 
 
 And still more nearly to the place advancing. 
 Descending rather quickly the declivity, [glancing, 
 
 Through the waved branches , o'er the green-sward 
 'Midst other indications of festivity. 
 Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
 Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 
 Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, 
 To which the Levantines are very partial. 
 
 30. 
 
 And further on a group of Grecian girls. 
 The first and tallest her white kercliicf waving, 
 Were strung together like a row of pearls, 
 Linlc'd hand in hand, and dancing; each too having 
 Down her white neck long floating auburn curls — 
 (The least of which would set ten poets raving) ; 
 Their leader sang — and bounded to her song. 
 With choral step and voice, the virgin-throng. 
 
 31. 
 
 And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays, 
 
 Small social parties just begun to dine; 
 
 Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 
 
 And flasks of^amian and of Chian wine. 
 
 And sherbet cooling in the porous vase; 
 
 Above them their dessert grew on its vine. 
 
 The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er, 
 
 Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow sto\ 
 
 32. 
 
 A band of children, round a snow-white ram. 
 There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers; 
 While peaceful, as if still an unwcan'd lamb, 
 The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 
 His sober head, majestically tame, 
 Or cats from out the palm, or playful lowers 
 His brow, as if in act to butt, and then, 
 Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 
 
 33. 
 
 Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses. 
 Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks. 
 Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, 
 The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 
 The innocence which happy childhood blesses. 
 Made quite a picture of these little Greeks; 
 So that tiic philosopiiical beholder 
 S2^ r|i'fLfn^ their sakes — tL a t .ilirv f!hoii)d_f!'^^ ^rmsi^c 
 
 34. 
 
 Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
 
 To a sedate gray circle of old smokers, 
 
 Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 
 
 Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers. 
 
 Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails. 
 
 Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers, 
 
 Of magic ladies, who, by one sole act, 
 
 Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that's a fact). 
 
CANTO III. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 181 
 
 35. 
 
 ! Here was no lack of innocent diversion 
 For the imagination or the senses, 
 I Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 
 I All pretty pastimes in which no offence is; 
 But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 
 Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 
 Dreading that climax of all human ills, 
 The inflammation of his weekly bills. 
 
 36. 
 
 I Ah! what is man? what perils still environ 
 1 The happiest mortals even after dinner — 
 ! A day of gold from out an age of iron 
 lis all that life allows the luckiest sinner; 
 ! Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a Siren, 
 iThat lures,to flay alive,thc young beginner; 
 jLambro's reception at his people's banquet 
 Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 
 
 37. 
 
 {He — being a man who seldom used a word 
 iToo much, and wishing gladly to surprise 
 (In general he surprised men with the sword) 
 His daughter — had not sent before to advise 
 bf his arrival, so that no one stirr'd; 
 And long he paused to re-assure his eyes, 
 In fact much more astouish'd than delighted 
 To find so much good company invited. 
 
 L 
 
 38. 
 
 e did not know — (alas! how men will lie) — 
 (That a report — (especially the Greek) — 
 |\.vouch'd his death (such people never die), 
 and put his house in mourning several weeks. 
 But now their eyes and also lips were dry; 
 'rhc bloom too had return'd to Haidec's cheeks. 
 
 Id tears too being return'd into their fount, 
 ^5he now kept house upon her own account. 
 I 
 
 39. 
 
 lence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, 
 Vhich turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure; 
 lie servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
 i^ life which made them happy beyond measure, 
 ler father's hospitality seem'd middling, 
 ompared witli what Haidee did with his treasure; 
 Fwas wonderful how things went on improving, , 
 Viiile she had not one hour to spare from loving. 
 
 40. 
 
 'crliaps you think, in stumbling on this feast 
 fo flew into a passion, and in fact 
 iierc was no mighty reason to be pleased; 
 'crliaps you prophesy some sudden act, 
 lie whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 
 teach his people to be more exact, 
 nd that, proceeding at a very high rate, 
 [c show'd the Toya\ penchants of a pirate. 
 
 41. 
 
 You're wrong. — He was the mildest manner'd man 
 
 That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; 
 'vVith such true breeding of a gentleman, ) 
 .You never could divine his real thought^^ 
 
 No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 
 
 Gird more deceit within a petticoat; — 
 
 Pity he loved adventurous life's variety! — 
 
 He was so great a loss to good society. 
 
 42. 
 
 Advancing to the nearest dinner-tray, 
 Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 
 With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, 
 Boded no good, whatever it express'd. 
 He asked the meaning of this holiday ; 
 The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd 
 His question, much too merry to divine 
 The questioner, fiU'd up a glass of wine , 
 
 43. 
 
 And, without turning his facetious head, 
 
 Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, 
 
 Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 
 
 "Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare." 
 
 A second hiccup'd, "Our old master's dead, 
 
 You'd better ask our mistress who's his heir." 
 
 "Our mistress \" quoth a third : "Our mistress ! — pooh ! 
 
 You mean our master — not the old, but new." 
 
 44. 
 
 These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 
 
 They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage fell — 
 
 And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 
 
 Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 
 
 The expression, and, endeavouring to resume 
 
 His smile, requested one of them to tell 
 
 The name and quality of his new patron. 
 
 Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron. 
 
 45. 
 
 "I know not," quoth the fellow, "who or what 
 He is, nor whence he came — and little care; 
 But this I know that this roast capon 's fat, 
 And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare; 
 And if you are not satisfied with that. 
 Direct your questions to my neighbour there; 
 He'll answer all for better or for worse, . 
 
 [ For none likes more to hear himself converse.'/ 
 
 46. 
 
 I said that Lambro was a man of patience, 
 And certainly he show'd the best of breeding, 
 Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations, 
 E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding; 
 He bore these sneers against his near relations, 
 His own anxiety, his heart too bleeding, 
 The insults too of every servile glutton. 
 Who all the time were eating up his mutton. 
 
182 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 11 
 
 47. 
 
 Now in a person used to much command — 
 To bid men come, and go, and come again — 
 To see his orders done too out of hand — 
 Whctlier the word was death, or but the chain — 
 It may seem strange to find his manners bland ; 
 Yet such things arc, which I cannot explain. 
 Though doubtless he who can command himself 
 Is good to govern — almost as a Guelf. 
 
 48. 
 
 Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, 
 But never in his real and serious mood ; 
 Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 
 He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood ; 
 With him it never was a word and blow. 
 His angry word once o'er, he shed noblood, 
 But in his silence there was much to rue, 
 And his one blow left little work for two. 
 
 49. 
 
 He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
 
 On to the house, but by a private way. 
 
 So that the few who met him hardly heeded, 
 
 So little they expected him that day; 
 
 If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 
 
 For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say. 
 
 But certainly to one, deera'd dead, returning. 
 
 This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 
 
 30. 
 
 If all the dead could now return to life, 
 
 (Which God forbid !} or some, or a great many ; 
 
 For instance, if a husband or his wife 
 
 (Nuptial examples are as good as any), 
 
 No doubt whatever might be their former strife, 
 
 The present weather would be much more rainy — 
 
 Tears shed into the grave of the connexion 
 
 Would share most probably its resurrection. 
 
 61. 
 
 He enter'd in the house no more his home, 
 A thing to human feelings the most trying. 
 And harder for the heart to overcome, 
 Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying; 
 To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb. 
 And round its once warm precincts palely lying '-' 
 The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 
 Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 
 
 62. 
 
 He enter'd in the house — his home no more. 
 For without hear ts there is no home — and felt \/^ 
 The solitude of passing his own door 
 Without a welcome; there he long had dwelt, 
 There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er. 
 There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt 
 Over the innocence of that sweet child. 
 His only shrine of feelings undefilcd. 
 
 63. 
 
 He was a man of a strange temperament, 
 Of mild demeanour, though of savage mood, 
 Moderate in all his habits, and content 
 With temperance in pleasure as in food. 
 Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant 
 ^or something better, if not wholly good; 
 / His country's wrongs and his despair to save her 
 Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 
 
 64. 
 
 The love of power, and rapid gain of gold. 
 
 The hardness by long habitude produced. 
 
 The dangerous life in which he had grown old, 
 
 The mercy he had granted oft abn^jgd. 
 
 The sights he was accustom'd to behold. 
 
 The wild seas and wild men with whom he cruised. 
 
 Had cost his enemies a long repentance. 
 
 And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance. 
 
 65. 
 
 But something of the spirit of old Greece 
 Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 
 Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece 
 His predecessors in the Colchian days ; 
 'Tis true he had no ardent love for peace — 
 Alas! his country show'd no path to praise:. 
 Hate to the world and war with every nationi 
 He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. 7 
 
 56. 
 
 Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
 Shed its Ionian elegance, wliich show'd 
 Its power unconsciously full many a time; — 
 A taste seen in the choice of his abode, / 
 A love of music and of scenes sublime^ 
 A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd 
 Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers, 
 Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 
 
 67. 
 
 But whatsoe'er he had of love, reposed 
 On that beloved daughter; she had been 
 The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
 Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen; 
 A lonely pure affection unopposed : 
 There wanted but the loss of this to wean 
 His feelings from all milk of human kindness. 
 And turn him, like the Cyclops, mad with blindness. 
 
 58. 
 
 The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
 Js dreadful to the shepherd and the flock ; 
 The ocean when its yeasty war is waging 
 Is awful to the vessel near the rock; 
 But violent things will sooner bear assuaging. 
 Their fury being spent by its own shock, 
 Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire 
 Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 
 
CANTO m. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 183 
 
 59. 
 
 It is a hard, altlioug'h a common case. 
 
 To find our children running restive — they 
 
 In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 
 
 Our little selves re-form'd in finer clay ; 
 
 Just as old age is creeping on apace, 
 
 And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 
 
 They kindly leave us, though not quite alone. 
 
 But in good company — the gout and stone. 
 
 60. 
 
 Yet a fine family is a fine thing 
 
 (Provided they don't come in after dinner) ; 
 
 'Tis beautiful to see a matron bring 
 
 Her children up (if nursing tliem don't thin her) ; 
 
 Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 
 
 To the fire-side (a sight to touch a sinner). 
 
 A lady with her daughters or her nieces 
 
 Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling-pieces. 
 
 6r. 
 
 Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, 
 And stood within his hall at eventide; 
 Meantime the lady and her lover sate 
 At wassail in their beauty and their pride: 
 An ivory inlaid table spread with state 
 Before them, and fair slaves on every side; 
 Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly, 
 Mother of pearl and coral the less costly. 
 
 62. 
 
 The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 
 
 Lamb and pistachio-nuts — in short, all meats. 
 
 And saffron soups, and sweetbreads; and the fishes 
 
 Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
 
 Dress'd to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes ; 
 
 The beverage was various sherbets 
 
 Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice. 
 
 Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use. 
 
 63 
 
 These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, 
 nd fruits and date-bread-loaves closed the repast, 
 nd Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, 
 
 n small fine China-cups came in at last — 
 old cups of filigree, made to secure 
 he hand from burning, underneath them placed; 
 
 plovcs, cinnamon, and saffron too, were boil'd 
 
 [Jp with the coffee, which (I think) they spoii'd. 
 
 64. 
 
 The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 
 )f velvet panels, each of different hue, 
 pd thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid; 
 ^nd round them ran a yellow border too ; 
 ["he upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 
 Smbroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 
 ioft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 
 ''rom poets, or the moralists their betters. 
 
 65. 
 
 These oriental writings on the wall. 
 
 Quite common in those countries, are a kind 
 
 Of monitors adapted to recall. 
 
 Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind 
 
 The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall. 
 
 And took his kingdom from him. — You will find. 
 
 Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, 
 
 There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. 
 
 66. 
 
 A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
 
 A genius who has drunk himself to death, 
 
 A rake turn'd raethodistic,or eclectic — 
 
 (For that's the name they like to pray beneath) — 
 
 But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, 
 
 Arc things that really take away the breath, 
 
 And show that late hours, wine, and love, are able 
 
 To do not much less damage than the table. 
 
 67. 
 
 Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 
 
 On crimson satin, bordcr'd with pale blue ; 
 
 Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
 
 Of the apartment — and appear'd quite new; 
 
 The velvet cushions — (for a throne more meet) — 
 
 Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew 
 
 A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tis.sue, 
 
 Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 
 
 4 
 
 M 
 
 /'/ 
 
 68. 
 
 ■^ Ka 
 
 Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain. 
 
 Had done their work of splendour ; Indian mats 
 
 And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain. 
 
 Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and cats. 
 
 And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gain 
 
 Their bread as ministers and favourites — (that's 
 
 To say, by degradation) — mingled there 
 
 As plentiful as in a court or fair. 
 
 69. 
 
 There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 
 The t-ablcs, most of ebony inlaid 
 With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand. 
 Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, 
 Fretted with gold or silver: — by command. 
 The greater part of these were ready spread 
 With viands, and sherbets in ice, and wine — 
 Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 
 
 70. 
 
 Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 
 She wore two jellcks — one was of pale yellow; 
 Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise — 
 'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow ; 
 With buttons form'd of pearls as large as pease, 
 All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow. 
 And the striped white gauze-baracan that bound her, 
 Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. 
 
184 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 111 
 
 71. 
 
 One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
 Locklcss — so pliable from the pure gold 
 That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm, 
 The limb which it adorn'd its only mould: 
 So beautiful — its very shape would charm, 
 And clinging, as if loth to lose its hold , 
 The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin 
 That e'er by precious metal was held in. 
 
 72. 
 
 Around, as princess of her father's land, 
 
 A like gold bar, above her instep roll'd, 
 
 Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand; 
 
 Her hair was starr'd with gems: her veil's fine fold 
 
 Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 
 
 Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told; 
 
 Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl'd 
 
 About the prettiest ancle in the world. 
 
 73. 
 
 Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
 Flow'd like an Alpine-torrent which the sun 
 Dyes with his morning-light, — and would conceal 
 Her person if allow'd at large to run, 
 And still they seem resentfully to feel 
 The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 
 Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began 
 To offer his young pinion as her fan. 
 
 74. 
 
 Round her she made an atmosphere of life. 
 The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes , 
 They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
 With all we can imagine of the skies. 
 And pure as Psyche's ere she grew a wife — 
 Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 
 Her overpowering presence made you feel 
 It would not be idolatry to kneel. 
 
 76. 
 
 Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged 
 (It is the country's custom), but in vain; 
 For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, 
 The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain. 
 And in their native beauty stood avenged: 
 Her nails were touch'd with henna; but again 
 The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 
 They could not look more rosy than before, 
 
 76. 
 
 The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
 The skin relieved appear more fairly fair; 
 She had no need of this, day ne'er will break 
 On mountain-tops more heavenly white than her: 
 The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 
 She was so like a vision; I might err, 
 But Shakspeare also says 'tis very silly 
 "To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 
 
 4 
 
 77. 
 
 Juan had on a shawl of black and gold. 
 But a white baracan, an^ so transparent 
 The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, 
 Like small stars through the milky way apparent; 
 His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold. 
 An emerald aigrette with Haidcc's hair in't 
 Surmounted^as its clasp — a glowing crescent, 
 Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 
 
 78. 
 
 And now they were diverted by their suite, 
 Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and ajoet, 
 Which made their new establishment complete; 
 The last was of great fame, and liked to show it : 
 His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
 And for his theme — he seldom sung below it ; 
 He being paid to satirise or flatter. 
 As the psalm says, "inditing a good matter." 
 
 79. 
 
 He praised the present and abused the past. 
 
 Reversing the good custom of old days, 
 
 An eastern anti-jacobin at last 
 
 He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise — 
 
 For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 
 
 By his seeming independent in his lays. 
 
 But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha, 
 
 With truth like Southey and with verse like Crashaw. 
 
 80. 
 
 He was a man who had seen many changes. 
 And always changed as true as any needle; 
 His polar-star being one which rather ranges, 
 And not the fix'd — he knew the way to wheedle: 
 So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges; 
 And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd ill). 
 He lied witli such a fervour of intention — 
 There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate-pension. 
 
 81. 
 
 But he had genius, — when a turncoat has it, 
 
 The "Vates irritabilis" takes care 
 
 That witliouTuotice few full moons shall pass it; 
 
 Even good men like to make the public stare. 
 
 But to my subject — let me see — what was it ? 
 
 Oh ! — the third canto — and the pretty pair — 
 
 Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mo^ 
 
 Of living in their insular abode. 
 
 82. 
 
 Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 
 
 In company a very pleasant fellow, 
 
 Had been the favourite of full many a mess 
 
 Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow; 
 
 And though his meaning they could rarely guess, 
 
 Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow 
 
 The glorious meed of popular applause, 
 
 Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause. 
 
CANTO IIL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 185 
 
 83. 
 
 But now being' lifted info high society, 
 And having pick'd up several odds and ends 
 Of free thoughts in his travels, for variety, 
 He dcem'd, being in a lone isle among friends, 
 That, without anj^ danger of a riot, he 
 Might for long lying make himself amends ; 
 
 i And, singing as he sung in his warm youth, 
 
 i Agree to a short armistice with truth. 
 
 I 84. 
 
 I He had travell'd 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, 
 1 And knew the self-loves of the difierent nations; 
 
 And, having lived with people of all ranks, 
 i Had something ready upon most occasions — 
 I Which got him a few presents and some thanks. 
 
 He varied with some skill his adulations; 
 
 jTo "do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 
 
 i Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 
 
 85. 
 
 Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing, 
 
 He gave the different nations something national; 
 
 'Twas all tlie same to him — "God save the King," 
 
 Or "(7a ira," according to the fashion all; 
 
 His muse made increment of any thing, 
 
 JFrom the high lyrical to the low rational: 
 
 [If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder 
 
 ^ims elf from being as pliable as Pindar ? 
 
 86. 
 
 ji France, for instance, he would write a chanson, 
 
 n England, a six-canto-quarto-tale; 
 
 n Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on 
 
 'he last war — much the same in Portugal; 
 
 Q Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on 
 
 Vould be old Goethe's — (see what says de Sta'el) ; 
 
 n Italy, he'd ape the "Trecentisti;" 
 
 a Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t'ye: 
 
 The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace. 
 Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse, 
 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse; 
 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 
 Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon — 
 And Marathon looks on the sea; 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 I dream'd that Greece might still be fi-ee; 
 For, standing on the Persian's grave, 
 I could not deem myself a slave. - 
 
 ^ 
 
 A king sate on the rocky brow 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
 And men in nations ; — all were his 1 
 He counted them at break of day — • 
 And vvheu the sun set where were they? 
 
 And where are they? and where art thou. 
 My country? On thy voiceless shore 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
 The heroic bosom beats no more! 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
 Degenerate into hands like mine? 
 
 'Tis something in the dearth of fame. 
 
 Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
 
 For what is left the poet here? 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 
 Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thcrmopy hie! 
 
 What, silent still? and silent all? 
 Ah! no; — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 
 And answer, "Let one living head. 
 But one arise, — we come, wc come I" 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
 And shed the blood of Scio's yine ! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
 How answers each bold bacchanal! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and the manlier one? 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 We will not think of themes like these! 
 It made Anacreon's song divine: 
 He served — but served Polycrates — 
 A tyrant; but our masters then — 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 
 
 That tyrant was Miltiades ! 
 
 Oh! that the present hour would lend 
 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 12* 
 
186 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 Such as tiie Doric mothers bore; 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
 They have a king who buys and sells ; 
 In native swords, and native ranks. 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine; 
 But gazing on each glowing maid, 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 Place me on Sanium's marbled steep - 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die: 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 Dash d6wn yon cup of Samian wine! 
 
 87. 
 
 Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, 
 
 The modern Greek, in tolerable verse. 
 
 If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, 
 
 Yet in these times he might have done much worse : 
 
 His strain display 'd some feeling — right or wrong; 
 
 And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
 
 Of others' feeling; but they arc sucli liars. 
 
 And take all colours — like the hands of d3'ers. 
 
 But words are things, and a small drop of ink, 
 y^ Falling JlJce dew upon a tti ou^it,4)jQduccs 
 '7Bat which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think ; 
 ' Tisstrange, fl)e~3frortesl letter which mairiTses 
 Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
 Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces 
 Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this. 
 Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his . 
 
 89. 
 
 And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank. 
 
 His station, generation, even his nation. 
 
 Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
 
 In chronological commemoration, 
 
 Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank. 
 
 Or graven stone, found in a barrack's station, 
 
 In digging tlic foundation of a closet. 
 
 May turn his name up as a rare deposit. * 
 
 90. 
 
 And glory long has made the sages smile: 
 
 'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — 
 
 Depending more upon the historian's style 
 
 Than on the name a person leaves behind : 
 
 Troy owes to Homer what Whist owes to Hoyle; 
 
 The present century was growing blind 
 
 To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, 
 
 Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 
 
 9L 
 
 Milton's the prince of poets — so we say; 
 A little heavy, but no less divine: 
 An independent being in his day — 
 Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine ; 
 But his life falling into Johnson's way. 
 We're told this great high-priest of all the Nine 
 Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse. 
 For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 
 
 92. 
 
 All these are, certes, entertaining facts, 
 
 Like Shakspeare's stealing deer. Lord Bacon's bribes; 
 
 like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts; 
 Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes); 
 Like Cromwell's pranks; — but although truth exacts 
 These amiable descriptions from the scribes. 
 As most essential to their hero's story. 
 They do not much contribute to his glory. 
 
 93. 
 
 All are not moralists, like Southcy, when 
 He prated to the world of "Pantisocrasy ;" 
 Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
 Season'd his pedlar-poems with democracy; 
 Or Coleridge, long before his fliglity pen 
 Let to the Morning-Post its aristocracy; 
 When he and Southcy, following the same path. 
 Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 
 
 94. 
 
 Such names at present cut a convict figure. 
 The very Botany-Bay in moral geography ; 
 Their loyal treason, renegado vigour. 
 Are good manure for their more bare biography. 
 Words wortli's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
 Than any since the birthday of typography ; 
 A clumsy frowzy poem, call'd the "Excursion," 
 Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 
 
 95. 
 
 He there builds up a formidable dyke 
 
 Between his own and others' intellect ; 
 
 But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 
 
 Joanna Southcote's Shiloh and her sect. 
 
 Are things whicli in this century don't strike 
 
 The public mind, so few are the elect ; 
 
 And the new births of both th,eir stale virginities 
 
 Have proved but dropsies taken for divinities. 
 
ITO III 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 187 
 
 96. 
 
 But let me to my story: I must own, 
 If I have an}' fault, it is digression ; 
 Leaving my people to proceed alone, 
 While I soliloquize beyond expression; 
 But tiicse are my addresses from the throne. 
 Which put off business to the ensuing session: 
 Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
 The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 
 
 97. 
 
 I know that what our neighkours call ^'longueurs" 
 (We've not so good a word, but have the thing 
 In that complete perfection which ensures 
 An epic from Bob Southey every spring) — 
 Form not the true temptation which allures 
 The reader; but 'twould not be hard to bring 
 Some fine examples of the epopee, 
 To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 
 
 98. 
 
 We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps; 
 We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes. 
 To show with what complacency he creeps. 
 With his dear " Waggoners," around his lakes; 
 He wishes for "a boat" to sail the deeps — 
 Of ocean? — No, of air; and then he makes 
 Another outcry for "a little boat," 
 And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 
 
 99. 
 
 If he must fain sweep o'er the etherial plain, 
 And Pegasus runs restive in his "waggon," 
 Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain ? 
 Or pray Medea for a single dragon? 
 Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, 
 He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 
 And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 
 Could not the blockhead-ask for a balloon? 
 
 100. 
 
 "Pedlars," and "boats," and "waggons!" Oh! ye shades 
 
 Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? 
 
 That trash of such sort not alone evades 
 
 Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 
 
 Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades 
 
 Of sense and song above your graves may hiss — 
 
 The "little boatman" and his "Peter Bell" 
 
 Can sneer at him who drew "Achitopjiel !" 
 
 101. 
 
 T* our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone. 
 The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired; 
 The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
 And every sound of revelry expired : 
 'The lady and her lover, left alone, 
 The rosy flood of twiiight-sky admired; 
 Ave Maria! o'er the eartli and sea. 
 That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee ! 
 
 ^ 
 
 102. 
 
 Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot, w here I so oft 
 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. 
 
 While swung the deep bell in the distant tower. 
 
 Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft. 
 
 And not a breath crept through the rosy air. 
 
 And yet the forest-leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. 
 
 103. 
 
 Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 
 
 Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 
 
 Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty dove — 
 
 What though 'tis but a pictured image strike — 
 
 That painting is no idol, 'tis too like. 
 
 104. 
 
 Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, ^- 
 
 In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; s.y^ 
 But set those persons down with me to pray, 
 And you shall see who has the properest notion 
 Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 
 My altars are the mountains and the ocean, ^ 
 
 Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great whole, 
 Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. " " 
 
 105. 
 
 Sweet hour of twilight! — in the solitude 
 Of the pine-forest, and the silent shore 
 Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 
 Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er. 
 To where the last Ctesarean fortress stood, 
 Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 
 And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me. 
 How have I loved the twilight-hour and thee ! 
 
 106. 
 
 The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 
 
 Making their summer-lives one ceaseless song, 
 
 Were the sole echos, save my steed's and mine, 
 
 And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along ; 
 
 The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. 
 
 His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng. 
 
 Which learn'd from this example not to fly 
 
 From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye. 
 
 107. 
 
 Oh Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer. 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer; 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
 Whate'er our household-gods protect of dear, 
 Are gatherM round us by thy look of rest; 
 Thou bringst the child, too, to the mother's breast. 
 
188 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO V 
 
 108. 
 
 Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
 
 Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
 
 When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; 
 
 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 
 
 As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
 
 Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 
 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? 
 
 Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! 
 
 109. 
 
 When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
 
 Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd, 
 
 Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 
 
 Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd. 
 
 Some hands unseen strcw'd flowers upon his tomb: 
 
 Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 
 
 Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 
 
 Had left the wretch an uncorruptcd hour. 
 
 110. 
 
 But I'm digressing: what on earth has Nero, 
 
 Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 
 
 To do with the transactions of my hero. 
 
 More than such madmen's fellow-man — the moon's ! 
 
 Sure my invention must be down at zero, 
 
 And I grown one of many "wooden spoons" 
 
 Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please 
 
 To dub the last of honours in degrees). 
 
 111. 
 
 I feel this tediousness will never do — 
 'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down 
 (In copying) this long canto into two; 
 They'll never find it out, unless I own 
 The fact, excepting some experienced few; 
 And then as an improvement 'twill be shown : 
 I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is 
 From Aristotle /)a*«m. — See IIotrjTixtjg. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 1. 
 
 NoTHrNG so difficult as a beginning 
 In poesy, unless perhaps the end; 
 For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 
 The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend. 
 Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning; 
 Onr sin the same, and hard as his to mend, 
 Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far. 
 Till our own weakness shows us what we are. 
 
 2. 
 
 But Time, which brings all beings to their level. 
 
 And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 
 
 Man, — and, as we would hope, — perhaps the devil, 
 
 That neither of their intellects are vast : 
 
 While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel. 
 
 We know not this — the blood flows on too fast; 
 
 But as the torrent widens towards the ocean. 
 
 We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 
 
 3. 
 
 As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 
 And wish'd that others held the same opinion ; 
 They took it up when my days grew more mellow, 
 And other minds acknowledged my dominion : 
 Now my sere fancy "falls into the yellow 
 Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion, 
 And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 
 Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 
 
 4. 
 
 And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 
 'Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 
 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring 
 Itself to apathy, which we must steep 
 First in the icy depths of Lethe's *(pring 
 Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep; 
 Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; 
 A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 
 
 6. 
 
 Some have accused me of a strange design 
 Against the creed and morals of the land, 
 xVnd trace it in this poem everj' line: 
 I don't pretend that I quite understand 
 My own meaning when I would be very fine; 
 But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd. 
 Unless it was to be a moment merry, 
 A novel word in my vocabulary. 
 
 6. 
 
 To the kind reader of our sober clime 
 
 This Avay of writing will appear exotic; 
 
 Pnk'i was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 
 
 Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, 
 
 And revell'd in the fancies of the time. 
 
 True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic 
 
 But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 
 
 I chose a modern subject as more meet. 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 189 
 
 How I have treated it, I do not know — 
 Perhaps no better than tlicy have treated me 
 Who have imputed such designs as sliow 
 Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see; 
 But if it gives them pleasure, be it so, 
 This is a liberal age, and thouglits are free: 
 Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear. 
 And tells me to resume my story here. 
 
 8. 
 
 Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
 To their own hearts' most sweet society; 
 Even Time, the pitiless, in sorrow cleft 
 With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms ; he 
 Sigli'd to behold them of their hours bereft, 
 Though foe to love; and yet they could not be 
 Meant to grow old, but die in happy springs 
 Before one charm or hope bad taken wing. 
 
 0. 
 
 Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 
 Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail; 
 The blank gray was not made to blast their hair, 
 But, like the climes that know nor snow nor hail. 
 They were all summer: lightning might assail 
 And shiver them to ashes ; but to trail 
 A long and snake-like life of dull decay 
 Was not for them — they had too little clay. 
 
 10. 
 
 rhey were alone once more ; for them to be 
 Thus was another Eden; they were never 
 Weary, unless when separate; the tree 
 Cut from its forest-root of years — the river 
 Damm'd from its fountain — the child from the knee 
 And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever, — 
 Would wither less than these two torn apart ; 
 Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — 
 
 11. 
 
 The heart — which may be broken : happy they! 
 Thrice fortunate ! who, of that fragile mould. 
 The precious porcelain of human clay, ' 
 
 Break witli the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
 The long year link'd witli heavy day on day, 
 And all which must be borne, and never told; 
 While life's strange principle will often lie 
 Deepest in those wlio long the most to die. 
 
 12. 
 
 'Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore, 
 -\nd many deaths do they escape by this; 
 The death of friends, and that which slays even more- 
 rhe death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 
 Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 
 Aiwaits at last even those whom longest miss 
 The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 
 Which men weep over may be meant to save. 
 
 13. 
 
 Haid^e and Juan thought not of the dead. 
 
 The heavens, and earth, and air, secm'd made for them: 
 
 They found no fault with Time, save that he fled; 
 
 They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: 
 
 Each was the other's mirror, and but read 
 
 Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, 
 
 And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
 
 Of their exchanging glances of afiection. 
 
 14. 
 
 The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
 
 The least glance better understood than words, 
 
 Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much; 
 
 A language, too, but like to that of birds. 
 
 Known but to them, at least appearing such 
 
 As but to lovers a true sense aiTords ; 
 
 Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 
 
 To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard : 
 
 • 
 
 15. 
 
 All these were theirs, for they were children still, 
 And children still they should have ever been ; 
 They were not made in the real world to fill 
 A busy character in the dull scene, 
 But like two beings born from out a rill, 
 A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 
 To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 
 And never know the weight Sf human hours. 
 
 16. 
 
 Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found 
 Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 
 As rarely they beheld throughout their round; 
 And these were not of the vain kind which cloys. 
 For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
 By the mere senses; and that which destroj'S 
 Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 
 A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 
 
 17. 
 
 Oh beautiful! and rare as beautiful! 
 
 But theirs was love in which the mind delights 
 
 To lose itself, when the whole world grows dull, 
 
 And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 
 
 Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 
 
 Its petty passions, marriages, and flights, 
 
 Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more, 
 
 Whose husband only knows her not a wh — re. 
 
 18. 
 
 Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many know. 
 Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair, 
 Who never found a single liour too slow, 
 What was it made them thus exempt from care? 
 Young innate feelings all have felt below. 
 Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
 Inherent; what we mortals call romantic. 
 And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 
 
190 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO IV 
 
 19. 
 
 This is in others a factitious state, 
 
 An opium-dream of too much youth and reading, 
 
 But was in them their nature or their fate: 
 
 No novels e'er had set tiieir young liearts bleeding, 
 
 For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great, 
 
 And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding; 
 
 So that there was no reason for their loves 
 
 More than for those of nightingales or doves. 
 
 20. 
 
 They gazed upon the sunset; 'tis an hour 
 Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 
 For it had made them what they were : the power 
 Of love liad first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies. 
 When happiness had been their only dower. 
 And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties ; 
 Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought 
 The past still welcome as the present thought. 
 
 • 
 21. 
 
 I know not why, but in that hour to-night, 
 Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came. 
 And swept, as 'twere, across their hearts' delight, 
 Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame, 
 When one is shook in sound, and one in sight ; 
 And thus some boding flash'd through either frame. 
 And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 
 While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 
 
 22. 
 
 Tliat large black prophet-eye seem'd to dilate 
 
 And follow far the disappearing sun. 
 
 As if their last day of a happy date 
 
 With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone ; 
 
 Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — 
 
 He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, 
 
 His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 
 
 For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 
 
 23. 
 
 She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 
 Which makes not others smile; then turn'd aside; 
 Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
 And mastered by her wisdom or her pride; 
 When Juan spoke, too — it might be in sport — 
 Of this their mutual feeling, she replied — 
 "If it should be so, — but — it cannot be — 
 Or I at least shall not survive to see." 
 
 24. 
 
 Juan would question further, but she press'd 
 
 His lips to hers, and silenced him with this. 
 
 And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 
 
 Defying augury with tliat fond kiss; 
 
 And no doubt of all methods 'tis the best: 
 
 Some people prefer wine — 'tis not amiss; 
 
 I have tried both ; so those who would a part take 
 
 May choose between the headache and the heartache. 
 
 25. 
 
 One of the two, according to your choice, 
 Woman or wine, you'll have to undergo ; '^ 
 
 Botli maladies are taxes on our joys: 
 But which to choose I really hardly know; 
 And if I had to give a casting voice. 
 For both sides I could many reasons show. 
 And then decide, without great wrong to either. 
 It were much better to have both than neither. 
 
 26. 
 
 Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other 
 
 With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, 
 
 Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother, 
 
 All that the best can mingle and express 
 
 When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another. 
 
 And love too much, and yet can not love less; 
 
 But almost sanctify the sweet excess 
 
 By the immortal wish and power to bless. 
 
 27. 
 
 Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart. 
 Why did they not then die? — they had lived too 
 Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart; 
 Years could but bring them eruel things or wrong. 
 The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
 For beings passionate as Sappho's song; 
 Love was born with them, in them, so intense. 
 It was their very spirit — not a sense. 
 
 28. 
 
 They should have lived together deep in woods. 
 Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 
 Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 
 Called social, where all vice and hatred are; 
 How lonely every free-born creature broods ! 
 The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair; 
 The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow 
 Flock o'er their carrion, just as mortals do. 
 
 29. 
 
 Now pillow'd, cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 
 
 Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 
 
 A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 
 
 For ever and anon a something shook 
 
 Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep; 
 
 And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook 
 
 A wordless music, and her face so fair 
 
 Stirr'd with her dream as rose-leaves with the air; 
 
 .30. 
 
 Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
 Within an Alpine-hollow, w hen the wind 
 Walks over it, was she shaken by the dream. 
 The mystical usurper of the mind — 
 O'erpowcring us to be whate'er may seem 
 Good to the soul wiiich we no more can bind; 
 Strange state of being! (for 'tis still to be) 
 Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 
 
 lon^ 
 
CANTO rv. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 191 
 
 31. 
 
 She dream'd of being: alone on the sea-shore, 
 Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not )iow, but stir 
 She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
 Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her; 
 And o'er her upper-lip they seem'd to pour. 
 Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 
 Foaming o'er her lone head, so tierce and high 
 Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 
 
 32. 
 
 Anon — she was released, and then she stray'd 
 O'er the sharp shingles witli her bleeding feet, 
 And stumbled almost every step she made ; 
 And something roll'd before her in a sheet. 
 Which she must still pursue howc'er afraid; 
 'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet 
 Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, 
 And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 
 
 33. * 
 
 The dream changed; in a cave she stood, its walls 
 
 Were hung with marble-icicles ; the work 
 
 Of ages on its water-fretted halls, [lurk; 
 
 Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and 
 
 Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 
 
 Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and murk 
 
 The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 
 
 Which froze to marble as it fell, she thought. 
 
 34. 
 
 And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet. 
 Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 
 Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 
 Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!) 
 Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 
 Of his qucnch'd heart; and the sea-dirges low 
 j Rang in her sad cars like a mermaid's song, 
 And that brief dream appcar'd a life too long. 
 
 35. 
 
 j And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
 I Faded, or alter'd into something new — 
 i Like to lier father's features, till each trace 
 I More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew — 
 1 With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace; 
 
 And starting, she awoke, and what to view? 
 i Oh! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets she there? 
 
 'Tis — 'tis her father's — fix'd upon the pair! 
 
 36. 
 
 I Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, 
 \ With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to sec 
 I Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
 j The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 
 I Perchance the death of one she loved too well : 
 Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 
 It was a moment of that awful kind — 
 I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 
 
 37. 
 
 Up Juan sprung to Haidce's bitter shriek, 
 And caught her falling, and from off" the wall 
 Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
 Vengeance on him who was the cause of all : 
 Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 
 Smiled scornfully, and said, "Within my call 
 A thousand scimitars await the word. 
 Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." 
 
 38. 
 
 And Haidee clung around him; "Juan, 'tis — 
 'Tis Lambro — 'tis my father! Kneel with me — 
 He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yes 
 Oh ! dearest father, in this agony 
 Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
 Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 
 That doubt should mingle with my filial joy? 
 Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 
 
 High and inscrntable the old man stood. 
 Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 
 Not always signs with him of calmest mood : 
 He look'd upon her, but gave no rep!}'; 
 Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
 Oft came and went, as there resolved to die; 
 In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 
 On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. 
 
 40. 
 
 "Young man, your sword ;" so Lambro once more said: 
 
 Juan replied, "Not while this arm is free." 
 
 The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread. 
 
 And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 
 
 Replied, "Your blood be then on your own head." 
 
 Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 
 
 'Twas fresh — for he had lately used the lock — 
 
 And next proceeded quietly to oock. 
 
 41. 
 
 It has a strange quick jar upon the car. 
 That cocking of a pistol, when you know 
 A moment more Avill bring the siglit to bear 
 Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so; 
 A gentlemanly distance, not too near, 
 If you have got a former friend for foe; 
 But after being fired at once or twice, 
 The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 
 
 42. 
 
 Lambro presented, and one instant more 
 
 Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's breath. 
 
 When Haidee threw herself her boy before ; 
 
 Stern as her sire: "On me," she cried, "let death 
 
 Descend — the fault is mine; this fatal shore 
 
 He found — but sought not. I have pledged my faith ; 
 
 I love him — I will die with him : I knew 
 
 Your nature's firmness — know your daughter's too." 
 
192 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 1 
 
 43. 
 
 A minute past, and she had been all tears, 
 And tenderness, and infancy; but now 
 She stood as one who champion'd liuman fears — 
 Pale; statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow; 
 And tall beyond her sex and their compeers, 
 She drew up to her heiglit, as if to show 
 A fairer mark; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 
 Her father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 
 
 44. 
 
 He gazed on her, and she on him; 'twas strange 
 How like they look'd! the expression was the same; 
 Serenely savage, with a little change 
 In the large dark eye's mutual-darted ilame; 
 For she too was as one who could avenge, 
 If cause should be — a lioness, though tame: 
 Her father's blood before her father's face 
 Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 
 
 45. 
 
 I said they were alike, their features and 
 
 Their statures differing but in sex and years; 
 
 Even to the delicacy of their hands 
 
 There was resemblance, such as true blood wears; 
 
 And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
 
 In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears, 
 
 And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both, 
 
 Shows what the passions are in their full growth. 
 
 46. 
 
 The father paused a moment, then withdrew 
 His weapon, and replaced it ; but stood still. 
 And looking on her, as to look her through, 
 "Not /," he said, "have sought this stranger's ill ; 
 Not 1 have made this desolation : few 
 Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill; 
 But I must do my duty — how thou hast 
 Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 
 
 47. 
 
 Let him disarm; or, by my father's head, 
 His own shall roll before you like a ball !" 
 He raised his whistle, as the word he said. 
 And blew ; another answer'd to the call. 
 And rushing in disorderly, though led. 
 And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, 
 Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank; 
 He gave the word, "Arrest or slay the Frank." 
 
 48. 
 
 Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
 His daughter; while compress'd within his grasp, 
 'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 
 In vain she struggled in her father's grasp — 
 His arms were like a serpent's coil : then flew 
 Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp. 
 The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 
 Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. 
 
 49. 
 
 The second had his cheek laid open; but 
 The third, a wary, cool, old sworder, took 
 The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
 His own well in ; so well, ere you could look, 
 His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot. 
 With the blood running like a little brook 
 From two smart sabre-gashes, deep and red — 
 One on the arm, the other on the head. 
 
 50. 
 
 And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 
 Juan from the apartment : with a sign 
 Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore. 
 Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine. 
 They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 
 Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line; 
 On board of one of these, and under hatches. 
 They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches. 
 
 51. 
 
 The world is full of strange vicissitudes. 
 And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: 
 A gentleman so rich in the world's goods. 
 Handsome and young, enjoying all the present. 
 Just at the very time when he least broods 
 On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, 
 Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, 
 And all because a lady fell in love. 
 
 5-2. 
 
 Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic. 
 Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea ! 
 Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic; 
 For if my pure libations exceed three, 
 I feel my heart become so sympathetic. 
 That I must have recourse to black Bohea : 
 'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious, 
 For tea and cofiee leave us much more serious , 
 
 53. 
 
 Unless when qualified with thee. Cognac ! 
 Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
 Ah ! why the liver wilt thou thus attack, 
 And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill ? 
 I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack 
 (In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill 
 My mild and midnight beakers to the brim. 
 Wakes me next morning with its synonym, 
 
 54. 
 
 I leave Don Juan for the present safe — 
 Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded; 
 Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 
 Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded? 
 She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, 
 And then give way, subdued because surrounded; 
 Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
 Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 193 
 
 65. 
 
 There the large olive rains its amber store 
 
 la marble-fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit, 
 
 Gush from the eartli until the land runs o'er; 
 
 But there too many a poison-tree has root, 
 
 And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 
 
 And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, 
 
 Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan ; 
 
 And as the soil is, so the heart of man. [^ 
 
 66. 
 
 Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 
 Her human clay is kindled; fall of power 
 For good or evil, burning from its birth, 
 The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, 
 And like the soil beneath it will bring forth : 
 Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower : 
 , But her large dark eye show'd deep passion's force, 
 Though sleeping, like a lion near a source. 
 
 ! 
 
 I Her daughter^ temper'd with a milder ray, 
 I Like summer-clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 
 I Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
 I Terror to earth, and tempest to the air, 
 j Had held till now her soft and milky way, 
 jBut overwrought with passion and despair, 
 ! The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins. 
 Even as the Simooms weeps the blasted plains. 
 
 58. 
 
 The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, 
 And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down; 
 His blood was running on the very floor 
 Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own; 
 Thus much she view'd an instant and no more, — 
 Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan; 
 On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 
 Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 
 
 59. 
 
 A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
 Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er; 
 And her head droop'd as when the lily lies 
 O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bore 
 Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 
 Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, 
 But she defied all means they could employ. 
 Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 
 
 60. 
 
 Days !ay slie in that state unchanged, though chill 
 Witli nothing livid, still her lips were red; 
 She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still; 
 No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead; 
 [Corruption came not in each mind to kill 
 V.11 hope; to look upon her sweet face bred 
 S^ew thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul, 
 5he had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 
 
 61. 
 
 The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
 When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, 
 But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
 O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; 
 O'er the Laocoon's all-eternal throes. 
 And ever-dying Gladiator's air; 
 Their energy like life forms all their fame. 
 Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 
 
 62. 
 
 She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake. 
 Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new; 
 A strange sensation which she must partake 
 Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 
 Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 
 Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true 
 Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, 
 For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 
 
 63. 
 
 She look'd on many a face with vacant eye. 
 On many a token without knowing what; 
 She saw them watch her without asking why. 
 And reck'd not who around her pillow sat; 
 Not speechless though she spoke not ; not a sigh 
 Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat 
 Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 
 No sign, save breath, of having left the g^ave. 
 
 64. 
 
 Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; 
 
 Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away ; 
 
 She recognised no being, and no spot. 
 
 However dear or chcrish'd in their day; 
 
 They changed from room to room, but all forgot, 
 
 Gentle, but without memory, she lay; 
 
 And yet those eyes, which they would fain be weaning 
 
 Back to old thoughts, seem'd full of fearful meaning. 
 
 65. 
 
 At last a slave bethought her of a harp; 
 
 The harper came, and tuned his instrument; 
 
 At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 
 
 On him her flashing eyes a moment bent. 
 
 Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp 
 
 Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent; 
 
 And he began a long low island-song 
 
 Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 
 
 66. 
 
 Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
 
 In time to his old tune ; he changed the theme. 
 
 And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all 
 
 Her recollection ; on her flash'd the dream 
 
 Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
 
 To be so being; in a gushing stream 
 
 The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 
 
 Like mountain-mists at length dissolved in rain. 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 67. 
 
 Short solace, vain relief! — • tliought came too quick, 
 And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose 
 As one who ne'er had dwelt among: the sick, 
 And flew at all she met, as on her foes; 
 But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 
 Although her paroxysm drew towards its close: 
 Hers was a phrensy whicli disdain'd to rave. 
 Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 
 
 68. 
 
 Yet she betray 'd at times a gleam of sense; 
 Nothing could make her meet her father's face, 
 Though on all other things with looks intense 
 She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; 
 Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence 
 Avail'd for either; neither change of place, 
 Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
 Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for ever. 
 
 Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last, 
 Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 
 A parting pang, tiie spirit from her pass'd : 
 And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 
 The very instant, till the change that cast 
 Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow. 
 Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 
 Oh ! to possess such lustre — and then lack ! 
 
 70. 
 
 She died, but not alone ; she held within 
 A second principle of life, which might : x 
 
 Have dawn'd a fair and sinless cliild of sin; / 
 But closed its little being without light. 
 And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
 Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight; 
 In vain the dews of heaven descend above 
 The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 
 
 71. 
 
 Thus lived — thus died she ; never more on her 
 Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made 
 Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, 
 Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 
 By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were 
 Brief, but delightful — such as had not stay'd 
 Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 
 By the sea-shore whereon she loved to dwell. 
 
 72. 
 
 That isle is now all desolate and bare, 
 Its dwelling down, its tenants pass'd away; 
 None but her own and father's grave is there, 
 And nothing outward tells of human clay ; 
 Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair. 
 No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 
 What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's. 
 Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 
 
 73. 
 
 But many a Greek maid in a loving song 
 Sighs o'er her name, and many an islander 
 With her sire's story makes the night less long; 
 Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her; 
 If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — . 
 
 A heavy price must all pay who thus err, i 
 
 In some shape; let none think to fly the danger, 
 For soon or late Love is his own avenger. ^,.- 
 
 74. 
 
 But let me change this theme, which grows too sad, 
 
 And lay this sheet of sorrow on the shelf; 
 
 I don't much like describing people mad, 
 
 For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself — 
 
 Besides, I've no more on this head to add; 
 
 And as my Muse is a capricious elf. 
 
 We'll put about, and try another tack 
 
 With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. 
 
 75. 
 
 Wounded and fetter'd, "cabin'd, cribb'd, confined," 
 Some days and nights elapsed before that he 
 Could altogether call the past to mind; 
 And when he did, he found himself at sea. 
 Sailing six knots an hour berore the wind; 
 The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 
 Another time he might have liked to see 'em. 
 But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigaeum. 
 
 76. 
 
 There, on the green and village-cottcd hill, is 
 (Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea) 
 Entonib'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles; 
 Tlicy say so — (Bryant says the contrary) : 
 And further downward, tall and towering still, is 
 The tumulus — of whom ? Heaven knows ; 't may be 
 Patroelus, Ajax, or Protesilaus, — 
 All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 
 
 77. 
 
 High barrows, without marble, or a name, 
 A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain. 
 And Ida in tlie distance, still the same. 
 And old Scamander (if 'tis lie), remain ; 
 The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
 A hundred thousand men might fight again 
 With case; but where I sought for ilion's walls. 
 The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls; 
 
 78. 
 
 Troops of untended horses; here and there 
 
 Some little hamlets with new names uncouth; 
 
 Some shepherds (unlike Paris) led to stare 
 
 A. moment at the European youth 
 
 Whom to the spot their schoolboy-feelings bear; 
 
 A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth. 
 
 Extremely taken with his own religion, 
 
 Are what I found there — but the devil a Phrygian. 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 195 
 
 79. 
 
 Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 
 From his dull cabin, found himself a slave ; 
 Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
 O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave; 
 Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge 
 A few brief questions; and the answers gave 
 No very satisfactory information 
 About his past or present situation. 
 
 80. 
 
 He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd 
 To be Italians — as they were, in fact: 
 From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 
 Which was an odd one ; a troop going to act 
 In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 
 In their vocation, — had not been attack'd. 
 In sailing from Livorno, by the pirate, 
 But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 
 
 8i. 
 
 By one of these, the buffo of the party, 
 Juan was told about their curious case ; 
 For, although destined to the Turkish mart, he 
 Still kept his spirits up — at least his face ; 
 The little fellow really look'd quite hearty, 
 And bore him with some gaiety and grace. 
 Showing a much more reconciled demeanour 
 Than did the prima-donna and the tenor. 
 
 82. 
 
 In a few words he told their hapless story. 
 Saying : "Our Machiavelian impresario, 
 Making a signal off some promontory, 
 Hail'd a strange brig; Corpo di Caio Mario ! 
 We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry, 
 Without a single scudo of salario; 
 But, if the Sultan has a taste for song. 
 We Avill revive our fortunes before long. 
 
 83. 
 
 "The prima-donna, though a little old, 
 
 xYnd haggard with a dissipated life, 
 
 And subject, when the house is thin, to cold. 
 
 Has some good notes ; and then the tenor's wife, 
 
 Witii no great voice, is pleasing to behold; 
 
 Last carnival she made a deal of strife 
 
 By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna 
 
 From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 
 
 84. 
 
 "And then there are the dancers; there's the Nini, 
 With more than one profession gains by all; 
 Then there's that laughing slut the Pelegrini, 
 She too was fortunate last carnival 
 And made at least five hundred good zecchini, 
 But spt^ads so fast, she has not now a paul; 
 And tlien there's tlic Grotcsca — Such a dancer! 
 W here men have souls or bodies she must answer. 
 
 85. 
 
 "As for the figuranti, they are like 
 
 The rest of all that tribe; with here and there 
 
 A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 
 
 The rest are hardly fitted for a fair; 
 
 There's one, though tall and stiffcr than a pike, 
 
 "Yet has a sentimental kind of air 
 
 Which miglit go far, but she don't dance with vigour; 
 
 The mere's the pity, with her face and figure. 
 
 86. 
 
 "As for the men, they are a middling set; 
 The Musico is but a crack'd old basin, 
 But, being qualified in one way yet. 
 May the seraglio do to set his face in. 
 And as a servant some preferment get ; 
 His singing I no further trust can place in : 
 From all the pope makes yearly 'i would perplex 
 To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. 
 
 87. 
 
 "The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, 
 And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; 
 In fact, he had no singing-education. 
 An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow, 
 But being the prima-donna's near relation, 
 Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, 
 They hired him, though to hear him you'd believe 
 An ass was practising recitative. 
 
 "^^^ 
 
 " 'T would not become myself to dwell upon 
 
 My own merits, and though young — I sec, Sir — you 
 
 Have got a travell'd air, which shows you one 
 
 To whom the opera is by no means new : 
 
 You've heard of Raucocanti 1 — I'm the man ; 
 
 The time may come when you may hear me too; 
 
 You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 
 
 But next, when I'm engaged to sing there — do go. 
 
 89. 
 
 "Our baritone I almost had forgot, 
 
 A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit; 
 
 With graceful action, science not a jot, 
 
 A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, 
 
 He always is complaining of his lot. 
 
 Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; 
 
 In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe, 
 
 Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth." 
 
 90. 
 
 Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 
 
 Was interrupted by the pirate-crew. 
 
 Who came at stated moments to invite all 
 
 The captives back to their sad berths ; each threw 
 
 A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright all 
 
 From the blue skies derived a double blue. 
 
 Dancing all free and happy in the sun). 
 
 And then went dov/n the hatchway one by one. 
 
 "1> 
 
196 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO T 
 
 91. 
 
 They heard, next day, that in the Dardanelles, 
 Waiting for his sublimity's iirman — 
 The most imperative of sovereign spells. 
 Which every body does without who can, — 
 More to secure them in their naval cells, 
 Lady to lady, well as man to man. 
 Were to be chain'd and lotted out per couple 
 For the slave-market of Constantinople. 
 
 92. 
 
 It seems when this allotment was made out. 
 There chanced to be an odd male and odd female, 
 Who (after some discussion and some doubt 
 If the soprano might be doora'd to be male, 
 They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 
 Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male 
 Was Juan, who — an awkward thing at his age — 
 Pair'd off with a Bacchante blooming visage. 
 
 93. 
 
 With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 
 The tenor; these two hated with a hate 
 Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd 
 With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate; 
 Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd, 
 Instead of bearing up without debate. 
 That each pull'd different ways with many an oath, 
 "Arcades ambo," id est — blackguards both. 
 
 94. 
 
 Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 
 But bred within the March of old Ancona, 
 Witli eyes that look'd into the very soul 
 (And other chief points of a "bella donna"), 
 Bright — and as black and burning as a coal; 
 And through her clear brunette complexion shone a 
 Great wish to please — a most attractive dower, 
 Especially when added to the power. 
 
 95. 
 
 But all that power was wasted upon him, 
 For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command; 
 Her eye miglit flash on his, but found it dim ; 
 And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 
 Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 
 (And she had some not easy to witlistand) 
 Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle; 
 Perhaps his recent w ounds might help a little. 
 
 96. 
 
 No matter; we should ne'er too much inquire. 
 
 But facts are facts, — no kniglit could be more true, 
 
 And firmer faith no ladye-love desire; 
 
 We will omit the proofs, save one or two 
 
 'Tis said no one in hand "can hold a fire 
 
 By thought of frosty Caucasus," but few 
 
 I really think ; yet Juan's tlien ordeal 
 
 Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 
 
 97. 
 
 Here I might enter on a chaste description, 
 Having withstood temptation in my youth, 
 But hear that several people take exception 
 At the first two books having too much truth ; 
 Therefore I'll make Don Juan leave the ship soon, 
 Because the publisher declares, in sooth, '^ 
 
 Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is ./ 
 To pass, than those two cantos into families. 
 
 98. 
 
 'Tis all the same to me ; I'm fond of yielding. 
 
 And therefore leave them to tlie purer page 
 
 Of Smollet, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 
 
 Who say strange things for so correct an age; 
 
 I once had great alacrity in wielding 
 
 My pen, and liked poetic war to wage. 
 
 And recollect the time when all this cant 
 
 Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't. 
 
 99. 
 
 As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble; 
 But at this hour I wish to part in peace, 
 Leaving such to the literary rabble. 
 Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease, 
 While the right hand which wrote it still is able. 
 Or of some centuries to take a lease; 
 The grass upon my grave will grow as long. 
 And sigh to midnight-winds, but not to song. 
 
 100. 
 
 Of poets who come down to us through distance 
 Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of fame, 
 Life geems the smallest portion of existence; 
 Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 
 'Tis as a snowball which derives assistance 
 From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, 
 Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow, 
 But after all 'tis nothing but cold snow. 
 
 lOL 
 
 And so great names are nothing more tlian nominal. 
 And love of glor}"^ 's but an airy lust, j 
 
 Too often in its fury overcoming all I 
 
 Who would, as 'twere, identify their dust 
 From out the wide destruction, which, entombing nil, 
 Leaves nothing till the coming of the just — 
 Save change: I've stood upon Achilles' tomb, 
 And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome. 
 
 102. 
 
 The very generations of the dead 
 
 Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, 
 
 Until tlie memory of an age is fled. 
 
 And, buried, sinks beneath its oflspring's doom: 
 
 Where are the epitaphs our fathers read? 
 
 Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom 
 
 Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath. 
 
 And lose their own in universal death. 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 197 
 
 103. 
 
 I canter by the spot each afternoon 
 Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, 
 Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 
 For human vanity, the young de Foix ! 
 A broken pillar, not uncoutlily hewn, 
 But which neglect is hastening to destro}', 
 Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, 
 While weeds and ordure rankle round the base. 
 
 104. 
 
 I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid : 
 A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 
 Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 
 To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column: 
 The time must come, when both, alike decay'd, 
 The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's volume. 
 Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, 
 Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth. 
 
 105. 
 
 With human blood that column was cemented, 
 
 With human filth that column is defiled, 
 
 As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented 
 
 To show his loathing of the spot he soil'd ; 
 
 Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented 
 
 Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild 
 
 Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 
 
 Those suflerings Dante saw in hell alone. 
 
 106. 
 
 Yet there will still be bards; though fame is smoke, 
 Its fumes are frankincense to human thought; 
 And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 
 Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; 
 ^.s on the beach the waves at last are broke, 
 Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought, 
 Dash into poetry, which is but passion, 
 3r at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 
 
 107. 
 
 [fin the course of such a life as was 
 it once adventurous and contemplative, 
 VIcn who partake all passions as they pass, 
 Vcquire the deep and bitter power to give 
 Their images again,, as in a glass, 
 V.nd in such colours that they seem to live; 
 fou may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 
 spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 
 
 108. 
 
 )h! ye, who make the fortunes of all books ! 
 5enign ceruleans of the second sex! 
 VIm) advertise new poems by your looks, 
 ^our "imprimatur" will ye not annex? — 
 Vhat, must I go to the oblivious cooks, 
 'hose Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? 
 ^h! must I then the only minstrel be 
 I 'roscribed from tasting your Castalian tea? 
 
 109. 
 
 What lean I prove "a lion" then no more? 
 
 A ball-room-bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling, 
 
 To bear the compliments of many a bore, 
 
 And sigh "I can't get out," like Yorick's starling ! 
 
 Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore 
 
 (Because the world won't read him, always snarling), 
 
 That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, 
 
 Drawn by the blue-coat-misses of a coterie. 
 
 110. 
 
 Oh ! "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 
 
 As some one somewhere sings about the sky, 
 
 And I, ye learned ladies, say of you; 
 
 They say your stockings are so (Heaven knows why, 
 
 I have examined few pair of that hue); 
 
 Blue as the garters which serenely lie 
 
 Round the patrician left-legs, which adorn 
 
 The festal midnight and the levee-morn. 
 
 111. 
 
 Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures, 
 But times arc alter'd since, a rhyming lover, 
 You read my stanzas, and I read your features : 
 And — but no matter, all those things are over : 
 Still I have no dislike to learned natures. 
 For sometimes such a world of virtues cover; 
 1 knew one woman of that purple school. 
 The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool. 
 
 H2. 
 
 Humboldt, "the first of travellers," but not 
 The last, if late accounts be accurate, 
 Invented, by some name I have forgot. 
 As well as the sublime discovery's date, 
 An airy instrument, with which he sought 
 To ascertain the atmospheric state, 
 lly measuring "the intensity of blue:" 
 Oh, Lady Daphne! ^et me measure you! 
 
 113. 
 
 But to the narrative. — The vessel bound 
 
 With slaves to sell off in the capita], 
 
 After the usual process, might be found 
 
 At anchor under the seraglio-wall; 
 
 Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound, 
 
 Were landed in the market, one and all, 
 
 And there, with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, 
 
 Bought up for different purposes and passions. 
 
 114. 
 
 Some went off dearly : fifteen hundred dollars 
 For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, 
 Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colours 
 Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven : 
 Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers. 
 Who bade on til! the hundreds rcach'd eleven ; 
 But when the offer went beyond, they knew 
 'Twas for the Sultan, and at once withdrew. 
 
198 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO V 
 
 115. 
 
 Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 
 Which the West-Indian market scarce would bring; 
 Though Wiiberforce, at last, has made it twice 
 What 'twas ere abolition; and the thing 
 Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 
 Is always much more splendid than a king: 
 The virtues, c ?en the most exalted, charity, 
 Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 
 
 116. 
 
 But for the destiny of this young troop. 
 
 How some were bought by Pachas, some by Jews, 
 
 How some to burdens Avere obliged to stoop, 
 
 And others rose to the command of crews 
 
 As renegadoes; Avhile in hapless group. 
 
 Hoping no very old vizier might choose, 
 
 The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em, 
 
 To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim : 
 
 117. 
 
 All this must be reserved for further song; 
 Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant, 
 (Because this canto has become too long) 
 Mast be postponed discreetly for the present; 
 I'm sensible redundancy is wrong, 
 But could not for the muse of me put less in't: 
 And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
 Till what is call'd in Ossiao tlie fifth Duan. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 When amatory poets sing their loves 
 In liquid lines meliifluously bland. 
 And praise their rhymes, as Venus yokes her doves, 
 They little think what mischief is in hand; 
 The greater their success the worse it proves, 
 As Ovid's verse may make you understand ; 
 Even Petrarch's self, if judged witli due severity, 
 Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.. 
 
 I therefore do denounce all amorous writing. 
 Except in such a way as not to aiffract ; 
 Plain — simple — short, and by no means inviting. 
 But with a moral to each error tack'd, 
 Form'd rather for instructing than delighting, 
 And with all passions in their turn attack'd; 
 Now, if my Pegasus sho.uld not be shod ill, 
 This poem will become a moral model. 
 
 The European with the Asian shore 
 Sprinkled with palaces; the ocean-stream 
 Here and there studded with a seventy-four: 
 Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 
 The cypress-groves; Olympus high and hoar; 
 The twelve isles, and the more than 1 could dream, 
 Far less describe, present the very view 
 Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu. 
 
 r have a passion for the name of "Mary," 
 For once it was a magic sound to me, 
 And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 
 Where I beheld what never was to be; 
 All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, 
 A spell from which even yet I am not quite free: 
 But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, 
 Which must not be pathetically told. 
 
 The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave 
 Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplcgades; 
 'Tis a grand sight from off "the Giant's Grave" 
 To watch the progress of those rolling seas 
 Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
 Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease; 
 There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in. 
 Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 
 
 6. 
 
 'Twas a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, 
 When nights are equal, but not so the days : If 
 
 The Parcaj then cut short tlie further spinning ^ 
 
 Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 
 The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
 In all who o'er the great deep take their ways : 
 They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't; 
 Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared, they won| 
 
CANTO V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 199 
 
 7. 
 
 A crowd of shivering' slaves of every nation, 
 And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 
 Each bevy with tlic merchant in liis station : 
 Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly changed. 
 All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation. 
 From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged; 
 The negroes more philosophy display'd — 
 Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 
 
 8. 
 
 Juan was juvenile, and thus was full. 
 
 As most at his age are, of hope, and health ; 
 
 Yet I must own he look'd a little dull, 
 
 And now and then a tear stole dc^wn by stealth ; 
 
 Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
 
 His spirit down; and then the loss of wealth, 
 
 A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, 
 
 To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, 
 
 a. 
 
 j Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'erthcless, 
 
 (Upon the whole his carriage was serene : 
 
 iHis figure and the splendour of his dress, 
 
 jOf which some gilded^remnants still were seen, 
 
 iDrew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
 
 Me was above the vulgar by his mien ; 
 
 jAnd then, though pale, he was so very handsome; 
 
 JAnd then — they calculated on his ransom. 
 
 10. 
 
 ;Like a backgammon-board the place was dotted 
 
 jWith wliites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, 
 
 jl'hough rather more irregularly spotted : 
 
 gome bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 
 
 It chanced, amongst the other people lotted, 
 
 i\. man of thirty, rather stout and hale, 
 
 [With resolution in his dark gray eye, 
 
 l^ext Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 
 
 n. 
 
 ie had an English look ; that is, was square 
 
 n make, of a complexion white and ruddy, 
 
 lood teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair, 
 
 ind, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, 
 
 ^^n open brow a little mark'd with care: 
 
 !)ne arm had on a bandage rather bloody; 
 
 ^nd there he stood with such sang-froid that greater 
 
 i'Ould scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. 
 
 12. 
 
 >ut seeing at his elbow a mere lad, 
 
 pfahigh spirit evidently, though 
 
 it present weigh'd down by a doom which .had 
 
 ''erthrown even men, he soon began to show 
 kind of blunt compassion for the sad 
 ot of so young a partner in the woe, 
 I'^hich for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
 ban any other scrape, a thing of course," 
 
 t3, 
 
 "My boy!" — said he, "amidst this motley crew 
 
 Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not, 
 
 All ragamuffins, differing but in hue. 
 
 With whom it is our luck to cast our lot. 
 
 The only gentlemen seem I and you, 
 
 So let us be acquainted, as we ought: 
 
 If 1 could yield you any consolation, 
 
 'T would give me pleasure.— Pray, what is yoar nation?" 
 
 14. 
 
 When Juan answer'd "Spanish \" he replied, 
 "I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek ; 
 Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed; 
 Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak. 
 But that's her way with all men till they're tried; 
 But never mind, — she'll turn, perhaps, next week; 
 She has served me also much the same as you. 
 Except that I have found it nothing new." 
 
 IS. 
 
 "Pray, Sir," said Juan, "if I may presume. 
 
 What brought you here?" — "Oh ! nothing very rare — 
 
 Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — "To this doom 
 
 But what conducted, if the question's fair. 
 
 Is that which I would learn." — "I served for S(Mne 
 
 -Months with the Russian army here and there. 
 
 And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 
 
 A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin." 
 
 16. 
 
 "Have you no friends?" — "I had— but, by God's blcss- 
 Have not been troubled with them lately. Now [ing 
 I have answer'd all your questions without pressing, 
 And you an equal courtesy should show" — 
 "Alas!" said Juan, "'twere a tale distressing, 
 And long besides." — "Oh I if 'tis really so, 
 You're right on both accounts to hold your tongue ; 
 A sad tale saddens doubly when 'tis long. 
 
 17. 
 
 But droop not : Fortune at your time of life. 
 
 Although a female moderately fickle. 
 
 Will hardly leave you (as she's not your wife) 
 
 For any length of days in such a pickle. 
 
 To strive too with our fate were such a strife 
 
 As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle: 
 
 Men are the sport of circumstances, when i^' 
 
 The circumstances seem tlie sport of men." 
 
 18. 
 
 "'Tis not," said Juan, "for my present doom 
 I mourn, but for the past ; — I loved a maid :" 
 He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom; 
 A single tear upon his eyelash staid 
 A moment, and then dropped; "but to resume, 
 'Tis not my present lot, as I have said. 
 Which I deplore so much ; for I have borne 
 Hardships which have the hardiest overworn. 
 
200 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 19. ' 
 
 On the rough deep. But this last blow — " and here 
 He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face. 
 "Ay, " quoth his friend, "I thought it would appear 
 That there had been a lady in the case; 
 And these are things which ask a tender tear, 
 Such as I too would shed if in your place: 
 I cried upon my first wife's dying-day, 
 And also when my second ran away; 
 
 20. 
 
 My third — " — "Your third !" quoth Juan, turning round; 
 
 "You scarcely can be thirty: have you three?" 
 
 "No — only two at present above ground: 
 
 Surely 'tis nothing wonderful to see 
 
 One person thrice in holy wedlock bound!" 
 
 "Well, then, your third," said Juan; "what did she? 
 
 She did not run away, too, did she, sir?" 
 
 "No, faith." — "What then ?" — "I ran away from her." 
 
 21. 
 
 "You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. "Why," 
 Replied the other, "what can a man do ? 
 There still are many rainbows in your sky, 
 But mine have vanish'd. All, when life, is new, 
 Commence with feelings warm and prospects high ; 
 But time strips our illusions of their hue. 
 And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 
 Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake. 
 
 22. 
 
 'Tis true, it gets another bright and fresh, 
 
 Or fresher, brighter; but the year gone through, 
 
 This skin must go the way too of all flesh, 
 
 Or sometimes only wear a week or two; — 
 
 Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh ; 
 
 Ambition, avarice, vengeance, glory, glue 
 
 The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days. 
 
 Where still we flutter on for pence or praise." 
 
 23. 
 
 "All this is very fine, and may be true," 
 Said Juan, "but I really don't see how 
 It betters present times with me or you." 
 "No?" quoth the other; "yet you will allow 
 By setting things in their right point of view. 
 Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance now, 
 We know what slavery is, and our disasters 
 May teach us better to behaxe when masters." 
 
 24. 
 
 "Would we were masters now, if but to try 
 Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here," 
 Said Juan, swallowing a heart-burning sigh : 
 "Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune sends here!" 
 "Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," 
 Rcjoin'd the other, "when our bad luck mends here; 
 Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) 
 I wish to G — d that somebody would buy us! 
 
 25. 
 
 But after all, what is our present state? 
 
 'Tis bad, and may be better — all men's lot: 
 
 Most men are slaves, none more so than the great. 
 
 To their ovfn whims and passions, and what not; 
 
 Society itself, which should create 
 
 Kindness, destroys what little we had got : -— 
 
 To feel for none is the true social art 
 
 Of the world's stoics — men without a heart." 
 
 26. 
 
 Just now a black old neutral personage 
 
 Of the third sex stepp'd up, and peering over 
 
 The captives, seem'd to mark their looks, and age. 
 
 And capabilities, as to ^liscover 
 
 If they were fitted for the purposed cage: 
 
 N o lady e'er is ogled by a lover. 
 
 Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor. 
 
 Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 
 
 27. 
 
 As is a slave by his intended bidder. 
 
 'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; 
 
 And all are to be sold, if you consider 
 
 Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features 
 
 Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 
 
 Some by a place — as tend their years or natures ; 
 
 The most by ready cash — but all have prices, f , 
 
 From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 
 
 28. 
 
 The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care, 
 
 Turn'd to the merchant, and begun to bid 
 
 First but for one, and after for the pair; 
 
 They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did! 
 
 As though they were in a mere christian fair. 
 
 Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid ; 
 
 So that their bargain sounded like a battle 
 
 For this superior yoke of human cattle. 
 
 29. 
 
 At last they settled into simple grumbling, 
 And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
 Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 
 Some down, and weighing others in their hand. 
 And by mistake sequins witli paras jumbling, 
 Until the sum was accurately scann'd. 
 And then the merchant, giving change, and signing 
 Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 
 
 30. 
 
 I wonder if his appetite was good? 
 
 Or, if it were, if also his digestion? /;■ 
 
 Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude 
 
 And conscience ask a curious sort of question. 
 
 About the right divine how far we should 
 
 Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one, ;| 
 
 I tliink it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
 
 Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. m 
 
CANTO V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 201 
 
 31. 
 
 Voltaire says "No :" he tells you that Candida 
 
 Found life most tolerable after meals ; 
 
 He's wrong — unless man was a pig, indeed, 
 
 Repletion rather adds to what he feels ; 
 
 Unless he's drunk, and then no doubt he's freed 
 
 From his own brain's oppression while it reels. 
 
 Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather 
 
 Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and one father) ; 
 
 32. 
 
 I think with Alexander, that the act 
 Of eating, with another act or two, 
 Makes us feel our mortality in fact 
 Redoubled ; when a roast and a ragout. 
 And fish and soup, by some side-dishes back'd, 
 Can give us eitlier pain or pleasure, who 
 Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 
 Depends so much upon the gastric juice? 
 
 33. 
 
 The other evening ('twas on Friday last) — 
 
 This is a fact and no poetic fable — 
 
 fust as my great coat was about me cast. 
 
 My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
 
 i heard a shot — 'twas eight o'clock scarce past — 
 
 Vnd running out as fast as I was able, 
 
 '. found the military commandant 
 
 ?tretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant. 
 
 34. 
 
 'oor fellow! for some reason, surely bad, 
 
 They had slain him with five slugs ; and left him there 
 
 To perish on the pavement: so I had 
 
 Km borue into the house and up the stair, 
 
 Lnd stripp'd, and look'd to But why should I add 
 
 (lore circumstances? vain was every care; 
 'he man was gone: in some Italian quarrel 
 ill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
 
 35. 
 
 gazed upon him, for I knew him well; 
 
 ind though I have seen many corpses, never 
 
 aw one, whom such an accident befell, [liver, 
 
 calm; though pierced through stomach, heart, and 
 
 Ic seem'd to sleep, for you could scarcely tell 
 
 As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
 
 •f gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: — 
 
 as I gazed on him, I thought or said; 
 
 36. 
 
 Can this be death? then what is life or death ? 
 peak!" but he spoke not: "wake!" but still he slept: — 
 But yesterday and who had mightier breath? 
 thousand warriors by his word were kept 
 
 1 awe : he said, as the centurion saith, 
 
 Go," and he goeth ; "come," and forth he stepp'd. 
 he trump and bugle till lie spake were dumb — 
 Ind now nought left him but the muffled drum." 
 
 37. 
 
 And tlicy who waited once and worshipp'd -^ they 
 With their rough faces throng'd about the bed, 
 To gaze once more on the commanding clay 
 Which for the last though not the first time bled : 
 And such an end! that he who many a day 
 Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled, — 
 The foremost in the charge or in the sally. 
 Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley. 
 
 38. 
 
 The scars of his old wounds were near his new, 
 Those honourable scars which brought him fame; 
 And horrid was the contrast to the view — 
 But let me quit the theme, as such things claim 
 Perhaps even more attention than is due 
 From me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) 
 To try if I could wrench aught out of death ^ 
 Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 
 
 39. 
 
 But it was all a mystery. Here we are. 
 
 And there we go: — but where? 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 dead? 
 
 We, whose minds comprehend all things ? No more ; 
 
 But let us to the story as before. 
 
 40. 
 
 The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 
 
 Bore off" his bargains to a gilded boat, 
 
 Embark'd himself and them, and off they went theocc 
 
 As fast as oars could pull and water float; 
 
 They look'd like persons being led to sentence, 
 
 Wondering what next, till the caique was brought 
 
 Up in a little creek below a wall 
 
 O'ertopp'd with cypresses dark-grcea and tall. 
 
 41. 
 
 Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 
 
 Of a small iron door, 't was open'd, and 
 
 He led them onward, first through a low thicket 
 
 Flank'd by large groves, which tower'd on either hand ; 
 
 They almost lost their way, and had to pick it — 
 
 For night was closing ere they came to land. 
 
 The eunuch made a sign to those on board, 
 
 Who row'd off, leaving them without a word. 
 
 42. 
 
 As they were plodding on their winding way, 
 Through orange-bowers, and jasmine, and so forth; 
 (Of which 1 nught have a good deal to say, 
 There being no such profusion in the North 
 Of oriental plants, "et cetera/' 
 But that of late your scribblers think it worth 
 Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works 
 Because one poet tiavell'd 'mongst the Turks :) 
 
 13* 
 
202 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 4S. 
 
 As they were threading on their way, there came 
 Into Don Juan's iiead a tliought, which he 
 Whisper'd to his companion ; — 'twas the same 
 Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. 
 "Metliinks," — said he, — "it would be no great shame 
 If we should strike a stroke to set us free; 
 Let's knock that old black fellow on the head. 
 And marcli away — 't were easier done than said." 
 
 44. 
 
 "Yes," said the other, "and when done, What then? 
 How yet out? how the devil got we in? 
 And when we once were fairly out, and when 
 From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our skin, 
 To-morrow 'd see us in some other den, 
 And worse off than we hitherto have been; 
 Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would take. 
 Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak. 
 
 45 
 
 We must be near some place of man's abode, 
 
 For the old negro's conlidence in creeping 
 
 With his two captives, by so queer a road. 
 
 Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping; 
 
 A single cry would bring them all abroad : 
 
 'Tis therefore better looking before leaping — 
 
 And there, you see, this turn has brought us through — 
 
 By Jove, a noble palace ! — lighted too." 
 
 46. 
 
 It was indeed a wide extensive building 
 Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front 
 There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
 And various hues, as is the Turkish wont, — 
 A gaudy taste; for they are little skill'd in 
 Tlic arts of which these lands were once the font : 
 Each villa on the Bospiiorus looks a screen 
 New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 
 
 47. 
 
 And nearer as they came, a genial savour 
 
 Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, 
 
 Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour, 
 
 Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause. 
 
 And put himself upon his good behaviour: 
 
 His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, 
 
 Said : "In Heaven's name let's get some supper now. 
 
 And then I'm with you, if you're for a row." 
 
 48. 
 
 Some talk of an appeal unto some passion. 
 Some to men's feelings, others to their reason; 
 The last of tlicsc was never much the fashion. 
 For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 
 Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
 But more or less continue still to tease on. 
 With arguments according to their "forte;" 
 But no one ever dreams of being short. — 
 
 49. 
 
 But I digress: of all appeals, — although 
 I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 
 Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no 
 Method 's more sure at moments to take hold 
 Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 
 More tender, as we every day behold. 
 Than that all-softening, o'er-powering knell, 
 The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 
 
 60. 
 
 Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine; 
 And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 
 No christian knoll to table, saw no line 
 Of lacqueys usher to the feast prepared. 
 Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine. 
 And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, 
 And gazed around them to the left and right 
 With the prophetic eye of appetite. 
 
 51. 
 
 And giving up all notions of resistance, 
 They follow'd close behind their sable guide, 
 Who little thought that his own crack'd existence 
 Was on the point of being set aside: 
 He motion'd them to stop at some small distance. 
 And knocking at the gate, 'i was open'd wide, 
 And a magnificent large hall display'd 
 The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 
 
 62. 
 
 I won't describe; description is my forte. 
 
 But every fool describes in these bright days 
 
 His vvond'rous journey to some foreign court, 
 
 And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise — ■ 
 
 Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport; 
 
 While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways. 
 
 Resigns herself with exemplary patience 
 
 To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustration 
 
 63. 
 
 Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 
 Upon their hams, were occupied at chess; 
 Others in monosyllable talk chatted. 
 And some seem'd much in love with their own dress,; 
 And divers smoked superb pipes decorated 
 With amber-mouths of greater price or less; 
 And several strutted, others slept, and some 
 Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 
 
 64. 
 
 As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 
 Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes 
 A moment without slackening from their pace; 
 But those who sate, ne'er stirr'd in any wise: 
 One or two stared the captives in the face, 
 J ust as one views a horse to guess his price ; 
 Some nodded to the negro from their station, 
 But no one troubled him with conversation. 
 
ICANTO V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 >03 
 
 65. 
 
 He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, 
 On tlirougli a farther range of goodly rooms. 
 Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping, 
 A marble-fountain ccliocs through the glooms 
 Of night, whidi robe the chamber, or where popping 
 Some female head most curiously presumes 
 [To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, 
 s wondering what the devil noise that is. 
 
 56. 
 
 (ome faint lamps gleaming from tiie lofty walls 
 jGJave light enough to hint their farther way, 
 But not enough to show the imperial halls 
 p all the flashing of their full array; 
 jPerliaps there's nothing — I'll not say appals, 
 iJut saddens more by night as well as day, 
 ifiian an enormous room without a soul 
 
 fo break the lifeless splendour of the whole. 
 
 67. 
 
 Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing: 
 In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 
 fhere solitude, we know, has her full growth in 
 The spots which were her realms for evermore ; 
 8ut in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 
 ilore modern buildings and those built of yore, 
 i kind of death comes o'er us all alone, 
 |eeing what's meant for many with but cue. 
 
 68. 
 
 ;. neat, snug study on a winter's night, 
 L book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
 
 •f claret, sandwich and an appetite, 
 
 re things which make an English evening pass ; 
 
 hough certes by no means so grand a siglit 
 
 s is a theatre lit up by gas. 
 
 pass my evenings in long galleries solely, 
 . [nd that's the reason I'm so melancholy. 
 
 59. 
 
 las I man makes that great which makes him little: 
 
 grant you in a church 'tis very well : 
 
 /hat speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, 
 
 ut strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 
 
 heir names who rear'd it; but huge houses fit ill — 
 
 nd huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam fell; 
 
 j[ethinks the story of the tower of Babel 
 
 il^ight teach them this much better than I'm able. 
 
 60. 
 
 ibel was Nimrod'sliunting-seat, and then 
 town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, 
 licre Nabuchadonosor, king of men, 
 leign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing ; 
 nd Daniel tamed the lions in their den, 
 le people's awe and admiration raising; 
 n as famous, too, for Tliisbe and for Pyramus, 
 id the calumniated Queen Semiramis. 
 
 31. 
 
 That injured Queen, by Chroniclers so coarse 
 Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy) 
 Of an improper friendship for her horse * 
 (Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy) : 
 This monstrous tale had probably its source 
 (For such exaggerations here and there I see) Lx^ 
 In writing "Courser" by mistake for "Courier:" 
 I wish the case could come before a jury here. 
 
 62. 
 
 But to resume, — should there be (wiiat may not 
 
 Be in these days?) some infidels, who don't, 
 
 Because they can't find out the very spot 
 
 Of that same Babel, or because they won't, 
 
 (Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has got. 
 
 And written lately two memoirs upon't) 
 
 Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 
 
 Must be believed, though they believe not you : — t^ 
 
 63. 
 
 Yet let them think that Horace had express'd 
 Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 
 Of those, forgetting the great place of rest. 
 Who give themselves to architecture wholly; 
 We know where things and men must end at best; 
 A moral (like all morals) melancholy. 
 And "Et sepulchri immcraor struis domos" 
 Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. 
 
 64. 
 
 At last they reach'd a quarter most retired. 
 
 Where echo woke as if from a long slumber; 
 
 Though full of all things which could be desired, 
 
 One wonder'd what to do with such a number 
 
 Of articles which nobody required ; 
 
 Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 
 
 With furniture an exquisite apartment. 
 
 Which puzzled nature much to know what art meant. 
 
 65. 
 
 It seem'd, however, but to open on 
 
 A range or suite of further chambers, which 
 
 Might lead to heaven knows where; but in this one 
 
 The moveables were prodigally rich : 
 
 Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon. 
 
 So costly were they; carpets every stitch 
 
 Of workmanship so rare, that made you wish 
 
 You could glide o'er them like a golden fish. 
 
 % 
 
 66. 
 
 The black, however, without hardly deigning 
 A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in wonder. 
 Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, 
 As if the milky way their feet was under 
 With all its stars; and with a stretch attaining 
 A certain press or cupboard, niched in yonder — 
 In that remote recess vvhich you may see — 
 Or if you don't the fault is not in me : 
 
204 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 67. 
 
 I wish to be perspicuous ; and the black, 
 
 I say, unlocking the recess, puU'd forth 
 
 A quantity of clothes fit for tlie back 
 
 Of any Mussulman, vvhate'er his worth ; 
 
 And of variety there was no lack — 
 
 And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, 
 
 He chose himself to point out what he thought 
 
 Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 
 
 68. 
 
 The suit he thought most suitable to each 
 
 Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 
 
 A Candiote cloak, wliich to the knee might reach. 
 
 And trowsers not so tight that they would burst, 
 
 But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 
 
 A sliawl, whose folds in Cashmirc had been nurst, 
 
 Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy; 
 
 In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy. 
 
 While he was dressing, Baba. their black friend, 
 Hinted the vast advantages which they 
 Might probably attain both in the end. 
 If they would but pursue the proper way 
 Which Fortune plainly seem'd to recommend; 
 And then he added, that he needs must say, 
 "'Twould greatly tend to better their condition 
 If they would condescend to circumcision. 
 
 70. 
 
 For his own part, he really should rejoice 
 To see them true believers, but no less 
 Would leave his proposition to their choice." 
 The other, tlianking him for this excess 
 Of goodness in thus leaving them a voice 
 In such a triiie, scarcely could express 
 "Sufficiently (he said) his approbation 
 Of all the customs of this polish'd nation. 
 
 71. 
 
 For his own share — he saw but small objection 
 To so respectable an ancient rite; 
 And after swallowing down a slight refection^ 
 For which he own'd a present appetite, 
 He doubted not a few hours of reflection 
 Would reconcile him to the business quite." — 
 "Will it?" said Juan, sharply; "Strike me dead, 
 But they as soon shall circumcLse my head! 
 
 72. 
 
 Cut off a thousand heads, before " — "Now pray, 
 
 Replied the other, "do not interrupt: 
 You put me out in what I had to say. 
 Sir ! — as I said, as soon as I have supt, 
 I shall perpend if your proposal may 
 Be such as I can properly accept ; 
 Provided always your great goodness still 
 Remits the matter to our own free-will." 
 
 73. 
 
 Baba eyed Juan, and said : "Be so good 
 As dress yourself — " and pointed out a suit 
 In which a princess with great pleasure would 
 Array her limbs; but Juan standing mute, 
 As not being in a masquerading mood. 
 Gave it a slight kick with his christian foot; 
 And when the old negro told him to "Get ready," 
 Replied, "Old gentleman, I'm not a lady." 
 
 74. 
 
 "What you may be, I neither know nor care," 
 Said Baba; "but pray do as I desire: 
 I have no more time nor many words to spare." 
 "At least," said Juan, "sure I may inquire 
 The cause of this odd travesty?" — "Forbear," 
 Said Baba, "to be curious; 'twill transpire. 
 No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season : 
 I have no authority to tell the reason." 
 
 75. 
 
 "Then if I do," said Juan, "I'll be " "Hold!" 
 
 Rejoin'd the Negro, "pray be not provoking; 
 This spirit 's well, but it may wax too bold. 
 And you will find us not too fond of joking." 
 "What, sir," said Juan, „shall it e'er be told 
 That I unsex'd my dress?" But Baba, stroking 
 The things down, said — "Incense me, and I call 
 Tliose who will leave you of no sex at all. 
 
 76. 
 
 I offer you a handsome suit of clothes : 
 A woman's, true; but then there is a cause [loath 
 
 Why you should wear them." — "What, though my so! 
 The effeminate garb?" — Thus, after a short pause, 
 Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 
 "What the devil shall I do with all this gauze?" 
 Thus he profanely terra'd the finest lace 
 Which e'er set off a marriage-morning-facc. 
 
 77. 
 
 And then he swore: and, sighing, on he slipp'd 
 A pair of trowsers of flesh-colour'd silk; 
 Next with a virgin-zone he was equipp'd, 
 Whicii girt a slight chemise as white as milk; 
 But, tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd. 
 Which — as we say — or as the Scotch say, whilk, 
 (The rhyme obliges me to this; sometimes 
 Kings are not more imperative than rhymes) 
 
 78. 
 
 Whilk, which (or what you please) was owing to 
 His garment's novelty, and his being awkward; 
 And yet at last he managed to get through 
 His toilet, though no doubt a little backward: 
 The negro Baba lielp'd a little too. 
 When some untoward part of raiment stuck hardj 
 And, wrestling both his arms into a gown. 
 He paused and took a survey up and down. 
 
V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 205 
 
 79. 
 
 , One difliculty still remain'd, — his hair 
 i Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 
 ! So many false long tresses all to spare, 
 
 I That soon his head was most completely crown'd, 
 i After the manner then in fashion tliere; 
 
 i And this addition with such gems was bound 
 As suited the ensemble of his toilet, 
 While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. 
 
 80. 
 
 And now being femininely all array'd, 
 
 [With some small aid from scissars, paint, and tweezers, 
 
 He look'd in almost all respects a maid, 
 
 lAnd Baba smilingly exclaim'd, "You see, sirs, 
 
 j A perfect transformation here display'd ; 
 
 And now, then, you must came along with me, sirs, 
 
 (That is — the lady:" — clapping his hands twice, 
 
 'Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice, 
 
 81. 
 
 I'Tou, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
 '"Will please to accompany those gentlemen 
 iTo supper; but you, worthy christian nun, 
 jWill follow me: no trifling, sir; for when 
 
 II say a thing, it must at once be done. 
 jWhat fear you ? think you this a lion's den? 
 Why, 'tis a palace, where the truly wise 
 jAntieipate the Prophet's paradise. 
 
 82. 
 
 You fool! I tell you no one means you harm." 
 j'So much the better," Juan said, "for them; 
 Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 
 jVVhich is not quite so light as you may deem. 
 i yield thus far; but soon will break the charm, 
 p any take me for that which I seem ; 
 J50 that I trust, for every body's sake, 
 That tills disguise may lead to no mistake." 
 
 83. 
 
 'Blockhead! come on and see," quoth Baba; while 
 
 )on Juan, turning to his comrade, who, 
 
 fhough somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile 
 
 Jpon the metamorphosis in view. 
 
 Farewell !" they mutually exclaim'd : "this soil 
 
 >eems fertile in adventures strange and new; 
 
 )nc's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, 
 
 Jy this old black enchanter's unsought aid." 
 
 84. 
 
 Farewell !" said Juan; "should we meet no more, 
 wish you a good appetite." — "Farewell!" 
 leplicd the other; "though it grieves me sore; 
 Vhen we next meet we'll have a tale to tell : 
 Ve needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 
 Ceep your good name; though Eve herself once fell." 
 Nay," quoth the maid, "the Sultan's self shan't carry me, 
 Inless his Highness promises to marry me." 
 
 85. 
 
 And thus they parted, each by separate doors ; 
 Baba led Juan onward, room by room. 
 Through glittering galleries and o'er marble-floors. 
 Till a gigantic portal through the gloom. 
 Haughty and huge, along the distance towers ; 
 And wafted far arose a rich perfume: 
 It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine, 
 For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 
 
 86. 
 
 The giant-door was broad, and bright, and high, 
 Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise; 
 Warriors thereon were battling furiously; 
 Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies; 
 There captives led in triumph droop the eye. 
 And in perspective many a squadron flies ; 
 It seems the work of times before the line 
 Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantinc, 
 
 87. 
 
 This massy portal stood at the wide close 
 
 Of a huge hall, and on its either side 
 
 Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose. 
 
 Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 
 
 In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 
 
 O'er them in almost pyramidic pride: 
 
 The gate so splendid was in all its/eatures, 
 
 You never thought about those little creatures, 
 
 Until you nearly trod on them, and then. 
 You started back in horror to survey 
 The wondrous hideousness of those small men. 
 Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor gray. 
 But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 
 Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may; 
 They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and dumb — 
 Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 
 
 89. 
 
 Their duty was — for they were strong, and though 
 They look'd so little, did strong things at times — 
 To ope this door, which they could really do, 
 The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes; 
 And now and then, with tough strings of tiic bow^ 
 As is the custom of those eastern climes, 
 To give some rebel Paclia a cravat; 
 For mutes are generally used for that. 
 
 90. 
 
 They spoke by signs — that is, not spoke at all; 
 
 And, looking like two incubi, they glared 
 
 As Baba with his fingers made them fall 
 
 To heaving back the portal-folds: it scared 
 
 Juan a moment, as this pair so small 
 
 With shrinking serpent-optics on him stared; 
 
 It was as if their little looks could poison 
 
 Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on. 
 
206 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 91. 
 
 Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 
 
 To Juan some slight lessons as his guide: 
 
 "If you could just contrive," he said, "to stint 
 
 That somewhat manly majesty of stride, [in't — ) 
 
 'Tvvould be as well, and — (though there's not much 
 
 To swing a little less from side to side, 
 
 Which has at times an aspect of the oddest; 
 
 And also, could you look a little modest, 
 
 92. 
 
 'T would be convenient; for these mutes have eyes 
 Like needles, which may pierce those petticoats; 
 And if they should discover your disguise, 
 You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats; 
 And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, 
 To find our way to Marmora without boats, 
 Stitch'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 
 A good deal practised here upon occasion." 
 
 93. 
 
 With this encouragement, he led the way 
 Into a room still nobler than the last; 
 A rich confusion form'd a disarray 
 In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
 Could hardly carry any thing away, 
 Object on object flash'd so bright and fast; 
 A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter, 
 Magnificently mingled in a litter. 
 
 94. 
 
 Wealth had done wonders — taste not much; such things 
 
 Occur in orient-palaces, and even 
 
 In the more chasten'd domes of western kings 
 
 (Of which I've also seen some six or seven), 
 
 Wiiere I can't say or gold or diamond (lings 
 
 Much lustre, there is much to bo forgiven ; 
 
 Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures. 
 
 On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 
 
 95. 
 
 In tliis imperial hall, at distance lay 
 
 Under a canopy, and there reclined 
 
 Quite in a confidential queenly way, 
 
 A lady. Baba stopp'd, and, kneeling, sign'd 
 
 To Juan, who, though not much used to pray. 
 
 Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind 
 
 What all this meant: while Baba bow'd and bended 
 
 His head, until the ceremony ended. 
 
 96. 
 
 Tlie lady, rising up with such an air 
 
 As Venus rose with from the wave, on them 
 
 Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair 
 
 Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem; 
 
 And raising up an arm as moonlight fair, 
 
 She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 
 
 Of her deep-purple robe, and speaking low. 
 
 Pointed to Juan, who rcmain'd below. 
 
 97. 
 
 Her presence was as lofty as her state; 
 Her beauty of that overpowering kind. 
 Whose force description only would abate: 
 I'd ratiier leave it much to your own mind. 
 Than lessen it by what I could relate 
 Of forms and features; it would strike you blind 
 Could I do justice to the full detail; 
 So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 
 
 98. 
 
 This much however I may add, — her years 
 Were ripe, they might make six and twenty springs , 
 But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, 
 And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things , 
 Such as was Mary's, Queen of Scots; true — tears 
 And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow wrings '■ 
 Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow 
 Ugly; for instance — Ninon de I'Enclos. 
 
 99. 
 
 She spake some words to her attendants, who 
 Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 
 And were all clad alike; like Juan, too, 
 Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen : 
 They form'd a very nymph-like looting crew. 
 Which might have call'd Diana's chorus "cousin," 
 As far as outward show may correspond ; 
 I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 
 
 100. 
 
 They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring, 
 But not by the same door througli which came in 
 Baba and Juan, wliicli last stood admiring, 
 At some small distance, all he saw within 
 This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 
 Marvel and praise : for both or none things win ; 
 And I must say I ne'er could see the very 
 Great happiness of the "Nil Admirari." 
 
 101. 
 
 "Not to admire is all the art I know 
 
 (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speed 
 
 To make men happy, or to keep them so;" 
 
 (So take it in the very words of Creech). 
 
 Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago; 
 
 And thus Pope quotes the precept, to re-teach 
 
 From his translation; but had Tion*? admired. 
 
 Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 
 
 102. 
 
 Baba, when all the damsels were witiidrawn, 
 
 Motion'd to Juan to approach, and tiien 
 
 A second time desired him to kneel down 
 
 And kiss the lady's foot, which maxim when 
 
 He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 
 
 Drew himself up to his full height again, 
 
 And said : "It grieved him, but he could not stoop 
 
 To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." 
 
CANTO V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 207 
 
 103. 
 
 Baba, indig'nant at this ill-timed pride, 
 
 Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 
 
 He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 
 
 About a bow-string — quite in vain ; not yet 
 
 Would Juan stoop, though 'twere to Mahomet's bride ; 
 
 There's nothing in the world like etiquette 
 
 In kingly chambers or imperial halls. 
 
 As also at the race and county-balls. 
 
 104. 
 
 He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 
 About his ears, and nathlcss would not bend; 
 The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 
 Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend 
 To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 
 A thousand times of him had made an end; 
 At length, perceiving the "foot" could not stand, 
 
 Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 
 
 ! 
 
 105. 
 
 Here was an honourable compromise, 
 
 \ half-way house of diplomatic rest, 
 
 Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise ; 
 
 \.nd Juan now his willingness exprest, 
 
 To use all fit and proper courtesies, 
 
 Adding, that this was commonest and best, 
 
 ^or through the Soutli the custom still commands 
 
 The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 
 
 106. 
 
 Vnd he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 
 fhough on more thoroitgh-bred or fairer fingers 
 lips e'er left their transitory trace : 
 n such as these the lip too fondly lingers, 
 nd for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, 
 s you will see, if she you love will bring hers 
 in contact; and sometimes even a fair stranger's 
 |kn almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 
 I 
 
 107. 
 
 I'he lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 
 {aba retire, which he obey'd in style, 
 is if well-used to the retreating trade ; 
 nd taking hints in good part all the while, 
 Ic vvhisper'd Juan not to be afraid, 
 nd looking on him with a sort of smile, 
 I'ook leave witii such a face of satisfaction. 
 Is good men wear who have done a virtuous action. 
 
 i 108. 
 
 ^'hen he was gone, there was a sudden change : 
 know not what might be the lady's tliouglit, 
 ut o'er lier bright brow ilash'd a tumult strange, 
 j nd into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 
 !lood-rcd as sunset-summer-clouds which range 
 lie verge of heaven; and in her large eyes wrought 
 mixture of sensations might be scann'd, 
 f half voluptuousness and half command. 
 
 109. 
 
 Her form had all the softness of her sex. 
 Her features all the sweetness of tiie devil, 
 When he put on the cherub to perplex 
 Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil; 
 The sun himself was scarce more free from specks 
 Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil ; 
 Yet, somehow, there was something somewhere wanting 
 As if she rather order' d than was granting. 
 
 110. 
 
 Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
 
 A chain o'er all she did; that is, a chain 
 
 Was thrown' as 'twere about the neck of you, — 
 
 And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 
 
 With aught which looks like despotism in view : 
 
 Our souls at least are free, and 'tis in vain 
 
 We would against tliem make the flesh obey — < y"'' 
 
 The spirit in the end will have its way. 
 
 111. 
 
 Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet; 
 
 Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
 
 There was a self-will even in her small feet. 
 
 As though they were quite conscious of her station — 
 
 They trod as upon necks; and to complete 
 
 Her state (it is the custom of her nation), 
 
 A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
 
 She was a sultan's bride (thank Heaven, not mine}. 
 
 112. 
 
 I'To hear and to obey" had been from birth 
 
 The law of all around her; to fulfil 
 
 All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth. 
 
 Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will ; 
 
 Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth: 
 
 Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still ; 
 
 Had she but been a Christian, I've a notion 
 
 We should have found out the "perpetual motion." 
 
 113. 
 
 Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought; 
 
 Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed 
 
 It might be seen, with diligence was sought. 
 
 And when 'twas found straightway the bargain closed; 
 
 There was no end unto the things she bought, 
 
 Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
 
 Yet even her tyranny had such a grace. 
 
 The women pardon'd all except her face. 
 
 114. 
 
 .Tuan, the latest of her whims, had caught 
 Her eye in passing on his way to sale; 
 She ordcr'd him directly to be bought, 
 And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 
 In any kind of mischief to be wrought. 
 Had his instructions where and how to deal: 
 She had no prudence, but lie had ; and this 
 Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 
 
208 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 115. 
 
 His youth and features favour'd the disguise, 
 And should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, 
 Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, 
 This I must leave sultanas to decide: 
 Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, 
 And kings and consorts oft are mystified, 
 As we may ascertain with due precision. 
 Some by experience, others by tradition. 
 
 116. 
 
 But to the main point, where we have been tending ; - 
 She now conceived all difficulties past, 
 And decm'd herself extremely condescending 
 When, being made her property at last. 
 Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 
 Passion and power, a glance on him she cast. 
 And merely saying: "Christian, canst thou love?" 
 Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 
 
 117. 
 
 And so it was, in proper time and place ; 
 But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing 
 With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face. 
 Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing. 
 Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace. 
 And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing: 
 These words went through his soul like Arab spears, 
 Su that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 
 
 118. 
 
 She was a good deal shock'd; not shoek'd at tears. 
 For women shed and use them at their liking ; 
 But there is something when man's eye appears 
 Wet, still more disagreeable and striking : 
 A woman's teardrop melts, a man's half sears, ^/ 
 Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 
 His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter) 
 To them 'tis a relief, to us a torture. • 
 
 119. 
 
 And she would have consoled, but knew not how; 
 Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
 Infected her with sympathy till now, 
 And never having dreamt what 'twas to bear 
 Aught of a serious sorrowing kind, although 
 There might arise some pouting petty care 
 To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near 
 Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. 
 
 120. 
 
 But nature teaches more than power can spoil. 
 And when a strong although a strange sensation 
 Moves — female hearts are such a genial soil 
 For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, [/ 
 They naturally pour the "wine and oil," 
 Samaritans in every situation ; 
 And thus Gulbcyaz, though she knew not why, 
 Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 
 
 121. 
 
 But tears must stop like all things else ; and soon 
 Juan, w ho for an instant had been moved 
 To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 
 Of one who dared to ask if "he had loved," 
 Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
 Bright with the very weakness he reproved ; 
 And although sensitive to beauty, he 
 Felt most indignant still at not being free. 
 
 122. 
 
 Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days. 
 
 Was mucTi embarrass'd, never having met 
 
 In all her life with aught save prayers and praise; 
 
 And as she also risk'd her life to get 
 
 Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
 
 Into a comfortable tete-a-tete. 
 
 To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, 
 
 And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 
 
 123. 
 
 I also would suggest the fitting time. 
 To gentlemen in any such like case. 
 That is to say — in a meridian clime; 
 With us there is more law given to the case. 
 But here a small delay forms a great crime: 
 So recollect that the extremest grace 
 Is just two minutes for your declaration — 
 A moment more would hurt your reputation. 
 
 124. 
 
 Juan's was good; and mlglit have been still better. 
 But he had got Haidee into liis head: 
 However strange, he could not yet forget her, 
 Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 
 Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 
 For having had him to her palace led, 
 Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 
 Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again. 
 
 125. 
 
 At length, in an imperial way, she laid 
 Her hand on his, and bending on his eyes, 
 Wliich needed not an empire to persuade, 
 Look'd into his for love, where none replies: 
 Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid. 
 That being the last thing a proud woman tries ; 
 She rose, and, pausing one chaste moment, threw 
 Herself upon his breast, and there she grew., 
 
 126. 
 
 This was an awkward test, as Juan found. 
 But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride: 
 With gentle force her white arms he unwound, 
 And seated her all drooping by his side. 
 Then, rising haughtily, he glanced around, 
 And, looking coldly in her face, he cried, 
 "The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 
 Serve a sultana's sensual phantasy. 
 
CANTO V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 209 
 
 127. 
 
 Thou askst, if I can love? be this the proof 
 How much I have loved — that I love not tliee! 
 In this vile garb, the distafl's web and woof 
 Were fitter for me : Love is for the free ! 
 I am not dazzled by this splendid roof. 
 Whatc'er thy power, and great it seems to be, 
 Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne, 
 And hands obey — our hearts are still our own." 
 
 138. 
 
 This was a truth to us extremely trite, 
 Not so to her who ne'er had heard such things ; 
 She decm'd her least command must yield delight. 
 Earth being only made for queens and kings. 
 If hearts lay on the left side or the right 
 She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 
 Legitimacy its born votaries, when 
 Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 
 
 129. 
 
 Besides, as Isas been said, she was so fair 
 
 As even in a much humbler lot had made 
 
 A kingdom or confusion any where; 
 
 And also, as may be presumed, she laid 
 
 Some stress upon those charms, which seldom are 
 
 By the possessors thrown into the shade ; — 
 
 She thought hers gave a double "right divine," 
 
 And half of that opinion 's also mine. 
 
 1.30. 
 
 Elemember, or (if you cannot) imagine, 
 
 Ve! who have kept your chastity when young. 
 
 While some more desperate dowager has been waging 
 
 Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung 
 
 By your refusal, recollect her raging! 
 
 3r recollect all that was said or sung 
 
 3n such a subject; then suppose the face 
 
 3f a young downright beauty in this case. 
 
 131. 
 
 Suppose, but you already have supposed. 
 The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, 
 hedra, and all which story has disclosed 
 )f good examples; pity that so few by 
 r*oets and private tutors are exposed, 
 To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by ! 
 iut when you have supposed the few we know, 
 fou can't suppose Gulbcyaz' angry brow. 
 
 132J 
 
 i tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 
 
 )r any interesting beast of prey, 
 
 ire similes at hand for the distress 
 
 )f ladies who cannot have their own way; 
 
 Jut though my turn will not be served with less, 
 
 These don't express one half what I should say: 
 
 •"or what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
 
 fo cutting short their hopes of having any? 
 
 133. 
 
 The love of offspring 's nature's general law, 
 From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings; 
 There's nothing whets the beak or arms the claw 
 Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings; 
 And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 
 How mothers love their children's squalls and chucklings ; 
 And this strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 
 Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. 
 
 134. 
 
 If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 
 
 'Twere nothing — for her eyes flash'd always fire; 
 
 Or said her checks assumed the deepest dyes, 
 
 I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer. 
 
 So supernatural was her passion's rise; 
 
 For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire : 
 
 Even ye who know what a check'd woman is 
 
 (Enough, God knows !) would much fall short of this. 
 
 135. 
 
 Her rage was but a minute's, and 'twas well — 
 A moment's more had slain her; but the while 
 It lasted 'twas like a short glimpse of hell : 
 Nougiit 's more sublime than energetic bile. 
 Though horrible to see yet grand to tell, 
 Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle; 
 And the deep passions flashing through her form 
 Made her a beautiful en»bodied storm. 
 
 136. 
 
 A vulgar tempest 'twere to a Typhoon 
 To match a common fury with her rage. 
 And yet she did not want to reach the moon. 
 Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page; 
 Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune, 
 Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age — 
 Her wish was but to "kill, kill, kill," like Lear's, 
 And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears. 
 
 137. 
 
 A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, 
 Pass'd without words — in fact she could not speak; 
 And then her sex's shame broke in at last, 
 A sentiment till then in her but weak. 
 But now it flow'd in natural and fast. 
 As water through an unexpected leak, - 
 
 For she felt humbled -^ and humiliation "^ 
 Is sometimes good for people in her station. 
 
 138. 
 
 It teaches them that they are flesh and blood. 
 It also gently hints to them that others, - 
 
 Although of clay, are not yet quite of mud ; 
 That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 
 And works of the same pottery, bad or good. 
 Though not all born of the same sires and mothers: 
 It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches. 
 But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 
 14 
 
210 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 139. 
 
 Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head; 
 Her second, to cut only liis — acquaintance; 
 Her third, to ask him where he had been bred; 
 Her fourtli, to rally him into repentance; 
 Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 
 Her sixth, to stab herself; her scventli, to sentence 
 The lash to Uaba, — but her grand resource 
 Was to sit down again, and cry of course. 
 
 140. 
 
 She thought to stab herself, but then she had 
 The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward ; 
 For eastern stays are little made to pad, 
 So that a poniard pierces if 'tis stuck hard: 
 She thought of killing Juan — but, poor lad ! 
 Though he deserved it well for being so backward, 
 The cutting off his head was not the art 
 Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 
 
 141. 
 
 Juan was moTcd: he had made up liis mind 
 To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 
 For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined. 
 Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish. 
 And thus heroically stood resigned. 
 Rather than sin — except to his own wisli : 
 But all his great preparatives for dying 
 Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. 
 
 142. 
 
 As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed, 
 
 So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how; 
 
 And first he wonder'd why he had refused; 
 
 And then, if matters could be made up now ; 
 
 And next his savage virtue he accused, 
 
 Just as a friar may accuse his vow, 
 
 Or as a dame repents her of her oath, 
 
 Which mostly ends in some small breacli of both. 
 
 143. 
 
 So he began to stammer some excuses; 
 But words are not enough in such a matter, 
 Although you borrow'd all that e'er the Muses 
 Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter, 
 Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses ; 
 Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
 His peace was making, but before he ventured 
 Further, old Baba rather briskly entered. 
 
 144. 
 
 "Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the Moon !" 
 ('Twas thus he spake) "and Empress of the Earth ! 
 Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune. 
 Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth. 
 Your slave brings tidings — he hopes not too soon — 
 Which your sublime attention may be worth : 
 The Sun himself has sent me like a ray 
 To hint that he is coming up this way." 
 
 145. 
 
 "Ts it," cxclaim'd Gulbeyaz, "as you say? 
 
 I wish to Heaven he would not shine till morning ! 
 
 But bid my women form the milky way. 
 
 Hence, my old comet ! give the stars due warning - 
 
 And, Christian! mingle with them as you may ; 
 
 And, as you'd have me pardon your past scorning • 
 
 Here they were interrupted by a humming 
 
 Sound, and then by a cry "the Sultan 's coming !" 
 
 146. 
 
 First came her damsels, a decorous file. 
 
 And then his Highness' eunuchs, black and white; 
 
 The train might reach a quarter of a mile: 
 
 His Majesty was always so polite 
 
 As to announce his visits a long while 
 
 Before he came, especially at niglit; 
 
 For being the last wife of the emperor, 
 
 She was of course the favourite of the four. 
 
 147. 
 
 His Highness was a man of solemn port, 
 Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 
 Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, 
 His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise; 
 He was as good a sovereign of the sort 
 As any mention'd in the histories 
 Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine 
 Save Solyman, the glory of their line. 
 
 148. 
 
 He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 
 
 With more than "Oriental scrupulosity;" 
 
 He left to his vizier all state-affairs, 
 
 And show'd but little royal curiosity: 
 
 I know not if he had domestic cares — 
 
 No process proved connubial animosity; 
 
 Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, 
 
 Were ruled as calmly as a christian queen. 
 
 149. 
 
 If now and then there happen'd a slight slip. 
 Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 
 The story scarcely pass'd a single lip — 
 The sack and sea had settled all in time. 
 From which the secret nobody could rip ; 
 The public knew no more than does this rhyme; 
 No scandals made the daily press a curse — 
 Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 
 
 160. 
 
 He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 
 Was also certain that the earth was square. 
 Because he had journcy'd fifty miles and found 
 No sign that it was circular any where; 
 His empire also was without a bound: 
 'Tis true, a little troubled here and there, 
 By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours. 
 But then they never came to "the Seven Towers;" 
 
CANTO V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 211 
 
 151. 
 
 Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 
 
 To lodge there when a war broke out, according 
 
 To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 
 
 Those scoundrels, wlio have never had a sword in 
 
 Their dirty diplomatic hand, to vent 
 
 Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording 
 
 Their lies, yclep'd despatches, without risk or 
 
 The singeing of a single inky whisker. 
 
 152. 
 
 He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons, 
 Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd, 
 The former in a palace, where like nuns 
 They lived till some bashaw was sent abroad, 
 When, she, whose turn it was, wedded at once. 
 Sometimes at six years old — thougli this seems odd, 
 'Tis true J the reason is, that the bashaw 
 Must make a present to his sire in law. 
 
 His sons were kept in prison till they grew 
 Of years to fill a bowstring or the tlirone, 
 One or tlie other, but which of the two 
 Could yet be known unto the Fates alone; 
 Meantime the education tliey went through 
 Was princely, as the poofs have always shown: 
 So that the heir-apparent still was found 
 No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd. 
 
 154. 
 
 Tlis Majesty saluted his fourth spouse 
 
 With all the ceremonies of his rank. 
 
 Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd her brows, 
 
 As suits a matron wlio has play'd a prank ; 
 
 These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 
 
 To save the credit of their breaking bank : 
 
 To no men are such cordial greetings given 
 
 As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven. 
 
 155. 
 
 His Highness cast around his great black eyes, 
 And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 
 Juan amongst the damsels in disguise, 
 At which he seem'd no whit surprised nor grieved, 
 But just remark'd with air sedate and wise. 
 While still a fluttering sigh Gulbcyaz heaved: 
 "I see you've bought another girl ; 'tis pity 
 That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 
 
 156. 
 
 This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 
 
 The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake. 
 
 Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone : 
 
 Oil, Mahomet ! that his Majesty should take 
 
 Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 
 
 Of them his lips imperial ever spake! 
 
 There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, 
 
 But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 
 
 157. 
 
 The Turks do well to shut — at least, sometimes — 
 The women up — because in sad reality, 
 Their chastity in these unhappy climes 
 Is not a thing of that astringent quality, 
 Which in the north prevents precarious crimes. 
 And makes our snow less pure than our morality; 
 The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice. 
 Has quite the contrary effect on vice. 
 
 158. 
 
 Thus far our chronicle; and now we pause, 
 Though not for want of matter; but 'tis time, 
 According to the ancient epic laws. 
 To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 
 Let this fiftli Canto meet with due applause. 
 The sixth shall liave a touch of the sublime; 
 Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 
 You'll pardon to my muse a few short naps. 
 
212 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 CANTOS VI. VII. VIII. 
 
 The details of the Siege of Ismail in two of the fol- 
 lowing Cantos (i. e. the 7th and 8th) are taken from a 
 French work, entitled "Histoire de la Nouvelle Russie." 
 Some of the incidents attributed to Don Juan really 
 occurred, particularly the circumstance of his saving the 
 infant, which was the actual case of the late Due de 
 Richelieu, then a young volunteer in the Russian service, 
 and afterwards the founder and benefactor of Odessa, 
 where his name and memory can never cease to be 
 regarded with reverence. In the course of these Cantos, 
 a stanza or two will be found relative to tlie late Marquis 
 of Londonderry, but written some time before his 
 decease. — Had that person's Oligarcliy died with him, 
 they would have been suppressed; as it is, I am aware 
 of nothing in the manner of his death or of his life to 
 prevent the free expression of the opinions of all whom 
 his whole existence was consumed in endeavouring to 
 enslave. That he was an amiable man m private, life, may 
 or may not be true; but with this the public have nothing 
 to do ; and as to lamenting his death, it will be time 
 enough when Ireland has ceased to mourn for his birth. 
 As a Minister, I, for one of millions, looked upon him 
 as the most despotic in intention and the weakest in 
 intellect, that ever tyrannized over a country. It is the 
 first time indeed since the Normans, that England has 
 been insulted by a Minister (at least) who could not 
 speak English, and that Parliament permitted itself to be 
 dictated to in the language of Mrs. Malaprop. 
 
 Of the manner of his death little need be said, except 
 tliat if a poor radical, such as Waddington or Watson, 
 had cut his throat, he would have been buried in a cross- 
 road, with the usual appurtenances of the stake and 
 mallet. But the Minister was an elegant Lunatic — a 
 sentimental Suicide — he merely cut the "carotid artery" 
 (blessings on their learning!) — and lo! the Pageant, 
 and tlie Abbey! and "the Syllables of Dolour yelled 
 forth" by the Newspapers — and the harangue of the 
 Coroner in an eulogy over the bleeding body of the 
 deceased — (an Anthony worthy of such a Cajsar) — 
 and the nauseous and atrocious cant of a degraded Crew 
 of Conspirators against all that is sincere and honourable. 
 In his death he was necessarily one of two things by the 
 latv — a felon or a madman — and in either case no great 
 subject for panegyric *). In his life he was — what all 
 the world knows, and half of it will fee! for years to come, 
 unless his death prove a "moral lesson" to the surviving 
 Sejani **) of Europe. It uiay at least serve as some 
 
 *) I say by the law of the land — the laws of Humanity judge more 
 gently; but as the legitimate have always the law in their mouths, let 
 them here make the most of it. 
 
 ") From this number must be excepted Canning. Canning is a genius, 
 almost an universal one: an orator , a wit, a poet, a statesman ; and no 
 
 {Ok 
 
 m 
 
 consolation to the nations , that their oppressors are not 
 happy, and in some instances judge so justly of th^ 
 own actions as to anticipate the sentence of mankind. — 
 Let us hear no more of this man, and let Ireland remove! 
 the ashes of her Grattan from the Sanctuary of W^ 
 minster. Shall the Patriot of Humanity repose by 
 Werther of Politics!!! 
 
 With regard to the objections which have been made 
 on another score to the already published Cantos of this 
 poem, I shall content myself with two quotations from 
 Voltaire: — 
 
 "La pudeur s'est enfuie des coeurs, et s'est refugitJt 
 sur les levres." 
 
 "Plus les moeurs sont depravdes, plus les expression? 
 deviennent mesurees; on croit regagner en langage ct 
 qu'on a perdu en vertu." 
 
 This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded am 
 hypocritical mass which leavens the present English ge- 
 neration, and is the only answer they deserve. The hack! 
 neyed and lavished title of blasphemer — which , witll 
 radical, liberal, jacobin, reformer, are the charges whicl 
 the hirelings are daily ringing in the ears of those wh( i 
 will listen — should be welcome to all who recollect oi 
 tvhotn it was originally bestowed. Socrates and Jesu; 
 Christ were put to death publicly as blasphemers, and S( 
 have been and may be many who dare to oppose th« i 
 most notorious abuses of the name of God and the mind 
 of man. But persecution is not refutation, nor eve^ 
 triumph: the "wretched inGdel," as he is called, is pro] ■ 
 bably happier in his prison than the proudest of hi,' 
 assailants. With his opinions I have nothing to do - 
 they may be right or wrong — but he has sufiered fo 
 them, and that very suflering for conscience' sake wil 
 make more proselytes to Deism than the example of he 
 terodox *) prelates to Christianity, suicide statesmen U 
 oppression, or over-pensioned homicides to the impiou 
 alliance which insults the world with the name of "Holy I 
 I have no wish to trample on the dislionoured or tbi 
 dead ; but it would be well if the adherents to the classcj 
 from whence those persons sprung sliould abate a littlJ 
 of the Cant which is the crying sin of this double-dealinf 
 and false-speaking time of selfish spoilers, and — bu 
 enough for the present. 
 
 Iran of talent can long pursue the path of bis late predecessor. Lord (l 
 If ever man saved his country. Canning can ; but will be? I, for omi 
 hope so. 
 
 •) When Lord Sandwich said "he did not know the difference I < 
 tween orthodoxy and heterodoxy" — Warburton, the bishop, replii 
 "Orthodoxy, my Lord, is my doxy, and heterodoxy is another ma: 
 doxy." — ' A prelate of the present day has discovered, it seems, a tli:: 
 kind of doxy, which has not greatly exalted in the eyes of the elect li. 
 which Bentbam calls "Church-of-Englauaism." . 
 
CANTO VI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 213 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 "Dost thou think , beeausc thou art virtuous , there shall be no more Cakes 
 and Ale? — Yes, by St. Anne; and Ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too !" 
 — Twelfth Nij;ht; or What you will. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 1. 
 
 There is a tide in the affairs of men 
 
 iVIiicl), taken at the flood" — you know the rest 
 
 Lnd most of us liavc found it, now and then; 
 
 U least we think so, thougli but few have guess'd 
 
 :'he moment, till too late to come again. 
 
 lut no doubt every thing is for the best — 
 
 )f which tlie surest sign is in the end: 
 
 Vhen things are at the worst they sometimes mend. 
 
 'here is a tide in the affairs of women 
 
 Which, taken at the flood, leads" — God knows where: 
 
 'hose navigators must be able seamen 
 
 Vhose charts lay down its currents to a hair; 
 
 Tot all the reveries of Jacob Behmen 
 
 V^ith its strange whirls and eddies can compare: — 
 
 fen, witli their heads, reflect on this and tliat, i^ 
 
 ut women with their hearts, on Heaven knows what ! 
 
 ind yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, 
 loung, beautiful, and daring — who would risk 
 
 throne, the world, the universe, to be 
 cloved in her own way, and rather whisk 
 he stars from out the sky, than not be free 
 js are the billows when the breeze is brisk — 
 Ihough such a she's a devil (if that there be one), 
 
 ct she would make full many a Manichean. 
 
 4. 
 
 irones, worlds, p.t cetera, are so oft upset 
 S commonest ambition, that wlien passion 
 crthrows the same, we readily forget, 
 r at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 
 Anthony be well remember'd yet, 
 is not his conquests keep his name in fashion; 
 it Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 
 atbalance all the Caesars' victories. 
 
 6. 
 
 : died at fifty for a queen of forty; 
 
 vish their years had been fifteen and twenty, 
 
 )r then wealth, kingdoms, worlds, are but a sport — I 
 
 jmcmber when, though I had no great plenty 
 
 " worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 
 
 ive what I had — a heart: — as the world went, I 
 
 ive what was worth a world ; for worlds could never 
 
 .'Store me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 
 
 'Twas theboy's ''mite," and, like the "widow's," may 
 
 Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now : 
 
 But whether such things do, or do not, weigh, 
 
 All who have loved, or love, will still allow 
 
 Life has nought like it. God is love, they say, '- ---^ 
 
 And Love's a God, or was, before the brow 
 
 Of Earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 
 
 Of — but Chronology best knows the years. 
 
 We left our hero and third heroine in 
 
 A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, 
 
 For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin 
 
 For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman; 
 
 Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, 
 
 And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, 
 
 Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious. 
 
 Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. 
 
 8. 
 
 I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong; 
 
 I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it ; 
 
 But I detest all fiction, even in song. 
 
 And so must tell tlie truth, howe'er you blame it. 
 
 Her reason being weak, her passions strong, 
 
 She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim it) 
 
 Was scarce enougli ; for he had fifty -nine j 
 
 Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 
 
 9. 
 
 I am not, like Cassio, "an arithmetician," 
 But by "the bookish theoric" it appears. 
 If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision. 
 That, adding to the account his Highness' years. 
 The fair Sultana err'd from inanition ; 
 For, were the Sultan just to all his dears, 
 She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part 
 Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 
 
 10. 
 
 It is observed that ladies are litigious 
 
 Upon all legal objects of possession, 
 
 And not the least so when they are religious, 
 
 Which doubles what they think of the transgression. 
 
 With suits and prosecutions they besiege us, 
 
 As the tribunals show through many a session, 
 
 When they suspect that any one goes shares 
 
 In that to which the law makes them sole heirs. 
 
214 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 11. 
 
 Now, if this holds good in a Christian land, 
 
 The heathen also, though with lesser latitude, 
 
 Are apt to carry things with a high hand. 
 
 And take what kings call "an imposing attitude;" 
 
 And for their rights connubial make a stand. 
 
 When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude; 
 
 And as four wives must have quadruple claims, 
 
 The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. 
 
 12, 
 
 Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 
 
 TIic favourite; but what's favour amongst four? 
 
 Polygamy may well be held in dread, 
 
 Not only as a sin, but as a bore: — 
 
 Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed, 
 
 "Will scarcely find philosophy for more; 
 
 And all (except Maiiometans) torbear 
 
 To make the nuptial couch a "Bed of Ware." 
 
 13. 
 
 His Highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 
 So styled according to the usual forms 
 Of every monarch, till they are consign'd 
 To those sad hungry jacobins, the worms, 
 Who on the very loftiest kingshave dined, — 
 His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms, 
 Expecting all the welcome of a lover 
 (A "Highland welcome" all the wide world over). 
 
 14. 
 
 Now here Ave should distinguish ; for howe'er 
 Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 
 May look like what is — neither here nor there; 
 Tliey are put on as easily as a hat, 
 Or ratlier bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 
 Triram'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 
 Which form an ornament, but no more part 
 Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 
 
 15. 
 
 A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
 Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 
 More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 
 Rather to hide what pleases most unknown, 
 Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 
 Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 
 A sincere woman's breast, — for over-warm 
 Or ovet-cold annihilates the charm. 
 
 «. / 
 
 16. 
 
 For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 
 If true, 'tis no great lease of its own fire; 
 For no one, save in very early youth, 
 Would like (I think) to trust all to desire. 
 Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth, 
 And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer 
 At a sad discount: while your over-chilly 
 Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly. 
 
 17. 
 
 Tliat is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, 
 For so it seems to lovers swift or slow. 
 Who fain would have a mutual flame confest. 
 And see a sentimental passion glow, 
 Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest. 
 In his Monastic Concubine of Snow; — 
 In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 
 Horatian : "Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 
 
 18. 
 
 The "tu" 's too much, — but let it stand — the verse 
 Requires it, that's to say, the English rhyme, 
 And not the pink of old Hexanieters; 
 Hut, after all, tliere's neither tune nor time 
 In the last line, which cannot well be worse. 
 And was thrust in to close the octave's chime: 
 I own no prosody can ever rate it 
 As a rule, but Truth may, if you translate it. 
 
 19. 
 
 If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 
 I know not — it succeeded, and success 
 Is much in most things, not less in the heart 
 Than other articles of female dress. 
 Self-love in man too beats all female art ; 
 They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less: 
 And no one virtue yet, except starvation; 
 Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 
 
 20. 
 
 We leave this royal couple to repose; 
 A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 
 Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes; 
 Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep 
 As any man's clay-mixture undergoes. 
 Our least of sorrows are such as we weep, 
 'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears 
 The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 
 
 21. 
 
 A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 
 
 To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 
 
 At a per-centage; a child cross, dog ill, 
 
 A favourite horse fallen lame just as he's mounted ; 
 
 A bad old woman making a worse will. 
 
 Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted 
 
 As certain; — these are paltry things, and yet 
 
 I've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 
 
 22. 
 
 I'm a philosopher; confound them all ! 
 Bills, beasts, and men, and — no ! not womankind ! 
 With one good hearty curse I vent my gall. 
 And then my stoicism leaves nought behind 
 Which it can either pain or evil call, 
 And I can give my whole soul up to mind ; 
 Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth, 
 Is more than I know — the deuce take them both. 
 
CANTO VI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 215 
 
 23. 
 
 So now all thin«fs are d— n'd, one feels at ease, 
 '. As after reading Athanasius* curse, 
 ; Which doth your true believer so much please: 
 jl doubt if any now could make it worse 
 jo'er his worst enemy when at his knees; 
 i'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse. 
 And decorates the book of Common Prayer, 
 As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 
 
 Gulbcyaz and her lord were sleeping, or 
 (At least one of them — Oh the heavy night! 
 jWhcn wicked wives who love some bachelor 
 }Lie down in dudgeon to sigli for the light 
 iOf the gray morning, and look vainly for 
 Sits twinkle through the lattice dusky quite, 
 jTo toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake 
 jest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake. 
 
 [These are beneath the canopy of heaven, 
 Also beneath the canopy of beds 
 iFour-posted and silk-curtain'd, which are given 
 jFor rich men and their brides to lay their heads 
 ppon, in sheets white as what bards call "driven 
 jSnow." Well! 'tis all hap-hazard when one weds. 
 jGulbeyaz was an emp,ress, but had been 
 Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean. 
 
 26. 
 
 pon Jnan, in his feminine disguise, 
 
 (With all tlie damsels in their long array, 
 
 Had bow'd themselves before the imperial eyes, 
 
 jVnd, at the usual signal, ta'en their way 
 
 jBack to their chambers, those long galleries 
 
 tn the seraglio, where the ladies lay 
 
 jTheir delicate limbs ; a thousand bosoms there 
 
 Ikating for love, as the caged birds for air. 
 
 27. 
 
 love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 
 The tyrant's wish, "that mankind only had 
 'One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce: 
 ^fy wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, 
 ^nd much more tender on the wliole than fierce; 
 t being (not now, but only while a lad) 
 That womankind had but one rosy mouth, 
 To kiss them all at once from North to South. 
 
 28. 
 
 )h enviable Briareus! with thy hands 
 
 ^nd heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 
 
 n such proportion ! — But my muse withstands 
 
 ["he giant-thought of being a Titan's bride, 
 
 )r travelling in Patagonian lands; 
 
 >o let us back to Lilliput, and guide 
 
 )ur hero through tlie labyrintli of love 
 
 n which we left him several lines above. 
 
 29. 
 
 He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, 
 At the given signal joined to their array ; 
 And though he certainly ran many risks. 
 Yet he could not at times keep, by the way 
 (Although the consequences of such frisks 
 Are worse than the worst damages men pay 
 In moral England, wliere the thing's a tax). 
 From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 
 
 30. 
 
 Still he forgot not his disguise : — along 
 
 The galleries ffom room to room they walk'd, 
 
 A virgin-like and edifying throng. 
 
 By eunuchs flank'd ; while at their head there stalk'd 
 
 A dame who kept up discipline among 
 
 The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd 
 
 Without her sanction on their she-parades : 
 
 Her title was "the Mother of the Maids." 
 
 31. 
 
 Whether she was a "mother," I know not, 
 
 Or whether they were "maids" who call'd her mother; 
 
 But this is her seraglio-title, got 
 
 I know not how, but good as any other; 
 
 So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott: 
 
 Her office was, to keep aloof or smother 
 
 All bad propensities in fifteen hundred 
 
 Young women, and correct them when they blander'd. 
 
 32. 
 
 A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 
 
 More easy by the absence of all men 
 
 Except his Majesty, who, with her aid, 
 
 And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then 
 
 A slight example, just to cast a shade 
 
 Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 
 
 Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 
 
 Where all the passions have, alas! but one vent. 
 
 33. 
 
 And what is that ? Devotion, doubtless — how 
 
 Could you ask such a question ? — but we will 
 
 Continue. As I said, this goodly row 
 
 Of ladies of all countries at the will 
 
 Of one good man, with stately march and slow, 
 
 Like water-lilies floating down a rill, 
 
 Or rather lake — for rills do not run slowly, — 
 
 Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 
 
 34: 
 
 But when they reach'd their own apartments, there, 
 Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose. 
 Waves at spring-tide, or women any where 
 When freed from bonds (which are of no great use 
 After all), or like Irish at a fair. 
 Their guards being gone, and, as it were, a truce 
 Establish'd between them and bondage, they 
 Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 
 
216 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 3& 
 
 Their talk of course ran most on the new comer, 
 
 Her shape, her air, her hair, her every tiling: 
 
 Some thought her dress did not so much become her, 
 
 Or vvonder'd at her ears without a ring ; 
 
 Some said her years were getting nigh their summer. 
 
 Others contended they were but in spring; 
 
 Some thought her rather masculine in height, 
 
 While others wish'd that she had been so quite. 
 
 36. 
 
 But no one doubted, on the whole, that she 
 
 Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, 
 
 And fresh, and "beautiful exceedingly," 
 
 Who witli the brightest Georgians might compare : 
 
 They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz too could be 
 
 So silly as to buy slaves who might share 
 
 (If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 
 
 Her throne and power, and every thing beside, 
 
 37. 
 
 But what was strangest in this virgin-crew. 
 
 Although her beauty was enough to vex, 
 
 After the first investigating view. 
 
 They all found out as few, or fewer, specks * 
 
 In the fair form of their companion new. 
 
 Than is the custom of the gentle sex 
 
 Wlicn they survey, with christian eyes or heathen, 
 
 In a new face "the ugliest creature breathing." 
 
 38. 
 
 And yet they had their little jealousies. 
 Like all the restj but upon this occasion. 
 Whether there are such things as sympatiiies 
 Without our knowledge or our approbation. 
 Although they could not see through his disguise. 
 All felt a soft kind of concatenation. 
 Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 
 You please — we will not quarrel about that: 
 
 39. 
 
 But certain 'tis they all felt for their new 
 Companion something newer still, as 'twere 
 A sentimental friendship through and through. 
 Extremely pure, which made them all concur 
 In wishing her their sister, save a few 
 Who wish'd they had a brother just like her. 
 Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 
 They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. 
 
 40. 
 
 Of those who had most genius for this sort 
 
 Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 
 
 Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu; — in short 
 
 (To save description) fair as fair can be 
 
 Were they, according to the best report, 
 
 Though differing in stature and degree. 
 
 And clime and time, and country and complexion ; 
 
 They all alike admired their new connexion. 
 
 41. 
 
 Lolah was dusk as India and as warm ; 
 
 Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, 
 
 With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 
 
 And feet so small they scarce seemM made to tread. 
 
 But rather skim the earth ; while Dudu 's form 
 
 Look'd more adapted to be put to bed. 
 
 Being somewhat large and languishing and lazy. 
 
 Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 
 
 42. 
 
 A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 
 
 Yet very fit to "murder sleep" in those 
 
 Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendant hue, 
 
 Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 
 
 Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true, 
 
 Thinner she might have been and yet scarce lose; 
 
 Yet after all, 'twould puzzle to say where 
 
 It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 
 
 43. 
 
 She was not violently lively, but 
 Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking; 
 Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet half-shut. 
 They put beholders in a tender taking; 
 She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 
 From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking. 
 The mortal and the marble still at strife, 
 And timidly expanding into life. 
 
 44. 
 
 Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 
 "Juanna." Well, a pretty name enough. 
 Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — [such stu 
 "From Spain." — "But where is Spain ?" — "Don't i 
 Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for shame ! " 
 Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 
 To poor Katinka: "Spain's an island near 
 Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 
 
 45. 
 
 Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 
 Juanna, playing with her veil or hair; 
 And, looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd 
 As if she pitied her for being there, 
 A pretty stranger without friend or guide. 
 And all abash'd too at the general stare 
 Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, 
 With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. 
 
 46. 
 
 But here the Mother of the Maids drew near. 
 With "Ladies, it is time to go to rest." 
 "I'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 
 She added to Juanna, their new guest : 
 "Your coming has been unexpected here. 
 And every couch is occupied; you had best 
 Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early 
 We will have all things settled for you fairly." 
 
CANTO VI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 217 
 
 47. 
 
 j Here Lolah interposed — "Mamma, you know 
 i You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 
 'That any hody should disturb you; so 
 ! I'll take Juanna ; we're a slenderer pair 
 'Than you would make the half of; — don't say no, 
 I And I of your young- charge will take due care." 
 JBut here Katinka interfered and said, 
 "She also had compassion and a bed." 
 
 48. 
 
 "Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she. 
 
 The matron frown'd: "Why so?" — "For fear of ghosts," 
 
 Replied Katinka; "I am sure I see 
 
 A phantom upon each of the four posts; 
 
 And then I have the worst dreams that can be, 
 
 Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts." 
 
 The dame replied, "Between your dreams and you, 
 
 il fear Juauna's dreams would be but few. 
 
 4». 
 
 jVou, Lolah, must continue still to lie 
 klone, for reasons whicli don't matter; you 
 
 he same, Katinka, until by and bye; 
 
 nd I shall place Juanna with Dudu, 
 iWho's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, 
 \nd will not toss and chatter the iiight through. 
 kVhat say you, child?" — Dudu said nothing, as 
 ler talents were of the more silent class; 
 
 60. 
 
 iJut she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's brow 
 
 Jetween the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, 
 
 [atinkatoo; and with a gentle bow 
 
 Curtsies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks) 
 
 Ihe took Juanna by the hand to show 
 
 'heir place of rest, and left to both their piques, 
 
 'he others pouting at the matron's preference 
 
 >fDudu, though they held their tongues from deference. 
 
 61. 
 
 m 
 
 VKis a spacious chamber (Oda is 
 he Turkish title) and ranged round the wall 
 Vere couches, toilets — and much more than this 
 might describe, as I have seen it all, 
 iut it suffices — little was amiss ; 
 Twas on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall, 
 iV^ith all things ladies want, save one or two, 
 jud even those were nearer than they knew. 
 
 62. 
 
 udu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, 
 ot very dashing, but extremely winning, 
 i'^ith the most regulated charms of feature, 
 /^hich painters cannot catch like faces sinning 
 gainst proportion — the wild strokes of nature 
 i^hich they hit oft" at once in tlic beginning, 
 uU of expression, right or wrong, that strike, 
 nd, pleasing or unpleasing, still are like. 
 
 63. 
 
 But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, 
 Where all was harmony and calm and quiet. 
 Luxuriant, budding; clieerful without mirth. 
 Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it 
 Than are your mighty passions and so forth, 
 Which some call "the sublime;" I wish they'd try it: 
 I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, 
 And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 
 
 64. 
 
 But she was pensive more than melancholy, 
 And serious more than pensive, and serene, 
 It may be, more than either, not unholy 
 Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. 
 The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly 
 Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen, 
 That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall; 
 She never thought about herself at all. 
 
 66. 
 
 And therefore was she kind and gentle as 
 The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, 
 By which its nomenclature came to pass; 
 Thus most appropriately has been shown 
 "Lucus a non lucendo," not what was, 
 But what was not ; a sort of style that's grown 
 Extremely common in this age, whose metal 
 The devil may decompose, but never settle: 
 
 56. 
 
 I think it may be of "Corinthian Brass," 
 
 Which was a mixture of all metals, but 
 
 The brazen uppermost). Kind reader! pass 
 
 This long parenthesis : I could not shut 
 
 It sooner for the soul of me. and class 
 
 My faults even with your own! which meaneth, put 
 
 A kind construction upon them and me : 
 
 But that you won't — then don't — I am not less free. 
 
 57. 
 
 'Tis time we should return to plain narration, 
 
 And thus my narrative proceeds: — Dudii, 
 
 With every kindness short of ostentation, 
 
 Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 
 
 This labyrinth of female's, and each station 
 
 Described — what's strange — in words extremely few : 
 
 I have but one simile and that's a blunder. 
 
 For wordless woman, which is silent thunder. 
 
 58. 
 
 And next she gave her (I say her, because 
 The gender still was epicene, at least 
 In outward show, which is a saving clause) 
 An outline of the customs of the East, 
 With all their chaste integrity of laws, 
 By which the more a haram is increased. 
 The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 
 Of any supernumerary beauties. 
 
 14* 
 
218 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO VI 
 
 59. 
 
 And then she gave Juanna a cimste kiss ; 
 Dudu was fond of kissing — which I'm sure 
 That nobody can ever take amiss, 
 Because 'tis pleasant, so that it be pure, 
 And between females means no more than tins 
 That they liave nothing better near, or newer. 
 "Kiss" rhymes to "bliss" in fact as well as verse — 
 I wish it never led to something worse. 
 
 ,^ 
 
 60. 
 
 In perfect innocence she then unmade 
 
 Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 
 
 A child of nature, carelessly arrayed: 
 
 If fond of a cliance ogle at her glass, 
 
 'Twas like the fawn which, in the lake displayed. 
 
 Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass. 
 
 When first she starts, and then returns to peep, 
 
 Admiring this new native of the deep. 
 
 61. 
 
 And one by one her articles of dress 
 Were laid aside ; but not before slie offer'd 
 Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 
 Of modest}' declined tlic assistance proffcr'd, 
 Which past well off — as she could do no less; 
 Though by this politesse she rather sulicr'd, 
 Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, 
 Wliich surely were invented for our sins, — 
 
 62. 
 
 Making a woman like a porcupine, 
 
 Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread, 
 
 Oh ye! whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine. 
 
 In early youth, to turn a lady's maid ; — 
 
 I did ray very boyish best to shine 
 
 In tricking her out for a masquerade : 
 
 The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
 
 Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 
 
 63. 
 
 But these are foolish tin'ngs to all tlie wise — 
 
 And I love Wisdom more than she loves me; 
 
 My tendency is to pliilosophize 
 
 On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; , 
 
 But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. J 
 
 What are we? and whence came we? what shall be V 
 
 Our ultimate existence? what's our present? 
 
 Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 
 
 64. 
 
 There was deep silence in the chamber : dim 
 
 And distant from each other burn'd the lights, 
 
 And slumber hovcr'd o'er each lovely limb 
 
 Of the fair occupants : if there be sprites, 
 
 They should have walk'd there in their spriteliest trim, 
 
 By way of change from tlieir sepulchral sites, 
 
 And sliown tliemselves as ghosts of better taste 
 
 Than haunting some old tuin or wild waste. 
 
 Many and beautiful lay those around, 
 
 Like flowers of difierent hue and clime and root, 
 
 In some exotic garden sometimes found. 
 
 With cost and care and warmth induced to shoot. 
 
 One, with her auburn tresses lightly bound, 
 
 And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 
 
 Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath 
 
 And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath 
 
 66. 
 
 One, with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm, i 
 
 And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd J 
 
 Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm-; 4 
 
 And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud | 
 
 The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm, | 
 
 As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, j 
 
 Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night | 
 
 All bashfully to struggle into light. J 
 
 67. 
 
 This is no bull, although it sounds so; for 
 
 'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. 
 
 A third's all-pallid aspect offer'd more 
 
 The traits of sleeping sorrow, and bctray'd 
 
 Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shon 
 
 Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray'd 
 
 (As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges [fringe 
 
 The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dai 
 
 68. 
 
 A fourth, as marble, statue-like and still. 
 Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep; 
 White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill. 
 Or the snow-minaret on an Alpine steep, 
 Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you will; 
 ^ly similes are gather'd in a heap, 
 So pick and chuse — perhaps you'll be content 
 With a carved lady on a monument. 
 
 And lo ! a fifth appears; — and what is she? 
 A lady of "a certain age," Avhich means 
 Certainly aged — what her years might be 
 I know not, never counting past their teens; 
 But there she slept, not quite so fair to see. 
 As ere that awful period intervenes 
 Which lays botii men and women on the shelf, 
 To meditate upon their sins and self. 
 
 70. 
 
 But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudu? 
 
 With strict intjuiry I could ne'er discover, 
 
 And scorn to add a syllable untrue; 
 
 But ere the middle watch was hardly over. 
 
 Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue. 
 
 And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover. 
 
 To those who like their company, about 
 
 The apartment, on a sudden she si-rcam'd out: 
 
CANTO vr. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 219 
 
 71. 
 
 And that so loudly, that upstarted all 
 ; The Oda, in a general commotion : 
 I Matron and maids, and those whom you may call 
 
 Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
 j One on the other, throughout the whole hall, 
 ' All trembling, wondering, without the least notion. 
 
 More than I Iiave myself, of what could make 
 j The calm Dudu so turbulently wake. 
 
 I 72. 
 
 But wide awake she was, and round her bed, 
 
 1 ■ . . . 
 
 I With floating draperies and with flying hair, 
 
 j Witli eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 
 
 And bosoms, arms, and ancles glancing bare, 
 
 I And bright as any meteor ever bred 
 
 i By the North-Pole, — they sought her cause of care, 
 
 jFor she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, 
 
 iHer eye dilated and her colour heightcn'd. 
 
 i 73. 
 
 But what is strange — and a strong proof how great 
 
 I A blessing is sound sleep — Juanna lay 
 
 j As fast as ever husband by his mate 
 
 In holy matrimony snores away. 
 
 JNot all the clamour broke her happy state 
 
 lOf slumber, ere they shook her, — so they say 
 ' At least, — and then she too unclosed her eyes, 
 • JAnd yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. 
 
 74. 
 
 And now commenced a strict investigation, 
 iWhich, as all spoke at once, and more than once 
 iConjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, 
 Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 
 To answer in a very clear oration. 
 Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense, 
 But, being "no orator, as Brutus is," 
 Could not at first expound what was ami$3> 
 
 I 75. 
 
 At length she said, that, in a slumber sound. 
 
 She dream'd a dream of walking in a wood — 
 
 A "wood obscure," like that where Dante found 
 
 Himself in at the age when all grow good; 
 
 jLife's half-way house, where dames with virtue crown'd, 
 
 Run much less risk of lovers turning rude; — 
 
 jAnd that this wood was full of pleasant fruits. 
 
 And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots; 
 
 I 76. 
 
 And in the midst a golden apple grew, — 
 |A most prodigious pippin — but it hung 
 jRather too high and distant; that she threw 
 jHcr glances on it, and tiien, longing, flung 
 |Stones, and whatever she could pick up, to 
 jBring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 
 iTo its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, 
 [But always at a most provoking height ; — 
 
 77. 
 
 That on a sudden, when she least had hope, 
 
 It fell down of its own accord, before 
 
 Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop 
 
 And pick it up, and bite it to the core; 
 
 That just as her young lip began to ope 
 
 Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 
 
 A bee flew out and stung her to the heart, 
 
 And so — she awoke with a great scream and start. 
 
 78. 
 
 All this she told with some confusion and 
 
 Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 
 
 Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 
 
 To expound their vain and visionary gleams. 
 
 I've known some odd ones which seem'd really plann'd 
 
 Prophetically, or that which one deems 
 
 "A strange coincidence," to use a phrase 
 
 By which such things are settled now-a-days. 
 
 79. 
 
 The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm, 
 Began, as is the consequence of fear, 
 To scold a little at the false alarm 
 That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear. 
 The matron too was wroth to leave her warm 
 Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear, 
 And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd, 
 And said that she was sorry she had cried. 
 
 80. 
 
 * I've heard of stories of a cook and bull ; 
 
 But visions of an apple and a bee, 
 
 To take us from our natural rest, and pull 
 
 The whole Oda frorrf their beds at half-past three, 
 
 Would make us think the moon is at its full. 
 
 You surely are unwell, child ! we must see, 
 
 To-morrow, what his Highness's physician 
 
 Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 
 
 81. 
 
 And poor Juanna too ! the child's first night 
 Within these walls, to be broke in upon 
 With such a clamour — I had thought it right 
 That the young stranger should not lie alone, 
 And as the quietest of all, she might * 
 
 With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have knownj 
 But now I must transfer her to the charge 
 Of Lolah — though her couch is not so large." 
 
 « 82. 
 
 Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition; 
 But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own. 
 Resulting from the scolding or the vision, 
 Implored that present pardon might be shown 
 For this first fault, and that on no condition 
 (She added in a soft and piteous tone) 
 Juanna should be taken from her, and 
 Her future dreams should all be kept in hand. 
 
220 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 83. 
 
 She promised never more to have a dream, 
 
 At least to dream so loudly as just now; 
 
 She vvonder'd at herself how she could scream — 
 
 'Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow, 
 
 A fond hallucination, and a tlicme 
 
 For lauo^htcr — but she felt her spirits low, 
 
 And bcgg'd they would excuse her; she'd get over 
 
 This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 
 
 84. 
 
 And here Juanna kindly interposed 
 
 And said she felt herself extremely well 
 
 Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed 
 
 When all around rang like a tocsin-bell: 
 
 She did not find herself the least disposed 
 
 To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 
 
 Apart from one who had no sin to show, 
 
 Save that of dreaming once "mal-k-propos." 
 
 85. 
 
 As thus Juanna spoke, Dudii turn'd round 
 And hid her face within Juanna's breast; 
 Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 
 The colour of a budding rose's crest. 
 I can't tell why she blush'd nor can expound 
 The mystery of this rupture of their rest; 
 All that I know is, that the facts I state 
 Arc true as truth has ever been of late. 
 
 86. 
 
 And so good night to them, — or, if you will. 
 
 Good morrow — for the cock had crown, and light 
 
 Began to clothe each Asiatic hill. 
 
 And the mosque-crescent struggled mto sight 
 
 Of the long caravan, which in the chill 
 
 Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height 
 
 That stretches to the stony belt which girds 
 
 Asia, where Kafl looks down upon the Kurds. 
 
 87. 
 
 With tlie first ray, or rather gray of morn, 
 Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale 
 As Passion rises, with its bosom worn, 
 Array 'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil: 
 The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, 
 Which Fable places in her breast of wail. 
 Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 
 Whose headlong passions form their proper woes. 
 
 88. 
 
 And that 's the moral of this composition, 
 
 If people would but sec its real drift; — 
 
 But that they will not do without suspicion, 
 
 Because all gentle readers have the gift 
 
 Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision; 
 
 While gentle writers also love to lift 
 
 Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural — 
 
 The numbers are too great for them to flatter all. 
 
 Rose the Sultana from a bed of splendour, — 
 
 Softer than tlie soft Sybarite's, who cried 
 
 Aloud because his feelings were too tender 
 
 To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 
 
 So beautiful that art could little mend her, 
 
 Though pale with conflicts between love and pride: — 
 
 So agitated was she with her error. 
 
 She did not even look into the mirror. 
 
 90. 
 
 Also arose about the self-same time. 
 Perhaps a little later, her great lord. 
 Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime. 
 And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd; 
 A thing of much less import in that clime — 
 A.t least to those of incomes which aflord 
 The filling up their whole connubial cargo — 
 Than where two wives are under an embargo. 
 
 91. 
 
 He did not think much on the matter, nor 
 
 Indeed on any other: as a man, 
 
 He liked to have a handsome paramour 
 
 At hand, as one may like to have a fan. 
 
 And therefore of Circassians had good store. 
 
 As an amusement after the Divan ; 
 
 Though an unusual fit of love, or duty. 
 
 Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 
 
 92. 
 
 And now he rose : and, after due ablutions. 
 
 Exacted by the customs of tlic East, 
 
 And prayers and other pious evolutions. 
 
 He drank six cups of coffee at the least, 
 
 And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 
 
 Whose victories had recently increased. 
 
 In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores 
 
 As greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 
 
 93. 
 
 But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander! 
 
 Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend | 
 
 Thine ear, if it should reach, — and now rhymes wander! 
 
 Almost as far as Petersburgli, and lend 
 
 A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 
 
 Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend 
 
 Their roar even with the Baltic's — so you be 
 
 Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me. ' 
 
 94. 
 
 To call men love-begotten, or prodaim 
 Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 
 That hater of mankind, would be a shame, 
 A libel, or wliate'er you please to rhyme on: 
 But people's ancestors are history's game; 
 And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 
 All generations, I should like to know 
 What pedigree the best would have to show? 
 
OANTO VI 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 221 
 
 95. 
 
 Had Catherine and the Saltan understood 
 
 Then- own true interests, which kings rarely know, 
 
 Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude, 
 
 Tliere was a way to end their strife, although 
 
 Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, 
 
 Without the aid of prince or plenipo: 
 
 She to dismiss her guards and he his haram. 
 
 And for their other matters, meet and share 'cm. 
 
 96. 
 
 But as it was, his Highness had to hold 
 I His daily council upon ways and means. 
 How to encounter with this martial scold, 
 This modern Amazon and Queen of queans; 
 And the perplexity could not be told 
 Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 
 Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 
 Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 
 
 97. 
 
 Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king Avas gone, 
 iRetired into her boudoir, a sweet place 
 jFor love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, 
 lAnd rich with all contrivances which grace 
 (Those gay recesses ; — many a precious stone 
 iSparkled along its roof, and many a vase 
 pf porcelain held in the fettcr'd flowers, 
 JThose captive soothers of a captive's hours. 
 
 98. 
 
 Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble 
 
 ^ied with each other on this costly spot ; 
 
 Lad singing birds without were heard to warble ; 
 
 Lnd the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot 
 V'aricd eacli ray; — but all descriptions garble 
 
 "lie true effect, and so we had better not 
 iJe too minute ; an outline is the best, — 
 |V lively reader's fancy does the rest. 
 
 99. 
 
 l^nd here she summon'd Baba, and required 
 
 )on Juan at his hands, and information 
 
 )f what had past since all the slaves retired, 
 
 lnd whether he had occupied tUeir station ; 
 
 f matters had been managed as desired, 
 
 Lnd his disguise with due consideration 
 
 Cept up; and above all, the where and how 
 
 lie had pass'd the night, was that she wish'd to know. 
 
 100. 
 
 Jaba, with some embarrassment, replied 
 'o this long catechism of questions ask'd 
 lore easily than answer'd, — tliat he had tried 
 lis best to obey in what he had been task'd; 
 Jut tliere seem'd something that he wish'd to hide, 
 Wfiic/i hesitation more betray'd tlian mask'd ; 
 Tc scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource 
 'o which embarrass'd people have recourse. 
 
 101. 
 
 Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, 
 Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed; 
 She liked quick answers in all conversations; 
 And when she saw him stumbling like a steed 
 In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones; 
 And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed, 
 Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle 
 And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle. 
 
 102. 
 
 When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew 
 To bode him no great good, he deprecated 
 Her anger, and beseech'd she'd hear Jiim through — 
 He could not help the thing which he related : 
 Then out it came at length, that to Dudii 
 Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated ; 
 But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 
 The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 
 
 103. 
 
 The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
 The discipline of the whole haram bore. 
 As soon as they re-enter'd their own room. 
 For Baba's function stopt short at the door. 
 Had settled all; nor could he then presume 
 (The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more. 
 Without exciting such suspicion as 
 Might make the matter still worse than it was. 
 
 104. 
 
 He hoped, indeed he thought ho could be sure, 
 Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact 
 *Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, 
 Because a foolish or imprudent act 
 Would not alone have made him insecure, 
 But ended in his being found out and sack'd, 
 And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 
 Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke. 
 
 105. 
 
 This he discreetly kept in the back-ground, 
 
 And talk'd away — and might have talk'd till now, 
 
 For any further answer that he found. 
 
 So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow; 
 
 Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd round, 
 
 As if she had received a sudden blow, 
 
 And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly 
 
 O'er her fair front, like morning's on a lily. 
 
 106. 
 
 Although she was not of the fainting sort, 
 
 Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd ; — 
 
 It was but a convulsion, which though short 
 
 Can never be described; we all have heard, 
 
 And some of us have felt thus "all amort," 
 
 When things beyond the common have occurr'd ; — 
 
 Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 
 
 W^hat she could ne'er express — then how should I ! 
 
222 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO VL 
 
 107. 
 
 She stood a moment, as a Pythoness 
 
 Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 
 
 Of inspiration gather'd from distress, 
 
 When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 
 
 The heart asunder; — then, as more or less 
 
 Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, 
 
 She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, 
 
 And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees. 
 
 1«8. 
 
 Her face declined and was unseen; her hair 
 Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, 
 ' Sweeping the marble underncatij her chair. 
 Or rather sofa (for it was all pillow, — 
 A low, soft Ottoman) and black despair 
 Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow. 
 Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check 
 Its farther course, but must receive its wreck. 
 
 109. 
 
 Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping 
 Conceal'd her features better than a veil ; 
 And one hand o'er the Ottoman lay drooping, 
 White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 
 Would that I were a painter ! to be grouping 
 All that a poet drags into detail ! 
 Oh that my words were colours ! but their tints 
 May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. 
 
 110. 
 
 Baba, Avho knew by experience when to talk 
 And when to hold his tongue, now held it till 
 This passion miglit blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
 Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 
 At length she rose up, and began to walk 
 Slowly along the room, but silent still, 
 And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye; 
 The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 
 
 111. 
 
 She stopt, and raised her head to speak — but paused. 
 
 And then moved on again with rapid pace; 
 
 Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused 
 
 By deep emotion : — you may sometimes trace 
 
 A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 
 
 By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 
 
 By all the demons of all passions, show'd 
 
 Their work even by the way in which he trode. 
 
 112. 
 
 Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba: — "Slave! 
 Bring the two slaves!" she said in a low tone. 
 But one which Baba did not like to brave, 
 And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone 
 To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave 
 (Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown 
 What slaves her Highness wish'd to indicate, 
 For fear of any error, like the late. ^ ".e^T* 
 
 113, 
 
 "The Georgian and her paramour," replied 
 
 The imperial bride — and added, "Let the boat 
 
 Be ready by the secret portal's side: 
 
 You know the rest." The words stuck in her throat, 
 
 Despite her injured love and fiery pride; 
 
 And of this Baba willingly took note. 
 
 And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet's beard, 
 
 She would revoke the order he had heard. 
 
 114. 
 
 "To hear is to obey," he said; "but still. 
 Sultana, think upon the consequence: 
 It is not that I shall not all fulfil 
 Your orders, even in their severest sense; 
 But such precipitation may end ill. 
 Even at your own imperative expense: 
 I do not mean destruction and expo-sure 
 In case of any premature disclosure; 
 
 115. 
 
 But your own feelings. Even should all the rest 
 Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 
 Already many a once love-beaten breast 
 Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide — 
 You love this boyish, new seraglio-guest. 
 And — if this violent remedy be tried — 
 Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, 
 Tliat killing him is not the way to cure you." 
 
 116. 
 
 "What dost thou know of love or feeling? — wretch ! < 
 Begone!" she cried, with kindling eyes, "and do 
 My bidding!" Baba vanish'd; for to stretch . 
 
 His own remonstrance further, he well knew, 
 Might end in acting as his own "Jack Ketch ;" 
 And, though he wish'd extremely to get through 
 This awkward business without harm to others, 
 He still preferr'd his own neck to another's. > 
 
 117. 
 
 Away he went then upon his commission. 
 Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase 
 Against all women, of whatever condition, 
 Especially Sultanas and their ways; 
 Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, 
 Their never knowing their own mind two days, 
 The trouble that they gave, their immorality. 
 Which made him daily bless his own neutrality. 
 
 118. 
 
 And then he call'd his brethren to his aid, 
 And sent one on a summons to the pair, 
 That they must instantly be well arrayed, 
 And, above all, be combed even to a hair, 
 And brought before the Empress, who had made 
 Enquiries after them with kindest care: 
 At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly ; 
 But go they must at once, and will I — nill I. 
 
CANTO VII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 223 
 
 119. 
 
 And here I leave them at their preparation 
 For the imperial presence, wherein whether 
 Gulbeyaz showed them both commiseration. 
 Or got rid of tlie parties altogether 
 i Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 
 i Are things the turning of a hair or feather 
 1 May settle; but far be't from me to anticipate 
 In what way feminine caprice may dissipate. 
 
 120. 
 
 I leave them for the present, with good wishes, 
 Tliough doubts of their well doing, to arrange 
 Another part of history; for the dishes 
 Of this our banquet we must sometimes change: 
 And, trusting Juan may escape the fishes, 
 Although his situation now seems strange 
 And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, 
 The Muse will take a little touch at warfare. 
 
 CANTO VII. 
 
 I 
 
 1. 
 
 hLovc! Oil Glory! whatareye? who fly 
 [Around us ever, rarely to alight; 
 here's not a meteor in the polar-sky 
 f such transccndant and more fleeting flight. 
 Chill, and chained to cold earth, we lift on high 
 pur eyes in search of either lovely light; 
 A thousand and a thousand colours they 
 assume, tlien leave us on our freezing way. 
 
 ^nd such as they are, such my present tale is, 
 IV. non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, 
 j\ versified Aurora Borealis, 
 Vhich flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 
 
 /^hen we know what all are, we must bewail us, 
 iut, ne'er the less, I hope it is no crime 
 To laugii at all things : for I wish to know 
 
 Vhat, after all, are all things — but a show? 
 
 \ 3- 
 
 They accuse me — me — the present writer of 
 The present poem, of — I know not what, — 
 ^ tendency to underrate and scoff 
 U human power and virtue, and all that ; 
 ^nd this tliey say in language rather rough, 
 iood God ! I wonder what they would be at ! 
 j say no more than has been said in Dante's 
 erse, and by Solomon, and by Cervantes; 
 
 4. 
 
 iy Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, 
 Jy Fenclon, by Luther, and by Plato ; 
 Jy Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau. 
 Vho knew this life was not worth a potato. 
 ris not their fault, nor mine, if this be so — 
 ''or my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 
 ^or even Diogenes. — We live and die, 
 iut whicii is best, you know no more than L 
 
 5. 
 
 Socrates said, our only knowledge was 
 
 "To know that nothing could be known ;" a pleasant 
 
 Science enough, which levels to an ass 
 
 Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 
 
 Newton (that proverb of the mind), ala« ! 
 
 Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent. 
 
 That he himself felt only "like a youth • 
 
 Picking up shells by the great Qcean — truth." 
 
 6. 
 
 Ecclesiastes said, that all is vanity — 
 
 Most modern preachers say the same, or show it 
 
 By their examples of true Christianity ; 
 
 In short, all know, or very soon may know it; 
 
 And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity. 
 
 By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, 
 
 Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, 
 
 From holding up the nothingness of life? 
 
 7. 
 
 Dogs, or men! (for I flatter you in saying 
 That ye are dogs — your betters far) ye may 
 Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 
 To show j-e what ye are in every way. 
 As little as the moon stops for the baying 
 Of wolves, will the bright Muse withdraw one ray 
 From out her skies; — then howl your idle wrath ! 
 While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 
 
 8. 
 
 "Fierce loves and faithless wars" — I am not sure 
 
 If this be the right reading — 'tis no matter; 
 
 The fact's about the same, I am secure ; — 
 
 I sing them both, and am about to batter 
 
 A town which did a famous siege endure. 
 
 And was beleaguer'd both by land and water 
 
 By Suvaroff, or anglice Suwarrow, 
 
 Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow. 
 
224 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO vr 
 
 The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 
 Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank, 
 With buildings in the oriental taste, 
 Eut still a fortress of the foremost rank, 
 Or was, at least, unless 'tis since defaced, 
 Which with your conquerors is a common prank: 
 It stands some eighty versts from the liigh sea, 
 And measures round of toises thousands three. 
 
 10. 
 
 Within the extent of this fortification 
 A borough is comprised, along the height 
 Upon the left, which, from its loftier station. 
 Commands the city, and upon its site 
 A Greek had raised around this elevation 
 A quantity of palisades upright. 
 So placed as to impede the fire of those 
 Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 
 
 11. 
 
 This circumstance may serve to give a notion 
 Of the high talents of this new Vauban: 
 But the town-ditch below was deep as ocean, 
 The rampart higher than you'd wish to hang: 
 But then there w^s a great want of precaution, 
 (Prithee, excuse this engineering slang) 
 Nor work advanqpd, nor cover'd way was there. 
 To hint at least "Here Is no thoroughfare." 
 
 12. 
 
 But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 
 And walls as thick as most sculls born as yet; 
 Two batteries, cap-^-pie, as our St. George, 
 Case-mated one, and t'other "<\ barbette," 
 Of Danube's bank took formidable charge; 
 While two-and-twenty cannon, duly set, 
 Rose over the town's right side, in bristling tier. 
 Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 
 
 13. 
 
 But from the river the town 's open quite. 
 Because the Turks could never be persuaded 
 A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight; 
 And such their creed was, till they were invaded. 
 When it grew rather late to set things right. 
 But as the Danube could not well be waded. 
 They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla, 
 And only shouted, "Alia !" and "Bis Millah ! " 
 
 14. 
 
 The Russians now were ready to attack ; 
 But oh, ye Goddesses of war and glory ! 
 How shall I spell the name of each Cossack 
 Who were immortal, could one tell their story! 
 Alas! what to their memory can lack? 
 Achilles self was not more grim and gory 
 Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation. 
 Whose names want nothing but — pronunciation. 
 
 16. 
 
 Still I'll record a few, if but to increase 
 
 Our euphony — there was Strongenoff , and Strokonofl 
 
 Meknop, Serge Lwdw, Arsenicw of modern Greece, 
 
 And TcliitsshakolT, and Roguenoft', and Chokenoff, 
 
 And others of twelve consonants a piece; 
 
 And more might be found out, if I could poke cnouglr^^ 
 
 Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet ! ) 
 
 It seems has got an ear as well as trumpet, 
 
 16. 
 
 And cannot tune those discords of narration. 
 
 Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme; 
 
 Yet there were several worth commemoration, 
 
 As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime; 
 
 Soft words too, fitted for the peroration 
 
 Of Londonderry, drawling against time. 
 
 Ending in "ischskin," "ousckin," "iffskchy," "ouski,* 
 
 Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski ; 
 
 17. 
 
 Scherematoft'and Chrematoff, Koklophti, 
 Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin, 
 All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoft'd high 
 Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin : 
 Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 
 Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin 
 Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, 
 And no more handy substitute been near. 
 
 18. 
 
 Then there were foreigners of much renown. 
 
 Of various nations, and all volunteers ; 
 
 Not fighting for their country or its crown, 
 
 But wishing to be one day brigadiers ; 
 
 Also to have the sacking of a town — ; 
 
 A pleasant thing to young men at their years. - 
 
 'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith. 
 
 Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen named Smith, 
 
 19. 
 
 Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson ; — all the rest 
 Had been call'd "Jemmy," after the great bard; 
 I don't know whether they had arms or crest. 
 But such a godfather 's as good a card. 
 Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the best 
 Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward. 
 Was he, since so renown'd "in country-quarters 
 At Halifax; " but now he served the Tartars. 
 
 20. 
 
 The rest were Jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills; 
 But when I've added that the elder Jack Smith 
 Was born in Cumberland among the hills. 
 And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 
 I've said all /know of a name that fills 
 Three lines of the dispatch in taking "Schmacksmit^ 
 A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 
 He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 
 
1 CANTO VII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 225 
 
 21. 
 
 [ wonder (although Mars no doubt's a God I 
 i Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
 May make up for a bullet in his body? 
 I hope this little question is no sin, 
 Because, thougii I am but a simple noddy, 
 [ think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
 The mouth of some one in his plays so doating, 
 Which many people pass for wits by quoting. 
 
 22. 
 
 Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young and gay: 
 
 But I'm too great a patriot to record 
 
 riieir Gallic names upon a glorious day; 
 
 ['d rather tell ten lies than say a word 
 
 3f truth ; — such truths are treason : they betray 
 
 Their country, and, as traitors are abhorr'd, 
 
 Who name the French in English, save to show 
 
 tlow peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe. 
 
 23. 
 
 riie Russians, having built two batteries on 
 Enisle near Ismail, had two ends in view; 
 The first was to bombard it, and knock down 
 The public buildings, and the private too, 
 «fo matter what poor souls might be undone. 
 The city's shape suggested this, 'tis true; 
 ''orm'd like an amphitiieatre, each dwelling 
 Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 
 
 24. 
 
 The second object was to profit by 
 
 The moment of the general consternation, 
 
 To attack the Turk's iiotilla, which lay nigh, 
 
 Jxtremcly tranquil, anchor'd at its station : 
 
 Jut a third motive was as probably 
 
 ;"o frighten them into capitulation; 
 
 ^ phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, 
 
 Jnless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers. 
 
 25. 
 
 i habit rather blameable, which is 
 That of despising those we combat with, 
 ommon in many cases, was in this 
 The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoftand Smith; 
 )ne of the valourous "Smiths" whom we shall miss 
 )ut of those nineteen who late rhymed to "pitli ;" 
 Jut 'tis a name so spread o'er "Sir" and "Madam," 
 L'hat one would think the first who bore it "Adam." 
 
 26. 
 
 The Russian batteries were incomplete, 
 
 Jecause they were constructed in a hurry; 
 
 Thus, tiie same cause which makes a verse want feet, 
 
 Knd throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray, 
 
 W^lien the sale of new books is not so fleet 
 
 \^s tlicy who print them think is necessary. 
 
 May likewise put off for a time what story 
 
 Sometimes calls "murder," and at others "glory." 
 
 27. 
 
 Whether it was their engineers' stupidity, 
 Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care, 
 Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
 Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 
 Of homicide; but there was no solidity 
 In the new batteries erected there; 
 They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd. 
 And added greatly to the missing list. 
 
 28. 
 
 A sad miscalculation about distance 
 
 Made all their naval matters incorrect; 
 
 Three tire-ships lost their amiable existence 
 
 Before they reach'd a spot to take effect : 
 
 The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 
 
 Could remedy this lubberly defect; 
 
 They blew up in the middle of the river. 
 
 While, though 'twas dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever. 
 
 29. 
 
 At seven they rose, however, and surveyed 
 The Russ flotilla getting under way; 
 'Twas nine, when still advancing undismayed, 
 Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
 Oft" Ismail, and commenced a cannonade. 
 Which was return'd with interest, I may say. 
 And by a fire of musquetry and grape 
 And shells and shot of every size and shape. 
 
 30. 
 
 For six hours bore they without intermission 
 The Turkish fire ; and, aided by their own 
 Land-batteries, work'd their guns with great precision 
 At length they found mere cannonade alone , 
 
 By no means would produce the town's submission, 
 And made a signal to retreat at one. 
 One bark blew up ; a second, near the works 
 Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 
 
 31. 
 
 The Moslem too had lost both ships and men ; 
 But when they saw the enemy retire. 
 Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sailed again, 
 And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire. 
 And tried to make a landing on the main ; 
 But here the effect fell short of their desire: 
 Count Damas drove them back into the water 
 Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter 
 
 32. 
 
 "If (says the historian here) I could report 
 All that the Russians did upon this day, 
 I think that several volumes would fall short. 
 And I should still have many things to say ; " 
 And so he says no more — but pays his court 
 To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray; 
 The Prince dc Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, 
 Names great as any that the roll of Fame has. 
 15 
 
226 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO VI 
 
 This being the case, may show us what fame j* ; 
 For out of tliese three "preux Chevaliers," how 
 Many of common readers give a guess 
 That such existed? (and they may live now 
 For ought we know j) Renown's all hit or miss; 
 There's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 
 'Tis true, the Memoirs of tlie Prince de Ligne 
 Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen. 
 
 34. 
 
 But here are men who fought in gallant actions 
 
 As gallantly as ever heroes fought, 
 
 But buried in the heap of such transactions — 
 
 Their names are rarely found, nor often sought. 
 
 Thus even good fame may sufl'er sad contractions, 
 
 And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought: 
 
 Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
 
 You can't repeat nine names from each gazette. 
 
 35. 
 
 In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 
 
 Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault; 
 
 And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
 
 Most strongly recommended an assault; 
 
 In which he was opposed by young and hoary, 
 
 Which made a long debate: — but I must halt; 
 
 For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 
 
 I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 
 
 36. 
 
 There was a man, if that he was a man, — 
 Not that his manhood could be call'd in question. 
 For, had he not been Hercules, his span 
 Had been as short in youth as indigestion 
 Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan. 
 He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on 
 The soil of the green province he had wasted, 
 As e'er was locust on the land it blasted; 
 
 37. 
 
 Tliis was Potemkin — a great thing in days 
 
 When homicide and harlotry made groat; 
 
 If stars and titles could entail long praise. 
 
 His glory might half equal his estate. 
 
 Tliis fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
 
 A kind of phantasy proportionate 
 
 In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 
 
 Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 
 
 38. 
 
 While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
 A courier to the Prince, and he succeeded 
 In ordering matters after his own bent; 
 I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 
 But shortly he had cause to be content. 
 In the mean lime the batteries proceeded, 
 And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 
 Were briskly fired and answer 'd in due order. 
 
 39. 
 
 But on the thirteenth, when already part 
 
 Of the troops were embark'd, tiie siege to raise, 
 
 A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
 
 Into all pauters for newspaper-praise, 
 
 As well as dilettanti in war's art, 
 
 By his dispatches couched in pitliy praise; 
 
 Announcing the appointment of that lover of 
 
 Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Souwaroff. 
 
 40. 
 
 The letter of the Prince to the same Marshal 
 
 Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 
 
 Been one to which a good heart could be partial — 
 
 Defence of freedom, country, or of laws; 
 
 But as it was mere lust of power to o'er — arch all 
 
 With its proud brow, it merits slight applause, 
 
 Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 
 
 "You will take Ismail, at whatever price." 
 
 41. 
 
 "Let there be light ! " said God, "and there was light I 
 "Let there be blood ! " says man, and there's a sea ! 
 The fiat of this spoil'd child of the night 
 (For day ne'er saw his merits) could decree, 
 More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 
 Summers could renovate, though they should be 
 Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit — 
 For war cuts up not only branch, but root. 
 
 42. 
 
 Our friends the Turks, who with loud "Alias" now .* 
 
 Began to signalize the Russ retreat. 
 
 Were damnably mistaken; few are slow 
 
 In thinking that their enemy is beat 
 
 (Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 
 
 I never think about it in a heat) ; 
 
 But here I say the Turks were mucli mistaken, 
 
 Who, hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon. 
 
 43. 
 
 For, on tlie sixteenth, at full gallop drew 
 
 In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacks 
 
 For some time, till they came in nearer view. 
 
 They had but little baggage at their backs, 
 
 For there were but three shirts between the two; 
 
 But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks. 
 
 Till, in approaching, were at lengtii descried 
 
 In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 
 
 44. 
 
 "Great joy to London now!" says some great fool, 
 
 When London had a grand illumination, 
 
 Which to that bottle-conjuror, John Bull, 
 
 Is of all dreams the first hallucination; 
 
 So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full, 
 
 That sage (fa/rf John) surrenders at discretion 
 
 His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, 
 
 To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 
 
CANTO VII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 227 
 
 46. 
 
 'Tis strange that he should further "damn his eyes,' 
 For they are damn'd : that once all famous oath 
 Is to the devil now no further prize, 
 Since John has lately lost the use of both. 
 Debt he calls wealth, and taxes, paradise ; 
 And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, 
 Which stare him in the face, he won't examine, 
 
 I Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine.. 
 
 I 
 
 t 46. 
 
 I 
 
 [But to the talc. Great joy unto the camp ! 
 
 |To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossack, 
 
 !0'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas-lamp, 
 
 (Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
 
 lOr, like a wisp along the marsh so damp, 
 
 (Which leads beholders on a boggy walk, 
 
 !Hc flitted to and fro, a dancing light. 
 
 Which all who saw it followed, wrong or right. 
 
 47. 
 
 But, certes, matters took a diflFcrent face: 
 There was enthusiasm and much applause, 
 JThe fleet and camp saluted with great grace, 
 [\nd all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
 Within a cannon-shot-length of the place 
 rhcy drew, constructed ladders, repaired flaws 
 [n former works, made new, prepared fascines, 
 t\nd all kinds of benevolent machines. 
 
 y 
 
 48. 
 
 Tis thus the spirit of a single mind 
 
 flakes that of multitudes take one direction, 
 
 Is roll the waters to tlic breathing wind, 
 r roams the herd beneath tlie bull's protection; 
 r as a little dog will lead the blind, 
 r a bell-wethei form the flock's connexion 
 y tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual: 
 |uch is the sway of your great men o'er little. 
 
 i • 
 
 49. 
 
 he whole camp rung with joy; you would have thought 
 
 hat they were going to a marriage-feast 
 
 This metaplior, I think, holds good as aught, 
 
 ince there is discord after both at least) ; 
 
 here was not now a luggage-boy but sought 
 
 .'anger and spoil with ardour much increased; 
 
 hd why? because a little, odd, old man, 
 
 Itript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 
 
 50. 
 
 ut so it was; and every preparation 
 /as made with all alacrity : the first 
 etachment of three columns took its station, 
 nd waited but the signal's voice to burst 
 pon the foe : the second's ordination 
 'as also in three columns, with a thirst 
 fr glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter : 
 lie third, in columns two, attack'd by water. 
 
 51. 
 
 New batteries were erected; and was held 
 A general council, in which unanimity. 
 That stranger to most councils, here prcvail'd, 
 As sometimes happens in a great extremity 
 And, every difficulty being dispell'd. 
 Glory began to dawn with due sublimity. 
 While Souwaroff, determined to obtain it. 
 Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. 
 
 52. 
 
 It is an actual fact, that he, Commander- 
 in-chief, in proper person deign'd to drill 
 The awkward squad, and could afford to squander 
 His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil; 
 Just as you'd break a sucking salamander 
 To swallow flame, and never take it ill : 
 He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which 
 Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 
 
 53. 
 
 Also he dressed up, for the nonce, fascines 
 
 Like men, with turbans, scimitars, and dirks, 
 
 And made them charge with bayonets these machines, 
 
 By way of lesson against actual Turks; 
 
 And, when well practised in these mimic scenes, 
 
 He judged them proper to assail the works; 
 
 At which your wise men sneer'd, in phrases witty : — 
 
 He made no answer; but he took the city. 
 
 54. 
 
 Most things were in this posture on the eve 
 
 Of the assault, and all the camp was in 
 
 A stern repose; which you would scarce conceive; 
 
 Yet men, resolved to dash through thick and thin, 
 
 Are very silent when they once believe 
 
 That all is settled : — there was little din, 
 
 For some were thinking of their home and friends, 
 
 jVnd others of themselves and latter ends. 
 
 55. 
 
 Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, 
 
 Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering : 
 
 For the man was, we safely may assert, 
 
 A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering ; 
 
 Hero, buffoon, half demon, and half dirt, 
 
 Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering; 
 
 Now Mars, now Momus; and, when bent to storm 
 
 A fortress, Harlequin in uniform. 
 
 56. 
 
 The day before the assault, while upon drill — 
 For this great conqueror play'd the corporal — 
 Some Cossacks, hovering like hawks round a hill, 
 Had met a party towards the twilight's fall. 
 One of whom spoke their tongue, or well or ill — 
 'Twas much that he was understood at all ; 
 But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner, 
 They found that he had fought beneath their banner. 
 
228 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO VI 
 
 67. 
 
 Whereon, immediately, at his request, 
 They brought him and his comrades to head-quarters: 
 Their dress was Moslem, but you mig-lit have guess'd 
 That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
 And that beneath each Turkish-fashioned vest 
 Lurk'd Christianity; wlio sometimes barters 
 Her inward grace for outward show, and makes 
 It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. 
 
 • 
 58. 
 
 Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt 
 Before a company of Calmucks, drilling, 
 Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert, 
 And lecturing on the noble art of killing, — 
 For, deeming human clay but common dirt. 
 This great philosopher was thus instilling 
 His maxims, which, to martial comprehension. 
 Proved death in battle equal to a pension; — 
 
 59. 
 
 Sawarrow, when he saw this company 
 
 Of Cossacks and their prey, turn'd round and cast 
 
 Upon them his slow brow and picicing eye : — 
 
 "Whence come ye?" — "From Constantinople last. 
 
 Captives just now escaped," was the reply. 
 
 "What are ye?" — "What you see us." Briefly past 
 
 This dialogue; for he who answer'd knew 
 
 To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 
 
 60. 
 
 "Your names?" — "Mine's Johnson, and my comrades 
 The other two are women, and the third [Juan ; 
 
 Is neither man nor woman." The Chief threw on 
 The party a slight glance, then said : "I have heard 
 Your name before, the second is a new one; 
 To bring the other three here was absurd ; 
 But let that pass ; — I think I have heard your name 
 In the Nikolaicw regiment?" — "The same." — 
 
 61. 
 
 "You served at Widdin?"-"Yes."-"You led theattack?" 
 "I did." — "What next?" — "I really hardly know." 
 "You were the first i' the breach?" — "I was not slack, 
 At least, to follow those who might be so." — 
 "What follow'd?" — "A shot laid me on my back. 
 And I became a prisoner to the foe." — 
 "You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded 
 Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded. 
 
 62. 
 
 Where will you serve?" — "Where'er you please." — 
 
 You like to be the hope of the forlorn, ["I know 
 
 And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 
 
 After the hardships you've already borne. 
 
 And this young fellow; say what can he do? — 
 
 He with the beardless chin and garments torn?" — 
 
 "Why, General, if he hath no greater fault 
 
 In war than love, he had better lead the assault." — 
 
 63. 
 
 "He shall, if that he dare." Here Juan bowed 
 Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 
 Continued : "Your old regiment's allowed. 
 By special providence, to lead to-morrow. 
 Or it may be to-night, the assault: I have vowed 
 To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow 
 Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 
 Be unimpeded by the proudest Mosque. 
 
 64. 
 
 So now, my lads, for glory !" — Here he turned, 
 And drilled away in the most classic Russian, 
 Until each high, heroic bosom burned 
 For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 
 A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurned 
 All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push on 
 To slay the Pagans, who resisted, battering 
 The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine. 
 
 65. 
 
 Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 
 Himself a favourite, ventured to address 
 Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 
 In his resumed amusement; "I confess 
 My debt in being thus allowed to die 
 A.mong the foremost ; but if you'd express 
 Explicitly our several posts, my friend 
 And self would know what duty to attend." 
 
 66. 
 
 "Right! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you 
 Will join your former regiment, which should be 
 Now under arms. Ho I Katskofl', take him to — 
 (Here he called up a Polish orderly) 
 His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew. 
 The stranger stripling may remain with me; 
 He's a fine boy. The women may be sent 
 To the other baggage, or to the sick-tent." 
 
 67. 
 
 But here a sort of scene began to ensue: 
 The ladies, — who by no means had been bred 
 To be disposed of in a way so new, 
 Although their haram-education led 
 Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true, 
 Passive obedience, — now raised up the head. 
 With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung 
 Their arms, as hens their wings about their younj 
 
 68. 
 
 O'er the promoted couple of brave men 
 Who were thus honour'd by the greatest chief 
 That ever peopled hell with heroes slain. 
 Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 
 Oh, foolish mortals ! always taught in vain! 
 Oh, glorious laurel ! since for one sole leaf 
 Of thine imaginary deathless tree. 
 Of blood and tears must flow the nnebbing sea! 
 
CANTO Vll. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 229 
 
 Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, 
 
 And not raucli sympathy for blood, surveyed 
 
 The women with tiieir hair about tlieir ears 
 
 And natural agonies, with a slight shade 
 
 Of feeling : for, however habit sears 
 
 Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade 
 
 Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 
 
 Will touch even Heroes — and such was Suwarrow. 
 
 70. 
 
 J He said — and in the kindest Calmuck tone — 
 ) "Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean 
 
 By bringing women here? They shall be shown 
 i All the attention possible, and seen 
 j In safety to the waggons, where alone 
 ! In fact they can be safe. You should have been 
 j Aware this kind of baggage never thrives. 
 
 Save wed a year; I hate recruits with wives." 
 
 71. 
 
 j "May it please your Exceljency," thus replied 
 
 I Our British friend, "these are the wives of otiiers, 
 
 I And not our own. I am too qualified 
 
 j By service with my military brothers, 
 
 j To break the rules by bringing one's own bride 
 
 I Into a camp; I know that nought so bothers 
 
 The hearty of the heroic on a charge, 
 
 As leaving a small family at large. 
 
 72. 
 
 Hut these arc but two Turkish ladies, who 
 
 With their attendant aided our escape, 
 
 And afterwards accompanied us through 
 
 .\ thousand perils in this dubious shape. 
 
 To me this kind of life is not so new; 
 
 To them, poor things ! it is an awkward step ; 
 
 I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely. 
 
 Request that they may both be used genteelly." 
 
 73. 
 
 Meantime, these two poor girls, with swimming eyes, 
 Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 
 jrheir own protectors; — nor was their surprise 
 Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 
 To see an old man, rather wild than wise 
 n aspect, plainly clad, besmeared with dust, 
 Stripp'd to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, 
 yiore feared than all the Sultans ever seen. 
 
 74. 
 
 "or every thing seem'd resting on his nod, 
 ^s they could read in all eyes. Now, to them, 
 kVho were accustomed, as a sort of God, 
 To see the Sultan, rich in many a gem, 
 liike an imperial peacock stalk abroad 
 That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem), 
 iVitli all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 
 low power could condescend to do without. 
 
 76. 
 
 John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, 
 Though little versed in feelings oriental, 
 Suggested some slight comfort in his way : 
 Don Juan, who was much more sentimental. 
 Swore they should see him by the dawn of day, 
 Or that the Russian army should repent all : 
 And, strange to say, they found some consolation 
 In this — for females like exaggeration. 
 
 76. 
 
 And then, with tears, and sighs, and some slight kisses, 
 They parted for the present — these to aivait. 
 According to the artillery's hits or misses, 
 What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate — 
 (Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 
 A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 
 While their beloved friends began to arm. 
 To burn a town which never did them harm. . 
 
 77. 
 
 Suwarrow, who but saw things in the gross — 
 Being much too gross to sec them in detail ; 
 Who calculated life as so much dross, 
 And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, 
 And cared as little for his army's loss 
 (So that their efforts should at length prevail) 
 As wife and friends did for the boils of Job ; — 
 What was 't to him to hear two women sob? 
 
 78. 
 
 Nothing. — The work of Glory still went on 
 
 In preparations for a cannonade 
 
 As terrible as that of Ilion, 
 
 If Homer had found mortars ready made; 
 
 But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 
 
 We only can but talk of escalade, [bullets ; 
 
 Bombs , drums , guns , bastions , batteries , bayonets, 
 
 Hard words which stick in the soft Muses' gullets. 
 
 79. 
 
 Oh, thou eternal Homer! who couldst charm 
 All ears, though long, — all ages, though so short, 
 By merely wielding with poetic arm 
 Arms to which men will never more resort. 
 Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
 Much less than is the hope of every Court, 
 Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy; 
 But they will not find Liberty a Troy : — 
 
 80. 
 
 Oh, thou eternal Homer! I have now 
 To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain, 
 With deadlier engines and a speedier blow. 
 Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign; 
 And yet, like all men else, I must allow. 
 To vie with thee would be about as vain 
 As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood; 
 But still we moderns equal you in blood; 
 
230 
 
 ]>0N JUAN. 
 
 CANTO vin. 
 
 81. 
 
 If not in poetry, at least in fact; 
 
 And fact is truth, tlie grand desideratum! 
 
 Of whiclj, howc'cr the Muse deseribes each act, 
 
 There sliould be ne'ertheless a s]if!:i\t substratum. 
 
 But now tlie town is going to be attaek'd; 
 
 Great deeds are doing — bow shall I relate 'cm ? 
 
 Souls of immortal generals! Pha'bus watehcs 
 
 To colour up his rays from your dispatches. 
 
 82. 
 
 Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte! 
 
 Oh, yc less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded ! 
 
 Shade of Leonidas, who fouglit so hearty, 
 
 When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded! 
 
 Oh, Cajsar's Commentaries ! now impart ye, 
 
 Shadows of glory ! (lest I be confounded) 
 
 A portion of your fading twilight hues. 
 
 So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. 
 
 83. 
 
 When I call "fading" martial immortality, 
 I mean, that every age and every year, 
 And almost every day, in sad reality, 
 Some sucking hero is compelled to rear. 
 Who, when we come to sura up the totality 
 Of deeds to human happiness most dear, 
 Turns out to be a butcher in great business. 
 Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 
 
 84. 
 
 Medals, ranks, ribbons, lace, embroidery, scarlet. 
 
 Are tilings immortal to immortal man, 
 
 As purple to the Babylonian harlot: 
 
 An uniform to boys is like a fan 
 
 To women; there is scarce a crimson varlct 
 
 But deems himself the first in glory's van. 
 
 But glory's glory; and if you would find 
 
 What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind! 
 
 85. 
 
 At least he feels it, and some say be sees, 
 Because he runs before it like a pig ; 
 Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 
 Say that he scuds before it like a brig, 
 A schooner, or — but it is time to case 
 This Canto, ere ray Muse perceives fatigue. 
 The next shall ring a peal to shake all people. 
 Like a bob-major from a village-steeple. 
 
 86. 
 
 Hark! through the silence of the cold, dull night, 
 The hum of armies gathering rank on rank ! 
 Lo ! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 
 Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank 
 Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 
 The stars peep througli the vapours dim and dank, 
 Which curl in curious wreaths — How soon the smoke 
 Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 
 
 87. 
 
 Here pause we for the present — as even then 
 That awful pause, dividing life from death. 
 Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, 
 Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath! 
 A moment — and all will be life again ! 
 The march! the charge! the shouts of either faith ! 
 Hurra! and Allah! and — one moment more — 
 The death-cry drowning' in the battle's roar. 
 
 CANTO VIII. 
 
 1. 
 
 Oh blood and thunder ! and oh blood and wovinds ! 
 These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem. 
 Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds : 
 And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
 Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 
 At present such things, since they are her theme, 
 So be they her inspirers ! Call them Mars, 
 Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 
 
 2. 
 
 All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 
 
 To wield them in their terrible array. 
 
 The army, like a lion from his den, 
 
 March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay, — 
 
 A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 
 
 To breathe destruction on its winding way. 
 
 Whose heads were heroes which, cut off in vain, 
 
 Immediately in others grew again. 
 
 J 
 
CANTO vni. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 231 
 
 History can only take things in the gross ; 
 But could we know them in detail, perchance 
 
 ' In balancing the profit and the loss, 
 War's merit it by no means might enhance, 
 To waste so much gold for a little dross, 
 As hath been done, mere conquest to advance 
 The drying up a single tear has more 
 
 ; Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 
 
 (And wliy ? because it brings self-approbation ; 
 
 (Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
 
 (Shouts, bridges, arciies, pensions from a nation^ 
 
 jWhich (it may be) has not much left to spare, 
 
 iA higher title, or a loftier station, 
 
 jThough tlicy may make Corruption gape or stare, 
 
 lYct, in tlie end, except in freedom's battles, 
 
 rVre notliing but a child of Murder's rattles. 
 
 . 5- 
 
 ^nd such they are — and such they will be found. 
 
 STot so Leonidas and Washington, 
 
 kVhose every battle-field is holy ground, 
 
 iVhich breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone. 
 
 low sweetly on the ear such echoes sound ! 
 
 rViiile the mere victor's may appal or stun 
 
 phe servile and the vain, such names will be 
 
 1 watcii-word till the future shall be free. 
 
 "he night was dark, and the thick mist allowed 
 fought to be seen save the artillery's flame, 
 V'hicii arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, 
 nd in the Danube's waters shone the same, 
 mirror'd hell ! The volleying roar, and loud 
 lOng booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 
 he ear far more than thunder; for Heaven's Hashes 
 narc, or smite rarely — Man's make millions ashes ! 
 
 7. 
 
 lie column ordered on the assault scarce passed 
 eyond tlic Russian batteries a few toises, 
 i^hen up tiie bristling Moslem rose at last, 
 nswering the christian thunders with like voices; 
 hen one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced, 
 Hiich rock'd as 'twere beneath the mighty noises; 
 ■ liilc the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 
 |lie restless Titan hiccups in his den. 
 
 nd one enormous shout of "Allah!" rose 
 tlic same moment, loud as even the roar 
 f war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
 urling defiance: city, stream, and shore 
 ^sounded "Allah " and the clouds which close 
 4th thick'ning canopy the conflict o'er 
 ibrate to the Eternal Name. Hark! through 
 I sounds it picrceth, "Allah ! Allah 1 Hu!" 
 
 9. 
 
 The column.^ were in movement, one and all; 
 
 But, of the portion which attack'd by water. 
 
 Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall. 
 
 Though led by Arsenic w, that great son of slaughter. 
 
 As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball. 
 
 "Carnage (so Wordsworth tellsyou) isGod's daughter: 
 
 If Ae speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 
 
 Just now behaved, as in the Holy Land. 
 
 10. 
 
 The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee; 
 Count Chapeau-Bras too had a ball between 
 His cap and liead, which proves the head to be 
 Aristocratic as was ever seen, 
 Because it then received no injury 
 More than the cap ; in fact the ball could mean 
 No harm unto a right legitimate head: 
 'Ashes to ashes" — why not lead to lead? 
 
 11. 
 
 Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 
 
 Insisting on removal of the Prince 
 
 Amidst some groaning thousands dying near, — 
 
 All common fellows, who might writhe and wince, 
 
 And shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 
 
 The General Markow, who could thus evince 
 
 His sympathy for rank, by the same token, 
 
 To teaeh him greater, had his own leg broken. 
 
 12. 
 
 Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, 
 And thirty thousand muskets tlung their pills 
 Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 
 Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills; 
 Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, 
 Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills 
 Past, present, and to come ; — but all may yield 
 To the true portrait of one battle-field. 
 
 13. 
 
 There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
 Until their very number makes men hard 
 By the infinities of agony. 
 Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may regard — 
 The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
 Turn'd back within its socket, — these reward 
 Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest 
 May win, perhaps, a ribbon at the breast! 
 
 14. 
 
 Yet I love glory ; — glory's a great thing ; — 
 Think what it is to be in your old age 
 Maintain'd at the expense of your good king; 
 A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, 
 And heroes are but made for bards to sing, 
 Which is still better ; thus in verse to wage 
 Your wars eternally, besides enjoying 
 Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying. 
 
232 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO V 
 
 15. 
 
 The troops already disembark'd push'd on 
 To take a battery on the right; the others, 
 Who landed lower down, tlieir landing done, 
 Had set to work as briskly as their brothers: 
 Being grenadiers they mounted one by one, 
 Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers, 
 O'er the entrenchment and the palisade. 
 Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 
 
 16. 
 
 And this was admirable; for so hot 
 
 The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded. 
 
 Besides its lava, with all sorts of sbot 
 
 And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded. 
 
 Of officers a third fell on the spot, 
 
 A thing which victory by no means boded 
 
 To gentlemen engaged in the assault ; 
 
 Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault. 
 
 17. 
 
 But here I leave the general concern, 
 To track our hero on his path of fame : 
 He must his laurels separately earn ; 
 For fifty thousand heroes, name by name. 
 Though all deserving equally to turn 
 A couplet, or an elegy to claim, 
 Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, 
 And, what is worse still, a much longer story: 
 
 IR 
 
 And therefore we must give the greater number 
 
 To the Gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 
 
 By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 
 
 In ditches, fields, or wlieresoe'er they felt 
 
 Their clay for the last time their souls encumber ; — 
 
 Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 
 
 In the despatch : I knew a man whose loss 
 
 Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. 
 
 19. 
 
 Juan and.Iohnson joln'd a certain corps. 
 
 And fought away with might and main, not knowing 
 
 The way which they had never trod before. 
 
 And still less guessing where they might be going; 
 
 But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er. 
 
 Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing. 
 
 But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win. 
 
 To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. 
 
 20. 
 
 Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire 
 Of death and dying thousands, — sometimes gaining 
 A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher 
 To some odd angle for which all were straining; 
 At other times, repulsed by the close fire. 
 Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining. 
 Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er 
 A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 
 
 21. 
 
 Though 'twas Don Juan's first of fields, and though 
 
 The nightly muster and the silent march 
 
 In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 
 
 So much as under a triumphal arch. 
 
 Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw 
 
 A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, 
 
 Which stiflen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day; — 
 
 Yet for all this he did not run away. 
 
 22. 
 
 Indeed he could not. But what if he had? 
 There have been and are heroes who begun 
 With something not much better, or as bad : 
 Frederick the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run, 
 For the first and last time ; for, like a pad, 
 Or hawk, or bride, most mortals, after one 
 Warm bout, are broken into their new tricks, 
 And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 
 
 23. 
 
 He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 
 
 Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic; — 
 
 (The antiquarians who can settle time, 
 
 Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic. 
 
 Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clim( 
 
 With Hannibal ; aud wears the Tyrian tunic 
 
 Of Dido's alphabet ; and this is rational 
 
 As any other notion, and not national ;) — 
 
 24. 
 
 But Juan was quite "a broth of a boy," 
 A thing of impulse and a child of song; 
 Now swimming in the sentiment of joy. 
 Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong). 
 And afterwards, if he must needs destroy, 
 In such good company as alwa3'S throng 
 To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure. 
 No less delighted to employ his leisure; 
 
 25. 
 
 But always without malice; ifhewarr'd -i 
 
 Or loved, it was with what we call "the best 
 Intentions, "whicii form all mankind's trump-card, 
 To be produced when brought up to the test. 
 The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
 Olfeach attack, when people are in quest 
 Of their designs, by saying they meant well; 
 'Tis pity that such meanings should pave hell. 
 
 26. 
 
 I almost lately have begun to doubt 
 
 Whether hell's pavement — if it be so paved — 
 
 Must not have latterly been quite worn out, 
 
 Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, 
 
 But by the mass who go below without 
 
 Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved 
 
 And smoothed the brimstone of that street of hell 
 
 Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 
 
CANTO VIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 233 
 
 27. 
 
 Jaan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
 Warrior from warrior in their grim career, 
 Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides 
 Just at the close of the first bridal year. 
 By one of those odd turns of fortune's tides, 
 Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, 
 When, after a good deal of heavy tiring. 
 He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 
 
 28. 
 
 [ don't know how the thing occurr'd — it might 
 Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, 
 And that the rest had faced unto the right 
 iVbout; a circumstance which has confounded 
 
 aesar himself, who, in the very sight 
 3f his whole army, wliich so much abounded 
 [n courage, was obliged to snatch a shield 
 
 nd rally back his Romans to the field. 
 
 fuan, wlio had no shield to snatch, and was 
 ^'o Ccesar, but a fine young lad, who fought 
 le knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
 itopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought 
 'or a much longer time; then, like an ass — 
 Start not, kind reader ; since great Homer thought 
 'his simile enough for Ajax, Juan 
 erbaps may find it better than a new one) — 
 
 30. 
 
 In, like an ass, he went upon his way, 
 Lnd, what was stranger, never look'd behind; 
 jlut seeing, flasliing forward, like the day 
 War the hills, a fire enough to blind 
 [hose who dislike to look upon a fray, 
 j[e stumbled on, to try if he could find 
 path to add his own slight arm and forces 
 prps, the greater part of which were corses. 
 
 31. 
 
 erceiving then no more the commandant 
 f his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 
 uite disappear'd — the Gods know how! (I can't 
 ccount for every thing which may look bad 
 I history; but we at least may grant 
 was not marvellous that a mere lad, 
 I search of glory, should look on before, 
 |or care a pinch of snuff' about his corps ; ) — 
 
 32. 
 
 erceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
 
 nd left at large, like a young heir, to make 
 
 is way to — where he knew not — single-handed ; 
 
 s travellers follow over bog and brake 
 
 n "ignis fatuus," or as sailors stranded 
 
 iito the nearest hut themselves betake, 
 
 ) Juan, following honour and his nose, 
 
 ush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes. 
 
 33. 
 
 He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, 
 For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 
 Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit shared 
 The hour, as is the case with lively brains; 
 And, where the hottest fire was seen and heard, 
 And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains. 
 He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 
 By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon ! 
 
 34. 
 
 And, as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
 Fell in with what was late the second column. 
 Under the orders of the General Lascy, 
 But now reduced, as is a bulky volume. 
 Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
 Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 
 Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces 
 And levell'd weapons still against the glacis, 
 
 3^ 
 
 Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, 
 Who had "retreated," as the phrase is when 
 Men run away much rather than go through 
 Destruction's jaws into the devil's den; 
 But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 
 Knew when and how "to cut and come again," 
 And never ran away, except when running 
 Was nothing but a valourous kind of cunning. 
 
 36. 
 
 And so, when all his corps were dead or dying. 
 
 Except Don Juan, — a mere novice, whose 
 
 More virgin valour never dream'd of flying. 
 
 From ignorance of danger, which indues 
 
 Its votaries, like innocence relying 
 
 On its own strength, with careless nerves and tliews, — 
 
 Johnson retired a little, just to rally 
 
 Those who catch cold in "shadows of death's valley." 
 
 37. 
 
 And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, 
 Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, 
 Rampart, wall, casement, house — for there was not 
 In tliis extensive city, sore beset 
 By christian soldiery, a single spot 
 Which did not combat like the devil as yet, — 
 He found a number of chasseurs, all scatter 'd 
 By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. 
 
 38. 
 
 And these he call'd on ; and, what's strange, they came 
 Unto his call, unlike "the spirits from 
 The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim. 
 Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home. 
 Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 
 At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb. 
 And that odd impulse, which, in wars or creeds. 
 Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. 
 15* 
 
234 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 39. 
 
 By Jove! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 
 
 And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles, 
 
 Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon 
 
 We shall not see his likeness : he could kill his 
 
 Man quite as quietly as bloAvs the Monsoon 
 
 Her steady breath (which some months tlve same still is); 
 
 Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, 
 
 And could be very busy without bustle. 
 
 40. 
 
 And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 
 Upon reflection, knowing that behind 
 He would find others who would fain be rid so 
 Of idle apprehensions, which, like wind, 
 Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 
 Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, 
 But when they light upon immediate death, 
 Retire a little, merely to take breath. 
 
 41. 
 
 But Johnson only ran ofiF, to return 
 With many other warriors, as we said. 
 Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, 
 Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. 
 To Jack howe'er this gave but slight concern : 
 His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 
 Acted upon the living as on wire, 
 And led them back into the heaviest fire. 
 
 42. 
 
 Egad ! they found the second time what they 
 
 The first time thought quite terrible enough 
 
 To Hy from, malgre all which people say 
 
 Of glory, and all that immortal stuff" 
 
 Which fills a regiment (besides their pay, 
 
 That daily shilling which makes warriors tough) — 
 
 They found on their return the self-same welcome, 
 
 Which made some think, and others know, a hell come. 
 
 43. 
 
 They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail. 
 Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle. 
 Proving that trite old truth, that life's as frail 
 As any other boon for which men stickle. 
 The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail. 
 Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle, 
 Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 
 Upon the head, before their guns were cock'd. 
 
 44. 
 
 The Turks behind the traverses and flanks 
 
 Of the next bastion fired away like devils, 
 
 And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks : 
 
 However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 
 
 Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks, 
 
 So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels, 
 
 That Johnson and some few who had not scampcr'd, 
 
 Reach'd the interior talus of the rampart. 
 
 45. 
 
 First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen 
 Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 
 All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin, 
 Flame was shower 'd forth above as well's below. 
 So that you scarce could say who best had chosen, — 
 The gentlemen that were the first to show 
 Their martial faces on the parapet, 
 Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 
 
 46. 
 
 But those who scaled found out that their advance 
 
 Was favour'd by an accident or blunder: 
 
 The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 
 
 Had palisadoed in a way you'd wonder 
 
 To see in forts of Netherlands or France — 
 
 (Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under) - 
 
 Right in the middle of the parapet 
 
 Just named, these palisades were primly set: 
 
 47. 
 
 So that on either side some nine or ten 
 Paces were left, whereon you could contrive 
 To march; a great convenience to our men. 
 At least to all those who were left alive, . 
 Who thus could form a line and fight again ; 
 And that which further aided them to strive 
 Was, that they could kick down the palisades. 
 Which scarcely rose much higher than grass-blades. 
 
 48. 
 
 Among the first, — I will not say the first, 
 For such precedence upon such occasions 
 Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
 Out between friends as well as allied nations : 
 The Briton must be bold who really durst 
 Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, 
 As say that Wellington at Waterloo 
 Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so too; 
 
 49. 
 
 And that if Bliicher, Bulow, Gneisenau, 
 
 And God knows who besides in "au" and "ou," 
 
 Had not come up in time to cast an awe 
 
 Into the hearts of tliose who fought till now 
 
 As tigers combat with an empty craw, 
 
 The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 
 
 His orders, also to receive his pensions. 
 
 Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. 
 
 50. 
 
 But never mind; — "God save the king!" and kings 
 
 For if he don't, I doubt if wen will longer — 
 
 I think I hear a little bird, who sings, 
 
 The people by and by will be the stronger : 
 
 The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings 
 
 So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 
 
 Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 
 
 At last fall sick of imitating Job: 
 
bANTO VIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 235 
 
 51. 
 
 At first it grumbles, tben it swears, and then, 
 
 Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant; 
 
 A.t last it takes to weapons, such as men 
 
 Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant. 
 
 Then "comes the tug of war ;" — 'twill come again, 
 
 [ rather doubt; and I would fain say "fie on't," 
 
 [f I had not perceived that revolution 
 
 \Ione can save the earth from hell's pollution. 
 
 52. 
 
 Hut to continue : — I say not the first, J^ 
 But of the first, our little friend Don Juan 
 iValk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed 
 Viuidst such scenes — thougii this was quite a new one 
 To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst 
 If glory, which so pierces through and through one, 
 Pervaded him — although a generous creature, 
 s warm in heart as feminine in feature. 
 
 6a. 
 
 nd here he was — who upon woman's breast, 
 3ven from a child, felt like a child: howc'er 
 he man in all the rest might be confest; 
 him it was Elysium to be there; 
 nd he could even withstand that awkward test 
 hich Rousseau points out to the dubious fair : 
 Observe your lover when he leaves your arms ;" 
 *• Jut Juan never left them, while they had charms, 
 
 64. 
 
 Jnless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind, 
 )r near relations, who are much the same. 
 Jut here he was 1 — where each tie that can bind 
 lumanity must yield to steel and flame: 
 ind he, whose very body was all mind, — 
 'lung here by fate or circumstance which tame 
 'he loftiest, — hurried by the time and place, 
 )ash'd ou like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 
 
 ! 55. 
 
 So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance, 
 
 LS is the hunter's at the five-bar gate, 
 
 )r double post and rail, where the existence 
 
 )f Britain's youth depends upon their weight, 
 
 'he lightest being the safest : at a distance 
 
 le hated cruelty, as all men hate 
 
 Hood, until heated — and even there his own 
 
 it times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 
 
 66. 
 
 'he General Lascy, who had been hard prest, 
 eeing arrive an aid so opportune 
 IS were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 
 Vho came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, 
 'o Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 
 lis thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, 
 lot reckoning him to be a "base Bezonian" 
 As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian. 
 
 57. 
 
 Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 
 As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 
 In answer made an inclination to 
 The General who held him in command; 
 For, seeing one with ribbons, black and blue, 
 Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, 
 Addressing him in tones whicli seem'd to thank, 
 He recognized an oflicer of rank. 
 
 58. 
 
 Short speeches pass between two men who speak 
 
 No common language; and besides, in time 
 
 Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 
 
 Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 
 
 Is perpetrated ere a word can break 
 
 Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 
 
 In, like church-bells, with sigh, howl,groan, yell, prayer, 
 
 There cannot be much conversation there. 
 
 59. 
 
 And therefore all we have related in 
 Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute; 
 But in the same small minute every sin 
 Contrived to get itself comprised within it. 
 The very cannon, deafen'd by the din, 
 Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, 
 As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 
 Of human nature's agonizing voice! 
 
 60. 
 
 The town was enter'd. Oh Eternity ! — 
 "God made the country, and man made the town," 
 So Cowper says — and I begin to be 
 Of his opinion, when I see cast down 
 Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh — 
 All walls men know, and many never known; 
 And, pondering on the present and the past, 
 To deem the woods shall be our home at last. 
 
 61. 
 
 Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer. 
 Who passes for in life and death most lucky. 
 Of the great names which in our faces stare, 
 The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky, 
 Was happiest amongst mortals any where; 
 For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 
 Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 
 Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze, 
 
 62. 
 
 Crime came not near him — she is not the child 
 Of solitude ; Health shrank not from him — for 
 Her home is in the rarely-trodden wild, 
 Where if men seek her not, and death be more 
 Their choice than life, forgive thpm, as beguiled, 
 By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 
 In cities caged. The present case in point I 
 Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety ; 
 
236 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO VI 
 
 63. 
 
 And, what's still stranger, left behind a name. 
 For which men vainly decimate the throng, 
 Not only famous, but of that ^ood fame 
 Without whicli glory's but a tavern-song — 
 Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, 
 Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong; 
 An active hermit, even in age the child 
 Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 
 
 64. 
 
 'Tis true he shrank from men, even of his nation, 
 When they built up unto his darling trees, — 
 He moved some hundred miles oft, for a station 
 Where there were fewer houses and more ease; 
 The inconvenience of civilization 
 Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please ; 
 But, where he met the individual man. 
 He shew'd himself as kind as mortal can. 
 
 65. 
 
 He was not all alone: around him grew 
 A sylvan tribe of children of the chace, 
 Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new, 
 Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 
 On lj<er unwrinkled brow, nor could you view 
 A frown on nature's or on human face; — 
 The free-born forest found and kept them free. 
 And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 
 
 And tall and strong and swift of foot were they. 
 Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions. 
 Because their thoughts had never been the prey 
 Of care or gain : the green woods were their portions ; 
 No sinking spirits told them they grew gray; 
 No fashion made them apes of her distortions; 
 Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles. 
 Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 
 
 67. 
 
 Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, 
 And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil; 
 Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers ; 
 Corruption could not make their hearts her soil ; 
 The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers, 
 With the free foresters divide no spoil; 
 Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 
 Of this unsighing people of the woods. 
 
 68. 
 
 So much for nature; — by way of variety. 
 Now back to thy great joys, civilization! 
 And the sweet consequence of large society, 
 War, pestilence, the despot's desolation. 
 The kingly scourge, the Just of notoriety. 
 The millions slain by soldiers for their ration. 
 The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at three score, 
 With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 
 
 69. 
 
 The town was enter'd : first one column made 
 Its sanguinary way good — then another; 
 The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 
 Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother 
 With distant shrieks were heard heaven to upbraid; — 
 Still closer sulphury-clouds began to smother 
 The breath of morn and man, where, foot by foot, 
 The madden'd Turks their city still dispute. 
 
 70. 
 
 Koutousow, he ^o afterwards beat back 
 
 (With some assistance from the frost and snow) " 
 
 Napoleon on his bold and bloody track, 
 
 It happen'd was himself beat back just now. 
 
 He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 
 
 His jest alike in face of friend or foe. 
 
 Though life, and death, and victory were at stake — 
 
 But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take : 
 
 71. 
 
 For, having thrown himself into a ditch, 
 Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers. 
 Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich. 
 He climb'd to where the parapet appears ; 
 But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch, 
 ('Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's 
 Was much regretted) — for the Moslem men 
 Threw them all down into the ditch again : 
 
 72. 
 
 And, had it not been for some stray troops, landing 
 They knew not where, — being carried by the stream 
 To some spot, where they lost their understanding, 
 And wander'd up and down as in a dream. 
 Until they reach'd, as day-break was expanding, 
 That which a portal to their eyes did seem, — 
 The great and gay Koutousow miglit have lain 
 Where three parts of his column yet remain. 
 
 73. 
 
 And, scrambling round the rampart, these same troop 
 
 After the taking of the "cavalier," 
 
 Just as Koutousow's most "Forlorn" of "Hopes" 
 
 Took, like cameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
 
 Open'dthe gate call'd "Kilia" to the groups 
 
 Of baffled heroes who stood shyly near. 
 
 Sliding knee-deep in lately-frozen mud, 
 
 Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 
 
 74. 
 
 The Kozaks, or, if so you please, Cossacks — 
 (I don't much pique myself upon orthography. 
 So that I do not grossly err in facts. 
 Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 
 Having been used to serve on horses' backs. 
 And no great dilettanti in topography 
 Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 
 Their chiefs to order, — were all cut to pieces. 
 
I CANTO VIII 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 237 
 
 75. 
 
 Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd 
 Upon them, ne'erthelcss had reach'd the rampart, 
 And naturally thought tliey could have plunder'd 
 The city, without being further hampcr'd ; 
 But, as it happens to brave men, they blundcr'd — 
 The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd, 
 Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion-corners, 
 From whence tbcy sallied on those Christian scomers. 
 
 76. 
 
 Then being taken by the tail— a taking 
 Fatal to bishops as to soldiers — these 
 Cossacks were all cut off as day was breaking, 
 And found their lives were let at a short lease — 
 But pcrisli'd without shivering or shaking, 
 JLeaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses, 
 p'er whicli Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
 March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki : — 
 
 77. 
 
 This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, 
 ^ut could not eat them, being in his turn 
 lain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet, 
 iVitliout resistance, see their city burn. 
 The walls were won, but 'twas an even bet 
 *Vhich of the armies Avould have cause to mourn : 
 Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, 
 •"or one would not retreat, nor t'other flincii. 
 
 nother column also sufTer'd much : 
 
 nd here we may remark with the historian, 
 
 bu should but give few cartridges to such 
 
 roops as are meant to march with greatest glory on : 
 
 V^licn matters must be carried by the touch 
 
 f the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on, 
 
 bey sometimes, with a hankering for existence, 
 
 eep merely firing at a foolish distance. . 
 
 79. 
 
 junction of the General Meknop's men 
 
 kVithout tlie General, who had fallen some time 
 
 efore, being badly seconded just then) 
 
 ^as made at length, with those who dared, to climb 
 
 he death-disgorging rampart once again; 
 
 nd, though the Turk's resistance was sublime, 
 
 liey took the bastion, which the Seraskier 
 
 cfended at a price extremely dear. 
 
 80. 
 
 lan and Johnson, and some volunteers 
 nong the foremost, oflcr'd him good quarter, 
 word whicli little suits with Seraskiers, 
 at least suited not this valiant Tartar. 
 .i died, deserving well his country's tears, 
 savage sort of military martyr. 
 1 English naval officer, who wish'd 
 > make him prisoner, was also di.sh'd: 
 
 ai. 
 
 For all the answer to his proposition 
 
 Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead ; 
 
 On which the rest, without more intermission, 
 
 Began to lay about with steel and lead, — 
 
 The pious metals most in requisition 
 
 On such occasions: not a single head 
 
 Was spared, — three thousand Moslems perish'd here. 
 
 And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. 
 
 82. 
 
 The city 's taken — only part by part — 
 And Death is drunk with gore : there's not a street 
 Where fights not to the last some desperate heart 
 For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. 
 Here War forgot his own destructive art 
 In more-destroying Nature; and the heat 
 Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 
 Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime. 
 
 83. 
 
 A Russian officer, in martial tread 
 Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
 Seized fast, as if 'twere by the serpent's head, 
 Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel. 
 In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled, 
 And hovvl'd for help as wolves do for a meal — 
 The teeth still kept their gratifying hold. 
 As do the subtle snakes described of old. 
 
 A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
 Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 
 The very tendon which is most acute — 
 (That which some ancient muse or modern wit 
 Named after thee, Achilles) and quite througli't 
 He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it 
 Even with his life — for (but they lie) 'tis said 
 To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. 
 
 85. 
 
 However this may be, 'tis pretty sure 
 The Russian officer for life was lamed. 
 For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 
 And left him 'midst the invalid and maimed : 
 The regimental surgeon could not cure 
 His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 
 More than the head of the inveterate foe. 
 Which was cut ofi", and scarce even then let go. 
 
 86. 
 
 But then the fact's a fact — and 'tis the part 
 Of a true poet to escape from fiction 
 Whene'er he can ; for there is little art 
 In leaving verse more free from the restriction 
 Of truth than prose, unless to suit tlie mart. 
 For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction, 
 And that outrageous appetite for lies. 
 Which Satan angles with, for souls, like flies. 
 
238 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO VJII 
 
 87. 
 
 The city's taken, but not render'd ! — No ! 
 There's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword : 
 The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow 
 Rolls by the city-wall ; but deed nor word 
 Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe: 
 In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 
 By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 
 Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 
 
 88. 
 
 The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 
 
 And human lives are lavish'd every where, 
 
 As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves 
 
 When the stripp'd forest bows to tlie bleak air, 
 
 And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves, 
 
 Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare; 
 
 But still it falls witii vast and awful splinters, 
 
 As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. 
 
 89. 
 
 It is an awful topic — but 'tis not 
 
 My cue for any time to be terrific: 
 
 For checquer'd as is seen our human lot 
 
 With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific 
 
 Of melancholy merriment, to quote 
 
 Too much of one sort would be soporific; — 
 
 Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
 
 I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 
 
 90. 
 
 And one good action in the midst of crimes 
 Is "quite refreshing" — in the affected phrase 
 Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times. 
 With all their pretty milk-and-water ways. 
 And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 
 A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 
 Of conquest and its consequences, which 
 Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 
 
 91. 
 
 Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 
 Tiiousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group 
 Of murder'd women, who had found their way 
 To tiiis vain refuge, made the good heart droop 
 And shudder; — while, as beautiful as May, 
 A female child often years tried to stoop 
 And hide her little palpitating breast 
 Amidst the bodies luU'd in bloody rest. 
 
 92. 
 
 Two villanous Cossacks pursued the child 
 
 With flashing eyes and weapons : match'd with them, 
 
 The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild 
 
 Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem, — 
 
 The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild : 
 
 And whom for this at last must we condemn? 
 
 Their natures, or their sovereigns, who employ 
 
 All arts to teach their subjects to destroy? 
 
 93. 
 
 Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head. 
 Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright. 
 Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead: 
 When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, 
 I shall not say exactly what he said, 
 Because it might not solace "ears polite;" 
 But what he did, was to lay on their backs, — 
 The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacks. 
 
 94. 
 
 One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder. 
 And drove them with their brutal yells to seek 
 If there might be cliirurgeons who could solder 
 The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 
 Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder 
 As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 
 Don Juan raised his little captive from 
 The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 
 
 95. 
 
 And she was chill as they, and on her face 
 A slender streak of blood announced how near 
 Her fate had been to that of all her race; 
 For the same blow which laid her mother here, 
 Had scarred her brow, and left its crimson trace 
 As the last link with all she had held dear; 
 But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes. 
 And gazed on Juan with a wild surprize. 
 
 96. 
 
 Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 
 Upon each other, with dilated glance, 
 In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 
 With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 
 Unto his protegee; while hers, transfix'd 
 With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 
 A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face. 
 Like to a ligliied alabaster-vase ; — 
 
 97. 
 
 Up came John Johnson — (I will not say Jack, 
 For that were vulgar, cold, and common-place 
 On great occasions, such as an attack 
 On cities, as hath been the present case) — 
 Up Johnson came with hundreds at his back. 
 Exclaiming: — "Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace 
 Your arm, and I'll bet Moscow to a dollar, 
 That you and I will win St. George's collar. 
 
 98. 
 
 The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head, 
 But the stone-bastion still remains, wherein 
 The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead, 
 Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din 
 Of our artillery and his own: 'tis said 
 Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin, 
 Lie round the battery ; but still it batters. 
 And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 
 
CANTO VIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 239 
 
 99. 
 
 I Then up with me!" — But Juau answer'd : "Look 
 i Upon this child — 1 saved her — must not leave 
 j Her life to chance; but point me out some nook 
 I Of safet}', where she less may shrink and grieve, 
 
 And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson took [sleeve 
 \ A glance around — and shrugg'd — and twitch'd his 
 1 And black silk neckcloth — and replied, "You're right; 
 
 Poor tiling! what's to be done? I'm puzzled quite." 
 
 100. 
 
 i 
 
 I Said Juan — "Whatsoever is to be 
 Done, I'll not quit her till she seems secure 
 Of present life a good deal more than we." — 
 
 I Quoth Johnson — "Neither will I quite ensure; 
 But at the least yow may die gloriously." — 
 
 I Juan replied — "At least I will endure 
 
 I Whate'er is to be borne — but not resign 
 
 I Tliis child, who is parentlcss, and therefore mine." 
 
 101. 
 
 Johnson said — "Juan, we've no time to lose; 
 The child's a pretty child — a very pretty — 
 I never saw such eyes — but hark! now choose 
 Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity; 
 Hark! how the roar increases! — no excuse 
 I Will serve when there is plunder in a city; — 
 ! I should be loth to march without you, but, 
 Ily God ! we'll be too late for the first cut." 
 
 j 102. 
 
 jBut Juan was immoveable; until 
 Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 
 
 jPick'd out amongst his followers with some skill 
 Such as he thought the least given up to prey ; 
 And swearing if the infant came to ill 
 That tliey should all be shot on the next day, 
 But if she were dcliver'd safe and sound, 
 They should at least have fifty roubles round ; 
 
 103. 
 
 And all allowances besides of plunder 
 In fair proportion with their comrades; — then 
 Juan consented to march on through thunder, 
 Which tliinn'd at every step their ranks of men : 
 And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder, 
 For they were heated by the hope of gain, 
 k. thing which happens every where each day — 
 No hero trusteth wholly to half-pay. 
 
 104. 
 
 \nd such is victory, and such is man ! 
 
 Alt least nine-tenths of what we call so; — God 
 
 May have another name for half we scan 
 
 ^s human beings, or his ways are odd. 
 
 But to our subject : a brave Tartar-Khan, — 
 
 Dr "Sultan" as the author (to whose nod 
 
 [n prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
 
 This chieftain — somehow would not yield at all: 
 
 105. 
 
 But, flank'd hy five brave sons (such is polygamy, 
 That she spawns warriors by the score, where none 
 Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy) 
 He never would believe the city won 
 While courage clung but to a single twig. — Am I 
 Describing Priam's, Pclcus', or Jove's son? 
 Neither, — but a good, plain, old, temperate man. 
 Who fought with his five children in the van. 
 
 106. 
 
 To take him was the point. The truly brave, 
 When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds, 
 Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save; 
 A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 
 Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave. 
 Now moved with pity : even as sometimes nods 
 The rugged tree unto the summer-wind, 
 Compassion breathes along the savage mind. 
 
 107. 
 
 But he would not be taken, and replied 
 To all the propositions of surrender 
 By mowing Christians down on every side, 
 As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender. 
 His five brave boys no less the foe defied; 
 Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender. 
 As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience. 
 Apt to wear out on trilling provocations. 
 
 108. 
 
 And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
 
 Expended all their eastern phraseology 
 
 In begging him, for God's sake, just to show 
 
 So much less fight as might form an apology 
 
 For them in saving such a desperate foe — 
 
 He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 
 
 When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses 
 
 Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 
 
 109. 
 
 Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both 
 
 Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell — 
 
 The first with sighs, the second with an oath, — 
 
 Upon his angry Sultanship, pell-mell. 
 
 And all around were grown exceeding wroth 
 
 At such a pertinacious infidel. 
 
 And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain. 
 
 Which they resisted like a sandy plain 
 
 110. 
 
 That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd : — 
 
 His second son was levell'd by a shot; 
 
 His third was sabred ; and the fourth, most cherish'd 
 
 Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot; 
 
 The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd. 
 
 Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not. 
 
 Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom, 
 
 To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him. 
 
240 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO n: 
 
 111. 
 
 The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 
 
 As great a scorner of the Nazarene, 
 
 As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr, 
 
 Who only saw the black-eyed g;irls in green, 
 
 Who make the beds of tliose who won't take quarter 
 
 On Earth, in Paradise; and, wlien once seen, 
 
 Tliose Houris, like all other pretty creatures. 
 
 Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features. 
 
 112. 
 
 And what they pleased to do with the young Khan ' 
 
 In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess;" 
 
 Rut doubtless they prefer a fine young man ' 
 
 To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; '^ 
 
 And that's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan / 
 
 A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, ~^;, 
 
 For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, ; 
 
 You'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 
 
 113. 
 
 Your Houris also have a natural pleasure 
 
 In lopping off your lately married men 
 
 Before the bridal hours have danced their measure. 
 
 And the sad, second moon grows dim again, 
 
 Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure 
 
 To wish him back a bachelor now and then. 
 
 And thus your Houri (it may be) disputes 
 
 Of these brief blossoms the inamediate fruits. 
 
 114 
 
 Thus the young Khan, with Houris in his sight, 
 Thought not upon the charms of four young brides, 
 But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 
 In short, howe'er our better faith derides. 
 These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fig^ht. 
 As thougli there were one heaven and none besides, — 
 Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven 
 A nd hell, there must at least be six or seven. 
 
 115. 
 
 So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes. 
 That when the very lance was in his heart, 
 He shouted, "Allah !" and saw Paradise 
 Witii all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 
 And bright Eternity without disguise 
 On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart; — 
 With Prophets, Houris, Angels, Saints, descried 
 In one voluptuous blaze, — and then he died: 
 
 116. 
 
 But, with a heavenly rapture on his face. 
 
 The good old Klian — who long had ceased to see 
 
 Houris, or aught except his florid race 
 
 Who grew like cedars round him gloriously — 
 
 When he beheld his latest hero grace 
 
 The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree. 
 
 Paused for a moment from the fight, and east 
 
 A glance on that slain son, his first and last. 
 
 117. 
 
 The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, 
 Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede 
 Quarter, in case he bade them not "aroint!" 
 As he before had done. He did not heed 
 Their pause nor signs : his heart w as out of joint. 
 And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed. 
 As he look'd down upon his children gone. 
 And felt — though done with life — he was alone. 
 
 118. 
 
 But 'twas a transient tremor: — with a spring 
 Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung. 
 As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 
 Against the light wherein she dies: he clung 
 Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring, 
 Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young; 
 And, throwing back a dim look on his sons, 
 In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 
 
 119. 
 
 'Tis strange enough — the rough, tough soldiers, who 
 Spared neither sex nor age in their career 
 Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through, 
 And lay before them with his children near, 
 Touch'd by the heroism of liim they slew, 
 Were melted for a moment ; though no tear 
 Flow'd from their blood-sliot eyes, all red with strife, 
 They honour'd such determined scorn of life. 
 
 120. 
 
 But the stone-bastion still kept up its fire. 
 Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post : 
 Some twenty times he made the Russ retire. 
 And baffled the assaults of all their host; 
 At length he condescended to inquire 
 If yet the city's rest were won or lost; 
 Ajid being told the latter, sent a Bey 
 To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 
 
 121. 
 
 In the mean time, eross-legg'd, with great sang-froid, 
 Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 
 Tobacco on a little carpet; — Troy 
 Saw nothing like the scene around; — yet, looking 
 With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy 
 His stern philosophy: but gently stroking 
 His beard, he pufFd his pipe's ambrosial gales. 
 As if he had three lives as well as tails. 
 
 122. 
 
 The town was taken — whether he might yield 
 Himself or bastion, little matter'd now; 
 His stubborn valour was no future shield. 
 Ismail's no more! The crescent's silver-bow 
 Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field. 
 But red with no redeeming gore : the glow 
 Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water. 
 Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. 
 
CANTO viri. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 241 
 
 123. 
 
 All tliat the mind would shrink from of excesses; 
 
 All tliat the body perpetrates of bad; 
 
 All that Avc read, hear, dream, of man's distresses; 
 
 All that the devil would do if run stark mad; 
 
 All tliat defies the worst which pen expresses; 
 
 All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
 
 As hell — mere mortals who their power abuse, — 
 
 Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. 
 
 124. 
 
 If here and there some transient trait of pity 
 
 Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through 
 
 Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty 
 
 Child, or an aged, helpless man or two — 
 
 Wiiat's this in otie annihilated city. 
 
 Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties, grow? 
 
 Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris! 
 
 Just ponder what a pious pastime war.is. 
 
 126. 
 
 Think liow the joys of reading a gazette 
 
 \.re purchased by all agonies and crimes: 
 
 3r, if these do not move you, don't forget 
 
 sucli doom may be your own in after-times. 
 
 \Ieantime the taxes, Castlereagh, and debt, 
 
 \.TC hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 
 
 ilead your own hearts and Ireland's present story, 
 
 Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 
 
 126. 
 
 Jut still there is unto a patriot nation, 
 
 Vhich loves so well its country and its king, 
 
 L subject of sublimest exultation — 
 
 Sear it, ye Muses, on your briglitest wing! 
 
 lowe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, 
 
 trip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, 
 
 launt Famine never shall approach the throne — 
 
 'hough Ireland starve, great G eorge weighs twenty stone. 
 
 127. 
 
 iut let me put an end unto my theme : 
 
 here was an end of Ismail — hapless town ! 
 
 ar flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, 
 
 nd redly ran his blushing waters down. 
 
 he horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 
 
 lose still; but fainter were the thunders grown : 
 
 f forty thousand who had mann'd the wall, 
 
 ome hundreds breathed — the rest were silent all! 
 
 128. 
 
 1 one thing ne'ertheless 'tis fit to praise 
 he Russian army upon this occasion, 
 virtue much in fashion now-a-days, 
 lid therefore worthy of commemoration: 
 he topic's tender, so shall be my phrase — 
 erhaps the season's chill, and their long station 
 1 winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, 
 [ad made them chaste: — they ravisli'd very little. 
 
 1^. 
 
 Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 
 Might here and there occur some violation 
 In tiie other line; — but not to such excess 
 As when the French, that dissipated nation, 
 Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess, 
 Except cold weather and commiseration; 
 But all the ladies, save some twenty score, 
 Were almost as much virgins as before. 
 
 130. 
 
 Some odd mistakes too happen'd in the dark. 
 Which show'd a want of lanthorus, or of taste — 
 Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark 
 Their friends from foes, — besides such things from haste 
 Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark 
 Of light to save the venerably chaste; — 
 But six old damsels, each of seventy years, 
 Were all deflower'd by difiFerent grenadiers. 
 
 131. 
 
 But on the whole tbeir continence was great; 
 So that some disappointment there ensued 
 To those who had felt the inconvenient state 
 Of "single blessedness," and thought it good 
 (Since it was not their fault, but only fate. 
 To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 
 To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding, 
 Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. 
 
 » 
 132. 
 
 Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 
 Were also heard to wonder in the din 
 (Widows of forty were these birds long caged) 
 "Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!" 
 But, while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, 
 There was small leisure for superfluous sin ; 
 But whether they escaped or no, lies hid 
 In darkness — I can only hope they did. 
 
 133. 
 
 Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 
 
 For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. 
 
 While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch 
 
 Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd, 
 
 With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch; 
 
 And here exactly follows what he said: — 
 
 "Glory to God and to the Empress!" (Powers 
 
 Eternal! such names mingled! ) "Ismail's ours ! " 
 
 134. 
 
 Methinks these are the most tremendous words. 
 Since "Mene, Mene, Tekel," and "Upharsin," 
 Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 
 Heaven help me ! I'm but little of a parson : 
 What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, 
 Severe, sublime; the Prophet wrote no farce on 
 The fate of nations ; — but this Russ, so witty, 
 Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. 
 
 16 
 
 iK 
 
242 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTC 
 
 135. 
 
 He wrote this polar raelodj', and set it, 
 Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, 
 Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it — 
 For I will teach, if possible, the stones 
 To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
 Be said, that we still truckle unto thrones; — 
 But ye — our children's children ! think Iiow wc 
 Show'd what things were before the world was free! 
 
 136. 
 
 That hour is not for us, but 'tis for you; 
 
 And as, in the great joy of your millennium. 
 
 You hardly will believe such things were true 
 
 As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em; 
 
 But may their very memory perish too ! — 
 
 Yet, if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em, 
 
 More than you scorn the savages of yore, 
 
 Viho paintedi\\cit bare limbs, but not with gore. 
 
 137. 
 
 And when you hear historians talk of thrones. 
 
 And those that sate upon them, let it be 
 
 As we now gaze upon the Mammoth's bones. 
 
 And wonder what old world such things could see, 
 
 Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones. 
 
 The pleasant riddles of futurity — 
 
 Guessing at what shall happily be hid 
 
 As the real purpose of a Pyramid. 
 
 138. 
 
 Reader ! I have kept my word, at least so far 
 As the first Canto promised. You have now 
 Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war — 
 All very accurate, you must allow. 
 And Epic, if plain truth should prove no bar ; 
 For I have drawn much less with a long bow 
 Than my fore-runners. Carelessly I sing, 
 But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, 
 
 139. 
 
 With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 
 What further hatli befallen or may befall 
 The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 
 I by and by may tell you, if at all : 
 But now I choose to break off in the middle, 
 Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall. 
 While Juan is sent off with the despatch. 
 For which all Petersburgh is on the watch. 
 
 140. 
 
 This special honour was conferr'd, because 
 He had behaved with courage and humanity ; 
 Which last men like, when tliey have time to pause 
 From their ferocities produced by vanity.. 
 His little captive gain'd him some applause, 
 For saving her amidst the wild insanity 
 Of carnage; and I think he was more glad in her 
 Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 
 
 Ul. 
 
 The Moslem orphan went with her protector. 
 For she was homeless, houseless, helpless: all 
 Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
 Had perisli'd in the field or by the wall : 
 Her very place of birth was but a spectre 
 Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's call 
 To prayer was heard no more! — And Juan wept, 
 And made a vow to shield her, which he kept. 
 
 CANTO IX. 
 
 1. 
 
 Oh, Wellington! (or "Vilainton" — for Fame 
 Sounds the heroic syllables both ways; 
 France could not even conquer your great name. 
 But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase — 
 Beating or beaten she will laugh the same;) 
 You have obtain'd great pensions and mucli praise; 
 Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, 
 Humanity would rise, and thunder "Nay ! " 
 
 2. 
 
 I don't tliink that you used Kinnaird quite well 
 In Marinet's aifair — in fact 'twas shabby. 
 And, like some other tiling, won't do to tell 
 Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 
 Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell. 
 Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby; 
 But though your years as man tend fast to zero, 
 In fact your Grace is still but a young hero. 
 
CANTO IX. DON JUAN. 
 
 243 
 
 Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, 
 Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more: 
 You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch — 
 A prop not quite so certain as before: 
 The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 
 Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; 
 And Waterloo has made the world your debtor — • 
 (I wish your bards would sing it rather better). 
 
 4. 
 
 You are "the best of cut-throats" — do not start ; 
 
 The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied : — 
 
 War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, 
 
 Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
 
 If you have acted once a generous part. 
 
 The world, not the world's masters, will decide. 
 
 And I shall be delighted to learn who, 
 
 Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo? 
 
 I am no flatterer — you've snpp'd full of flattery : 
 rhey say you like it too — 'tis no great wonder : 
 He whose whole life has been assault and battery, 
 \t last may get a little tired of thunder ; 
 |\nd, swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he 
 May like being praised for every lucky blunder; 
 ZzWA "Saviour of the Nations" — not yet saved, 
 \nd "Europe's Liberator" — still enslaved. 
 
 6. 
 
 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate 
 *rescntcd by the Prince of the Brazils, 
 Ind send the sentinel before your gate 
 L slice or two from your luxurious meals : 
 Ic fought, but has not fed so well of late, 
 Some hunger too they say the people feels : 
 liere is no doubt that you deserve your ration — 
 $ut pray give back a little to the nation. 
 
 don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 
 fou, my Lord Duke ! is far above reflection, 
 ^he high Roman fashion too of Cincinnatus, 
 Vith modern history has but small connexion ; 
 'hough as an Irishman you love potatoes, 
 jTou need not take them under your direction ; 
 lind half a million for your Sabine farm 
 s rather dear ! — I'm sure I mean no harm. 
 
 8. 
 
 preat men have always scorn'd great recompenses : 
 ;!'Paminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 
 fot leaving even his funeral expenses : 
 Jcorge Washington had thanks and nought beside, 
 Sxcept the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is) 
 To free his country: Pitt too had his pride, 
 k.nd, as a high-soul'd minister of state, is 
 lenown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis. 
 
 Never had mortal man such opportunity, 
 
 Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 
 
 You might have free'd fall'n Europe from the Unity 
 
 Of Tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore; 
 
 And now — what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune it ye? 
 
 Now — that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er? 
 
 Go, hear it in your famish'd country's cries! 
 
 Behold the world! and curse your victories! 
 
 10. 
 
 As these new Cantos touch on warlike feats. 
 To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe 
 Truths that you will not read in the gazettes. 
 But which, 'tis time to teach the hireling tribe 
 Who fatten on their country's gore and debts, 
 Must be recited, and — without a bribe. 
 You didyreat things; but, not hein^ yreat in mind, 
 Have left undone theyreatest — and mankind. 
 
 It 
 
 Death laughs — Go ponder o'er the skeleton 
 With which men image out the unknown thing 
 That hides the past world, like to a set sun 
 Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring: 
 Death laughs at all you weep for; -^ look upon 
 This hourly dread of all, whose threaten' d stiny ■ 
 Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath ! 
 Mark ! how its llpless mouth grins without breath ! 
 
 12. 
 
 Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 
 And yet was what yon are : from car to ear 
 It laughs not — there is now no ileshy bar 
 So call'd; the Antic long hath ceased to hear, 
 But still he smiles; and whether near or far 
 He strips from man that mantle — (far more dear 
 Than even the tailor's) — his incarnate skin, 
 White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin. 
 
 13. 
 
 And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment, 
 
 But still it is so; and with such example 
 
 Why should not Life be equally content, 
 
 With his superior, in a smile to trample 
 
 Upon the nothings which are daily spent 
 
 Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 
 
 Than the eternal deluge, which devours 
 
 Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like hours? 
 
 14. 
 
 "To be, or not to be ! that is the question," 
 Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. 
 I am neither Alexander nor Hephajstion, 
 Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion ; 
 But would much rather have a sound digestion. 
 Than Buonaparte's cancer : — could I dash on 
 Through fifty victories to shame or fame. 
 Without a stomach — what were a good name? 
 
244 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 1 
 
 16. 
 
 "Oh, dura ilia messorum ! " — "Oli, 
 
 Ye rigid guts of reapers ! " — I translate 
 
 For the great benefit of those who know 
 
 What indigestion is — that inward fate 
 
 Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow. 
 
 A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate: 
 
 Let this one toil for bread -^ that rack for rent, — 
 
 He who sleeps best, may be the most content. 
 
 16. 
 
 "To be, or not to be?" — Ere I decide, 
 I should be glad to know that which is being ? 
 'Tis true we speculate both far and wide. 
 And deem, because we see, wc are all-seeing; 
 For my part, I'll enlist on neither side> 
 Until I see both sides for once agreeing. 
 For me, J sometimes think that life is death, 
 Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 
 
 17. 
 
 "Que sais-je?" was the motto of Montaigne, 
 
 As also of the first academicians: 
 
 That all is dubious which man may attain, 
 
 Was one of their most favourite positions. 
 
 There's no such thing as certainty, that's plain 
 
 As any of mortality's conditions: 
 
 So little do we know what we're about in 
 
 This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 
 
 18. 
 
 It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 
 
 Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation ; 
 
 But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? 
 
 Your wise men don't know much of navigation; 
 
 And swimming long in the abyss of thought 
 
 Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station 
 
 Weil nigh the shore, where one stoops down and gathers 
 
 Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 
 
 19. 
 
 "But heaven," as Cassio says, "is above all, — 
 No more of this then, — let us pray ! " We have 
 Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall. 
 Which tumbled all mankind into the grave, 
 Besides fish, beasts, and birds. "The sparrow's fall 
 Is special providence," though how it gave 
 Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd 
 Upon the tree which Eve so fondly scarch'd. 
 
 20. 
 
 Oh, ye immortal Gods ! what is thcogony ? 
 
 Oh, tl;ou too mortal man ! what is pliilanthropy ? 
 
 Oh, world, which was and is! what is cosmogony? 
 
 Some people have accused me of misanthropy ; 
 
 And yet I know no more than the maliogany 
 
 That forms this desk, of what they mean : — Lyhanthropy 
 
 I comprehend; for, without transformation. 
 
 Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 
 
 21. 
 
 But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, 
 
 Like Moses, or Melanchthon, who have ne'er 
 
 Done any thing exceedingly unkind, — 
 
 And (though I could not now and then forbear 
 
 Following the bent of body or of mind) 
 
 Have always had a tendency to spare, — 
 
 Why do tliey call me misantlirope? Because 
 
 They hate me, not I them : — And here we'll pause. 
 
 22. 
 
 'Tis time we should proceed with our good poem, 
 
 For I maintain that it is really good. 
 
 Not only in the body, but the proem, 
 
 However little both are understood 
 
 Just now, — but by and by the truth will show 'em 
 
 Herself in her sublimest attitude: 
 
 And till she doth, I fain must be content 
 
 To share her beauty and her banishment. 
 
 23. 
 
 Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader ! yours) 
 
 Was left upon his way to the chief city 
 
 Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors. 
 
 Who still have shown themselves more brave tJian wit 
 
 I know its mighty empire now allures 
 
 Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that's a pity. 
 
 For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
 
 Not a barbarian, but much w orse than that. 
 
 24. 
 
 And I will war, at least in words (and — should 
 My chance so happen — deeds) with all who war 
 With thouglit; — and of thought's foes by far most ra 
 Tyrants and sycophants have been and arc. 
 I know not who may conquer: if I could 
 Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 
 To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation 
 Of every despotism in every nation. 
 
 25. 
 
 It is not that I adulate the people: 
 Without me, there are demagogues enough, 
 And infidels, to pull down every steeple, 
 And set up in their stead some proper stufl". 
 Whether they may sow scepticism to reap htll, 
 As is tlie christian dogma rather rough, 
 I do not know; — I wish men to be free 
 As much from mobs as kings — from you as mc. 
 
 26. 
 
 The consequence is, being of no party, 
 
 I shall offend all parties : never mind ! 
 
 My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 
 
 Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 
 
 He who has nought to gain can have small art: he 
 
 Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind 
 
 !May slill expatiate freely, as will I, 
 
 Nor give my voice to slavery's jackallery. 
 
CANTO IX. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 245 
 
 27. 
 
 I That's an appropriate simile, thatjackaU ; 
 
 ; I've heard them in tlie Ephcsian ruins howl 
 
 1 By niglit, as do that mercenary pack all, 
 Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, 
 
 I And scent the prey their masters would attack all. 
 However, the poor jackallsareless foul 
 (As being the brave lions' keen providers) 
 Than human insects, catering for spiders. 
 
 28. 
 
 Raise but an arm! 'twill brush their web away, 
 ! And without that, their poison and tlieir claws 
 t Are useless. Mind, good people ! what I say — ■ 
 
 (Or rather peoples) — go on without pause! 
 ' The web of these tarantulas each day 
 i Increases, till you shall make common cause: 
 
 None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 
 
 As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 
 
 29. 
 
 jDon Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, 
 ' Was left upon his way with the despatch, 
 Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water; 
 I And carcasses, that lay as thick as thatch 
 iO'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 
 jFair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on the match 
 jBctween these nations as a main of cocks, 
 (Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 
 
 30. 
 
 lAnd there in a kihitka he roll'd on 
 (A cursed sort of carriage without springs, 
 (Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone), 
 .Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings. 
 And orders, and on all that he had done — 
 jAnd wishing that post-horses had (he wings 
 jOf Pegasus, or, at the least, post-chaises 
 jHad feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 
 
 i 31. 
 
 At every jolt — and they were many — slill 
 Heturn'd his eyes upon his little charge, 
 ,As if he wish'd that she should fare less il! 
 Than he, in these sad highways left at large 
 JTo ruts, and (lints, and lovely nature's skill, 
 jWho is no paviour, nor admits a barge 
 On lier canals, where God takes sea and land, 
 Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 
 
 32. 
 
 At least he pays no rent, and has best right 
 |To be the first of what we used to call 
 rGcntiemen Farmers" — a race worn out quite, 
 Since lately there have been no rents at all, 
 And "gentlemen" are in a piteous plight. 
 And "farmers" can't raise Ceres from her fall : 
 She fell with Buonaparte : — What strange thoughts 
 Arise, when we see emperors fall witli oats ! 
 
 33. 
 
 But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 
 
 Whom he had saved from slaughter — what a trophy! 
 
 Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled 
 
 With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive Sophy, 
 
 Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild. 
 
 And scarce to the Mogul a cup of eolfee 
 
 To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner I 
 
 Because he could no more digest his dinner; — 
 
 34. 
 
 Oh ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect, 
 That one life saved, especially if young 
 Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 
 Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 
 From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 
 With all the praises ever said or sung : 
 Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within 
 Your heart joins chorus, fame is but a din. 
 
 35. 
 
 Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous ! 
 Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes! 
 Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us! 
 Whether you're paid by government in bribes. 
 To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 
 Or, roughly treading on the "courtier's kibes" 
 With clownish heel, your popular circulation 
 Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation : — 
 
 36. 
 
 Oh, ye great authors ! — "A propos des bottes" — 
 I have forgotten what I meant to say. 
 As sometimes have been greater sages' lots ; 
 'Twas something calculated to allay 
 All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots; 
 Certcs it would have been but thrown away, 
 And that's one comfort for my lost advice. 
 Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 
 
 37. 
 
 But let it go : — it will one day be found 
 With other relics of "a former world," 
 When this world shall he former, under-ground, 
 Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd. 
 Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or drown'd, 
 Like all the worlds before, which have been hnrl'd 
 First out of and then back again to Chaos, 
 The superstratum which will overlay us. 
 
 38. 
 
 So Cuvier says ; — and then shall come again 
 
 Unto (he new creation, rising out 
 
 From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain 
 
 Of things destroy 'd and left in airy doubt: 
 
 Like to the notions we now entertain 
 
 Of Titans, Giants, fellows of about 
 
 Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, 
 
 And Mammoths, and your winged Crocodiles, 
 
246 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO IX 
 
 Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up! 
 How the new worldlings of the then new East 
 Will wonder where such animals could sup ! 
 (For they themselves will be but of the least : 
 Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 
 And every new creation hath decreased 
 In size, from over-working the material — 
 Men are but maggots of some huge earth's burial.) 
 
 40. 
 
 How will — to these young people, just thrust out 
 From some fresh paradise, and set to plough, 
 And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, 
 And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow. 
 Till all the arts at length are brought about, 
 Especially of war and taxing, — how, 
 I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em. 
 Look like the monsters of a new museum? 
 
 41. 
 
 But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: 
 "The time is out of joint," and so am I ; 
 I quite forget this poem's merely quizzical, 
 And deviate into matters rather dry. 
 I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 
 Much too poetical ; men should know wliy 
 They write, and for what end; but, note or text, 
 I never know the word which will come ae^i, 
 
 42. 
 
 So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 
 Now pondering : — it is time we should narrate; 
 I left Don Juan with his horses baiting — 
 Now we'll get o'er the ground at a great rate. 
 I shall not be particular in stating 
 His journey, we've so many tours of late; 
 Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 
 That pleasant capital of painted snows; 
 
 43. 
 
 Suppose him in a handsome uniform ; 
 
 A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
 
 Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm. 
 
 Over a cock'd hat, in a crowded room, 
 
 And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, 
 
 Of yellow cassimere we may presume, 
 
 Wliite stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk. 
 
 O'er limbs whose symmetry set oft' the silk : 
 
 44. 
 
 Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand. 
 Made up by youth, fame, and an army-tailor, 
 That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 
 Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns paler. 
 Seeing how Art can make her work more grand, 
 (When she don't pin men's limbs in like a jailor) - 
 Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He 
 Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery ! 
 
 / 
 
 45. 
 
 His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat; 
 His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver 
 Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 
 His sides as a small sword, but sharp as ever; 
 His bow converted into a cock'd hat; 
 But still so like, that Psyche were more clever 
 Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupic 
 If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 
 
 46. 
 
 The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and 
 
 The Empress smiled; the reigning favourite frown'd^ 
 
 I quite forget which of them was in hand 
 
 Just then, as they are rather numerous found, 
 
 Who took by turns that difficult command 
 
 Since first her Majesty was singly crown'd : 
 
 But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 
 
 All fit to make a Patagonia n jealous. 
 
 47. 
 
 Juan was none of these, but slight and slim. 
 Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless 
 There was a something in his turn of limb, 
 And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express, 
 That though he look'd one of the Seraphim, 
 There lurk'd a Man beneath the Spirit's dress. 
 Besides, the Empress sometimes liked a boy, 
 And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. 
 
 48. 
 
 No wonder then that Yermolofl", or MomonofF, 
 
 Or Scherbatoff,or any other off 
 
 Or on, might dread her Majesty had not room enough 
 
 Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
 
 For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough 
 
 Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, 
 
 Of him who, in the language of his station. 
 
 Then held that "high official situation." 
 
 4d. 
 
 Oh, gentle ladies ! should you seek to know 
 The import of this diplomatic phrase, 
 Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show 
 His parts of speech; and, in the strange displays 
 Of that odd string of words, all in a row, 
 Which none divine, and every one obej'S, 
 Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning. 
 Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 
 
 50. 
 
 I think I can explain myself without 
 
 That sad inexplicable beast of prey — 
 
 That sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, 
 
 Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 
 
 That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 
 
 Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh! 
 
 And here I must an anecdote relate. 
 
 But luckily of no great length or weight. 
 
CANTO IX. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 247 
 
 51. 
 
 ' An English lady ask'd of an Italian, 
 ' What were the actual and official duties 
 
 Of the strange thing, some women set a value on, 
 , Which hovers oft about some married beauties, 
 i Called "Cavalier Servente?" — a Pygmalion 
 
 Wliose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 'tis) 
 ; Beneath his art. The dame, prcss'd to disclose them, 
 i Said — "Lady, I beseech you to suppose them." 
 
 62. 
 
 And thus I supplicate your supposition, 
 
 And mildest, matron-like interpretation 
 
 Of the imperial favourite's condition. 
 
 'Twas a high place, the highest in the nation 
 
 In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion 
 
 Of any one's attaining to his station. 
 
 No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders. 
 
 If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. 
 
 53. 
 
 Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, 
 
 ■And had rctain'd his boyish look beyond 
 
 IThe usual hirsute seasons which destroy, 
 
 JWith beards and whiskers and the like, the fond 
 
 \Parisian aspect which upset old Troy 
 
 lAnd founded Doctors' Commons: — I have conn'd 
 
 The history of divorces, which, thougli chequer'd, 
 
 Calls Ilion's the tirst damages on record. 
 
 64. 
 
 And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord, 
 !\^'■ho was gone to his place) and pass'd for much, 
 ■Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) 
 Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 
 pf sentiment; and he she most adored 
 Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 
 A lover as had cost her many a tear, 
 \nd yet but made a middling grenadier. 
 
 55. 
 
 3h, thou "teterrima causa" of all "belli !" — 
 riiou gate of life and death ! — thou nondescript! 
 tVhence is our exit and our entrance, — well I 
 Vlay pause in pondering how all souls are dipt 
 n thy perennial fountain : — how manfell, I 
 Cnow not, since knowledge saw her brandies stript 
 )f her first fruit ; but how he falls and rises 
 ^ince, TJtou hast settled beyond all surmises. 
 
 56. 
 
 Some call thee "the worst cause of war," but I 
 Itlaintain thou art the best : for, after all, 
 '•"rom thee we come, to thee we go : and why 
 
 get at thee not batter down a w all, 
 )r waste a world? Since no one can deny 
 
 liou dost replenisli worlds both great and small : 
 jVith, or without thee, all things at a stand 
 
 re, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land ! 
 
 I 
 
 67. 
 
 Catherine, who was the grand epitome 
 
 Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what 
 
 You please (it causes all the things which be, 
 
 So you may take your choice of this or that) — 
 
 Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 
 
 The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat 
 
 Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 
 
 With his despatch, forgot to break the seal. 
 
 58. 
 
 Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 
 
 Forgetting quite the woman (which composed 
 
 At least three parts of this great whole) she tore 
 
 The letter open with an air which posed 
 
 The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore, 
 
 Until a royal smile at length disclosed 
 
 Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious. 
 
 Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. 
 
 59, 
 
 Great joy was hers, or rather joys; the first 
 
 Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 
 
 Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst. 
 
 As an east-indian sunrise on the main. 
 
 These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst — 
 
 So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain: 
 
 In vain! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands, 
 
 Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands! 
 
 eo. 
 
 Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 
 
 She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw 
 
 Into a Russian couplet, rather dull. 
 
 The whole gazette of thousands whom lie slew. 
 
 Her third was feminine enough to annul 
 
 The shudder which runs naturally through 
 
 Our veins, when things call'd Sovereigns think it best 
 
 To kill, and Generals turn it into jest. 
 
 61. 
 
 The two first feelings ran their course complete. 
 And lighted first her eye and then her mouth : 
 The whole court look'd immediatelj' most sweet, 
 Like flowers well watcr'd after a long drought: 
 But when on the lieutenant at her feet 
 Her Majesty, who liked to gaze on youth 
 Almost as much as on a new despatch. 
 Glanced mildly, all the world Avas on the watch. 
 
 62. 
 
 Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, 
 When wroth ; whWe pleased, she was as fine a figure 
 As those, who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, 
 Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. 
 She could repay each amatory look you lent 
 With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour 
 To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 
 At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 
 
248 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO i: 
 
 63. 
 
 With her the latter, though at times convenient, 
 
 Was not so necessary ; for they tell 
 
 That she was handsome, and, thougli fierce, /oo^'dlenient, 
 
 And always used her favourites too well. 
 
 If oncci beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went. 
 
 Your "fortune" was in a fair way "to swell 
 
 A man," as Giles says; for, though she would widow all 
 
 Nations, she liked man as an individual. 
 
 64. 
 
 What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger 
 xls woman ! What a whirlwind is her head, (/ 
 
 • And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger 
 Is all tlie rest about her ! Whether wed. 
 Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her 
 Mind like the wind; wliatever she has said 
 Or done, is light to what she'll say or do; — 
 The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 
 
 65. 
 
 Oh, Catherine ! (for of all interjections 
 To thee both oA .' and«A/ belong of right 
 In love and war) how odd are the connexions 
 Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight ! 
 Just now yours were cut out in diflerent sections : 
 First, Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite ; 
 Next, of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch; 
 And, thirdly, he who brought you the despatch ! 
 
 66. 
 
 Shakspeare talks of "the herald Mercury 
 
 New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ;" 
 
 And some such visions cross'd her Majesty, 
 
 While her young herald knelt before her still, 
 
 'Tis very true the hill scem'd rather high 
 
 For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill [inff? 
 
 Smoothed even theSimplon's steep, and, by God's bless- 
 
 With youth and health all kisses are "heaven-kissing." 
 
 67. 
 
 Her Majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up — 
 And so they fell in love; — she with his face, 
 His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid's cup 
 With the first draught intoxicates apace, 
 A quintessential laudanum or "black drop," 
 Wiiich makes one drunk at once, without the base ^ 
 
 Expedient of full bumpers ; for the eye / 
 
 In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. ^ 
 
 68. 
 
 He, on the other hand, if not in love. 
 
 Fell into that no less imperious passion, 
 
 Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 
 
 Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, 
 
 Or duchess, princess, empress, "deigns to prove" 
 
 ('Tis Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash one; 
 
 For one especial person out of manj'. 
 
 Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 
 
 69. 
 
 Besides, he was of that delighted age 
 Which makes all female ages equal — when 
 We don't much care with whom we may engage, 
 As bold as Daniel in the lions' den. 
 So that we can our native sun assuage 
 In the next ocean, which may flow just then. 
 To make a twilight in — just as Sol's heat is 
 Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. 
 
 70. 
 
 And Catherine (we must say tlius much for Catherine) 
 Though bold and bloody, was the kind of tiling 
 Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, 
 Because each lover look'd a sort of king. 
 Made up upon an amatory pattern — 
 A royal husband in all save the ring — 
 Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony, 
 Scem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 
 
 71. 
 
 And when you add to this, her womanhood 
 In its meridian, her blue eyes, or gray — 
 (The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, 
 Or better, as the best examples say : 
 Napoleon's, Mary's (Queen of Scotland) should 
 Lend to that colour a transcendant ray; 
 And Pallas also sanctions the same hue — 
 Too wise to look through optics black or blue) — 
 
 72. 
 
 Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure. 
 Her plumpness, her imperial condescension. 
 Her preference of a boy to men much bigger 
 (Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension), 
 Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, 
 With other extras, which we need not mention, — 
 All these, or any one of these, explain 
 Enough to make a stripling very vain. 
 
 73. 
 
 And that's enough, for love is vanity. 
 
 Selfish in its beginning as its end, 
 
 Except where 'tis a mere insanity, 
 
 A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
 
 Itself witii beauty's frail inanity, 
 
 On which the passion's self seems to depend: 
 
 And hence some heathenish philosophers 
 
 Make love the main-spring of the universe. 
 
 74. 
 
 Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
 Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 
 Of faithful pairs — (I needs must rhyme with dove, 
 That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving 
 'Gainst reason — reason ne'er was haud-and-glove 
 With rhyme, but always leant less to improving 
 The sound than sense) — besides all these pretences 
 To love, there are those things which words namesensei 
 
CANTO IX. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 249 
 
 76, 
 
 Those movements, those improvements in our bodies, 
 
 Which make all bodies anxious to get out 
 
 Of their own sand-pits to mix with a goddess, 
 
 For such all women are at first no doubt. 
 
 How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 
 
 That fever which precedes tlie languid rout 
 
 Of our sensations ! What a curious way 
 
 The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay ! 
 
 76. 
 
 The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, ,/^ 
 
 To end or to begin witli ; the next grand 
 
 Is that which may be christen'd love canonical, 
 
 Because the clergy take the thing in hand; 
 
 The third sort, to be noted in our chronicle 
 
 As flourishing in every christian land, 
 
 [s, when chaste matrons to their other ties 
 
 A.dd what may be call'd Marriage in disguise. 
 
 77. 
 
 ell, we won't analyze — our story must 
 Tell for itself: the Sovereign was smitten, 
 fuan much flatter'd by her love, or lust; — 
 cannot stop to alter words once written, 
 ind the two are so mix'd with human dust. 
 That he w!io names one, both perchance may hit on: 
 :Jat in such matters Russia's mighty empress 
 cjchaved no better than a coTntnon sempstress. 
 
 78. 
 
 The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 
 
 ^nd all lips were applied unto all ears; 
 
 The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper 
 
 ^s they beheld; the younger cast some leers 
 
 )n one another, and each lovely lisper 
 
 >milcd as slie talk'd the matter o'er; but tears 
 
 )f rivalship rose in each clouded eye 
 
 )f all the standing army who stood by. 
 
 79. 
 
 W\ tiie ambassadors of all the powers 
 nquircd, who was this very new young man, 
 iVho promised to be great in some few hours? 
 tVhich is full soon (though life is but a span). 
 Uready they beheld the silver showers 
 )f rubles rain, as fast as specie can, 
 Jpon his cabinet, besides the presents 
 )f several ribbons and some thousand peasants. 
 
 80. 
 
 Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are : 
 Love, that great opener of tiie heart and all ^/^ 
 The ways that lead there, be they near or far, 
 Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — • 
 Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war, 
 And was not the best wife, unless we call 
 Such Clytemnestra; though perhaps 'tis better 
 That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) — 
 
 8L 
 
 Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, 
 
 Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 
 
 Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, 
 
 If history, the grand liar, ever saith 
 
 The truth ; and though grief her old age might shorten, 
 
 Because she put a favourite to death. 
 
 Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation. 
 
 And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 
 
 82. 
 
 But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 
 In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 
 Ambassadors began as 'twere to hustle 
 Round the young man with their congratulations. 
 Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 
 Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 
 It is to speculate on handsome faces, 
 Especially when such lead to high places, 
 
 83. 
 
 ,?uan, who found himself, he knew not how, 
 A general object of attention, made 
 His answers with a very graceful bow. 
 As if born for the ministerial trade. 
 Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow 
 Nature had written "gentleman." He said 
 Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
 Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 
 
 84. 
 
 An order from her Majesty consign'd 
 Our young lieutenant to the genial care 
 Of those in office : all the world look'd kind 
 (As it will look sometimes with the first stare, 
 Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind), 
 As also did Miss Protasoff then there, 
 Named, from her mystic office, "I'Eprouveuse," 
 A term inexplicable to the Muse. 
 
 85. 
 
 With her then, as in humble duty bound, 
 Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
 My Pegasus shall tire of toucliing^ ground. 
 We have just lit on a "heaven-kissing hill," 
 So lofty that I feel my brain turn round. 
 And all my fancies whirling like a mill; 
 Which is a signal to my nerves and brain. 
 To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 
 
 16 
 
250 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 CANTO X. 
 
 When Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
 In that slight startle from his contemplation — 
 'Tis said (for I'll not answer above ground 
 For any sage's creed or calculation) — 
 A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round 
 In a most natural whirl, cali'd "Gravitation ; " 
 And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, 
 Since Adam, with a fall, or with an apple. 
 
 2. 
 
 Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
 If this be true; for we must deem the mode 
 In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose. 
 Through the then unpaved stars, the turnpike-road, 
 A thing to counterbalance human woes; 
 For, ever since, immortal man hath glow'd 
 With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 
 Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. 
 
 And wherefore this exordium? — Why, just now 
 
 In taking up this paltry sheet of paper. 
 
 My bosom underwent a glorious glow. 
 
 And my internal spirit cut a caper : 
 
 And though so much inferior, as I know. 
 
 To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, 
 
 Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 
 
 I wish to do as ^luch by poesy. 
 
 4. 
 
 In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail; but for 
 
 The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 
 
 But at the least I have shunn'd the common shore, 
 
 And, leaving land far out of sight, would skim 
 
 The ocean of eternity, the roar 
 
 Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim. 
 
 But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 
 
 Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. 
 
 We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom 
 Of favouritism, but not yet in tlic blush ; — 
 And far be it from my Muses to presume 
 (For I have more than one Muse at a pusl>) 
 To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 
 It is enough that fortune found him flusli 
 Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things 
 Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 
 
 But soon tliey grow again and leave their nest 
 
 "Oh ! " saith tlie Psalmist, "that I had a dove's 
 
 Pinions, to flee away and be at rest ! " 
 
 And who, that recollects young years and loves, — 
 
 Though hoary now, and with a withering breast. 
 
 And palsied fancy, which no longe^roves 
 
 Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would much rat 
 
 Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather? 
 
 But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink, 
 Like Arno, in the summer, to a shallow. 
 So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, 
 Which threatens inundations deep and yellow ! 
 Such difference do a few months make. You'd thinK" 
 Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow ; 
 No more it doth, its ploughs but change tlieir boys. 
 Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 
 
 8. 
 
 But coughs will come when sighs depart — and now . 
 And then before sighs cease ; for oft the one 
 Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow ^ 
 
 Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun ^ 
 
 Of life reach'd ten o'clock: and, while a glow. 
 Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 
 O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for day, 
 Thousands blaze, lo^, hope, die — how happy they ! 
 
 But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 
 We left him in the focus of such glory 
 As may be won by favour of the moon 
 Or ladies' fancies — rather transitory 
 Perhaps; but who would scorn the montli of Jumi, 
 Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
 Must come? Much rather should he court the ray, 
 To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. 
 
 10. 
 
 Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
 
 Middle-aged ladies even more than young : 
 
 Tlie former know what's what; while new-fledged chi 
 
 Know little more of love than what is sung 
 
 In rhymes, or dream'd (for fancy will play tricks) 
 
 In visions of those skies from whence love sprung. 
 
 Some reckon w omen by their suns or years 
 
 I rather think the moon should date the dears. 
 
 V 
 
CANTO X. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 251 
 
 11. 
 
 A.nd why? because she's changeable and chaste, 
 I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
 Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, 
 iVIay clioose to tax me with; which is not fair. 
 Nor flattering to "their temper or their taste," 
 As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air : 
 However, I forgive him, and I trust 
 He will forgive himself; — if not, I must. 
 
 12. 
 
 Old enemies who have become new friends 
 Should so continue — 'tis a point of honour ; 
 And I know nothing wliich could make amends 
 For a return to hatred : I would shun her 
 Like garliok, howsoever she extends 
 Her iiundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 
 Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes — 
 Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 
 
 13. 
 
 This were the worst desertion : renegadoes, 
 Even shuflling Southey — that incarnate lie — 
 Would s<;arcely join again the "rcformadoes," 
 Whom he forsook to fill the Laureate's sty : 
 And honest men, from Iceland to Barbadoes, 
 jWhether in Caledon or Italy, 
 jShouId not veer round with every breath, nor seize, 
 To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 
 
 14. 
 
 iFhe lawyer and the critic but behold 
 jlhe baser sides of literature and life. 
 And nought remains unseen, but much untold. 
 By tiiosc who scour those double vales of strife. 
 jWhile common men grow ignorantly old. 
 The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, 
 Dissecting the whole inside of a question. 
 And with it all the process of digestion. 
 
 i/ 
 
 16. 
 
 legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, 
 nd that's the reason he himsclfs so dirty; 
 he endless soot bestows a tint far deeper 
 han can be hid by altering his siiirt; he 
 |.letains the sable stains of the dark creeper — 
 \t least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, 
 jH all their habits : — Not so j/ou, 1 own ; 
 Vs C^sar wore his robe you wear your gown. 
 
 16. 
 
 Vnd all our little feuds, at least all min/;, 
 )ear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe 
 .As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
 To make sncli puppets of us things below), 
 ^reover. Here's a health to "Auld Lang Syne!" 
 do not know you, and may never know 
 iTour face, — but you have acted on the whole 
 klost nobly, and I own it from my soul. 
 
 17. 
 
 And when I use the phrase of "Auld Lang Syne !" 
 
 'Tis not address'd to you — the more's the pity 
 
 For me, for I would rather take my wine 
 
 With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. 
 
 But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy's whine, 
 
 And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty. 
 
 But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 
 
 A whole one, and my heart flies to my head : — 
 
 18. 
 
 As "Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland, one and all, 
 
 Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear 
 
 The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's Brig's black wall, [streams. 
 
 All my boy-feelings, all my gentler dreams 
 
 Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall. 
 
 Like Banquo's offspring; — floating past me seems 
 
 My childhood in this childishness of mine: 
 
 I care not — 'tis a glimpse of "Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 19. 
 
 And though, as you remember, in a fit 
 
 Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 
 
 I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, 
 
 Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 
 
 Yet, 'tis in vain such sallies to permit — 
 
 They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early : 
 
 I "scotch'd, not kill'd," the Scotchman in my blood. 
 
 And love the land of "mountain and of flood." 
 
 20. 
 
 Don Juan, who was real or ideal, — 
 For both are much the same, since what men think 
 Exists w hen the once thinkers are less real 
 Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, 
 And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal ; — 
 And yet 'tis very puzzling on the brink 
 Of what is call'd Eternity, to stare, .— — 
 And know no more of what is here, than there : — 
 
 21. 
 
 Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian — 
 Hoiv, we won't mention, why, we need not say; 
 Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 
 Of any slight temptation in their way; 
 But 7iw just now were spread as is a cushion 
 Smoothed for a monarch's seat of honour: gay 
 Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money. 
 Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 
 
 22. 
 
 The favour of the Empress was agreeable; 
 And, though the duty wax'd a little hard, 
 Young people at his time of life should be able 
 To come off handsomely in that regard. 
 He now was growing up like a green tree, able 
 For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
 Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
 Make some prefer the circulating medium. 
 
252 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 23. 
 
 About this time, as might have been anticipated, 
 Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 
 Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated ; 
 Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 
 On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated 
 With all kinds of incorrigible samples 
 Of frail humanity — must make us selfish, 
 And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish. 
 
 24. 
 
 This we pass over. We will also pass 
 
 The usual progress of intrigues between 
 
 Unequal matches, such as are, alas ! 
 
 A young lieutenant's with a i^ot old queen, 
 
 But one wlio is not so youthful as she was 
 
 In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 
 
 Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter. 
 
 And wrinkles (the damn'd democrats) won't flatter; 
 
 25. 
 
 And Death, the sovereigns' sovereign, though the great 
 Gracchus of all mortality, who levels ^■ 
 
 With his agrarian laws the high estate ^ 
 Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels. 
 To one small grass-grown patch (which must await 
 Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils 
 Who never had a foot of land till now, — 
 Death's a reformer, all men must allow. 
 
 26. 
 
 He lived (not Death, bat Juan) in a hurry 
 Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, 
 In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 
 Wliich (though I hate to say a thing tliat's bitter) 
 Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry. 
 Through all the "purple and fine linen," fitter 
 For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 
 And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. 
 
 27. 
 
 And this same state we won't describe: we could 
 
 Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection ; 
 
 But getting nigh grim Dante's "obscure wood," 
 
 That horrid equinox, that hateful section 
 
 Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 
 
 Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection 
 
 Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier 
 
 Of age, and, looking back to youth, give one tear; — 
 
 28. 
 
 I won't describe — that is, if I can help 
 Description; and I won't reflect — that is. 
 If I can stave oft' thought, whicb — as a whelp 
 Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abj'ss 
 Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
 Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's ki:js 
 Drains its first draught of lips: — but, as I said, 
 I won't philosophize, and will be read. 
 
 29. 
 
 Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, 
 A thing which happens rarely: this he owed 
 Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
 Valour; much also to tlie blood he sliow'd. 
 Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported, 
 Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, ^^ 
 
 As purple clouds befringe the sun; but most 
 He owed to an old woman and his post. 
 
 30. 
 
 He wrote to Spain: — and all his near relations. 
 Perceiving he was in a handsome way 
 Of getting on himself, and finding stations 
 For cousins also, answer'd the same day. 
 Several prepared themselves for emigrations. 
 And, eating ices, were o'erheard to say, 
 That with the addition of a slight pelisse, 
 Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a-picee. 
 
 31. 
 
 His mother, Donna Inez, finding too 
 That in the lieu of drawing on his banker. 
 Where his assets were waxing rather few, 
 He had brought his spending to a handsome anclior, 
 Replied: that she was glad to sec him through 
 Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker; 
 As the sole sign of man's being in his senses 
 Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 
 
 32. 
 
 She also recommended him to God, 
 And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, 
 Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks ode 
 In Catholic eyes; but told him too to smother 
 Outward dislike, whicli don't look well abroad : 
 Inform'd him that he had a little brother 
 Born in a second wedlock ; and above 
 All, praised the Empress's maternal love. 
 
 33. 
 
 She could not loo much give her approbation 
 Unto an Empress, who prcferr'd young men 
 Whose age, and, what was better still, whose nation 
 And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and then) : — 
 At home it might have given her some vexation; 
 But where thermometers sunk down to ten, 
 Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 
 Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river. 
 
 34. 
 
 Oh for & forty-parson-power to chaunt 
 Thy praise. Hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn LX 
 Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, 
 Not practise ! Oh for trumps of cherubim ! 
 Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 
 Wlio, though her spectacles at last grew dim, 
 Drew quiet consolation through its hint. 
 When she no more could read the pious print. 
 
 ^ 
 
CANTO X. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 253 
 
 35. 
 
 She was no hypocrite, at least, poor soul! 
 But went to heaven in as sincere a way 
 As any body on the elected roll, 
 Which portions out upon the judgment-day 
 Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday-scroll, 
 Such as the conqueror William did repay 
 His knights with, lotting others' properties 
 Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 
 
 36. 
 
 I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
 Erneis, Radulphus — eight-and-forty manors 
 (If that my memory doth not greatly err) 
 Were their reward for following Billy's banners; 
 !\.nd, though I can't help thinking 'twas scarce fair 
 To strip the Saxons of their hydes, like tanners, 
 5fet as they founded churches with the produce, 
 ifou'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 
 
 37. 
 
 The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
 le felt like other plants — call'd sensitive, 
 iVhicli shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes, 
 . save such as Southey can afford to give. 
 *crhaps he long'd, in bitter frosts, for climes 
 n wiiicli the Neva's ice would cease to live 
 5eforc Mayday : perhaps, despite his duty, 
 n royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty : 
 
 38. 
 
 *erhaps, — but, sans perhaps, we need not seek 
 ■■or causes young or old: the canker-worm 
 Vill feed upon the fairest, freshest check, 
 iS well as further drain the wither'd form : 
 'arc, like a house-keeper, brings every week 
 lis bills in, and, however we may storm, 
 hey must be paid; though six days smoothly run, 
 he seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 
 
 39. 
 
 don't know how it was, but he grew sick: 
 
 he Empress was alarm'd, and her pliysician 
 
 The same who physiok'd Peter) found the tick 
 
 f his fierce pulse betoken a condition 
 
 i'^hich augur'd of the dead, however ^mjc^ 
 
 self, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 
 
 t which the whole court was extremely troubled, 
 
 he Sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. 
 
 40. 
 
 ow were the whispers, manifold the rumours : 
 Jmc said he had been poison'd by Potcrakin; 
 thers talk'd learnedly of certain tumours, 
 [xhaustion, or disorders of the same kin ; 
 >me said 'twas a concoction of the humours, 
 '^hich with tlie blood too readily will claim kin ; 
 thers again were ready to maintain, 
 was only the fatigue of last campaign. 
 
 41. 
 
 But here is one prescription out of many: 
 
 "Sodae-Sulphat. 3. vi. 3. s. Mannce optim. 
 
 Aq. fervent. F. 3. iss. 3ij. tinct. Sennaj 
 
 Haustus." (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd him) 
 
 "R. Pulv. Com. gr. iii. Ipecacuanhse," 
 
 (With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'cm) 
 
 "Bolus Potassae sulphuret. sumendus, 
 
 Et haustus ter in die capiendus." 
 
 A1. 
 
 This is the way physicians mend or end us. 
 Secundum artera: but although we sneer 
 In health — when ill, we call them to attend us. 
 Without the least propensity to jeer: 
 While that "hiatus maxime deflendus," 
 To be fill'd up by spade or mattock, 's near, 
 Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 
 We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy. 
 
 43. 
 
 Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 
 Quit ; and, though death had threatcn'd an ejection, 
 His youth and constitution bore him through, 
 And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
 But still his state was delicate : the hue 
 Of health but fllcker'd with a faint reflection 
 Along his wasted check, and seem'd to gravel 
 The faculty — who said that he must travel. 
 
 44. 
 
 The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 
 Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 
 Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, 
 Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 
 But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim. 
 And drooping like an eagle's with dipt pinion. 
 She then resolved to send him on a mission, 
 But in a style becoming his condition. 
 
 45. 
 
 There was just then a kind of a discussion, 
 
 A sort of treaty or ncgociation 
 
 Between the British cabinet and Russian, 
 
 Maintain'd with all the due prevarication 
 
 With which great states such things arc apt to push on ; 
 
 Something about the Baltic's navigation. 
 
 Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
 
 Which Britons deem their "uti possidetis." 
 
 46. 
 
 So Catherine, who had a handsome way 
 
 Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd 
 
 This secret charge on Juan, to display 
 
 At once her royal splendour, and reward 
 
 His services. He kiss'd hands the next day. 
 
 Received instructions how to play his card, 
 
 Was laden Avith all kinds of gifts and honours, 
 
 Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's. 
 
254 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 47. 
 
 But she was lucky, and luck's all. Your Queens 
 Are generally prosperous in reigning; 
 Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. 
 But to continue : though her years were waning, 
 Her climacteric teased her like her teens ; 
 And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, 
 So much did Juan's setting off distress her, 
 She could not find at first a fit successor. 
 
 48. 
 
 But Time, the comforter, will come at lastj 
 
 And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number 
 
 Of candidates requesting to be placed, 
 
 Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber : — 
 
 Not that she meant to fix again in haste, 
 
 Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 
 
 But, always choosing with deliberation. 
 
 Kept the place open for their emulation. 
 
 49. 
 
 While this high post of honour's in abeyance, 
 
 For one or two days, reader, wc request 
 
 You'll mount with our young liero the conveyance 
 
 Which wafted him from Petersburg!! : the best 
 
 Barouche, whicli had the glory to display once 
 
 The fair Czarina's autocratic crest 
 
 (When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris), 
 
 Was given to her favourite, and now liorc his. 
 
 50. 
 
 A bull-dog, and a bull-finch, and an ermine, 
 
 All private favourites of Don Juan ; for 
 
 (Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 
 
 He had a kind of inclination, or 
 
 Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin — 
 
 Live animals : — an old maid of threescore 
 
 For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, 
 
 Although he was not old, nor even a maid. 
 
 51. 
 
 The animals aforesaid occupied 
 
 Their station: there were valets, secretaries. 
 
 In other vehicles ; but at his side 
 
 Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
 
 He made 'gainst Cossack sabres, in the wide 
 
 Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies 
 
 Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
 
 Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl. 
 
 62. 
 
 Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile, 
 
 And with that gentle, serious character 
 
 As rare in living beings as a fossilc 
 
 Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, grand Cuvier ! 
 
 Ill fitted with her ignorance to jostle 
 
 With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err : 
 
 But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 
 
 Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. 
 
 53. 
 
 Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
 
 Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 
 
 I cannot tell exactly what it was; 
 
 He was not yet quite old enough to prove 
 
 Parental feelings, and the other class, 
 
 Call'd brotherly afiection, could not move 
 
 His bosom — for he never had a sister: 
 
 Ah! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her. 
 
 64. 
 
 And still less was it sensual; for besides 
 
 That he was not an ancient debauchee 
 
 (Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' salt tides, 
 
 As acids rouse a dormant alkali), 
 
 Although {'twill happen as our planet guides) 
 
 His youth was not the chastest that might be. 
 
 There was the purest Platonism at bottom 
 
 Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'cm. 
 
 65. 
 
 Just now there was no peril of temptation; 
 
 He loved the infant orpiian he had saved, 
 
 As patriots (now and then) may love a nation; 
 
 His pride too felt that she was not enslaved, 
 
 Owing to him; — as also her salvation, 
 
 Through his means and the church's, might be pave< 
 
 But one thing's odd, which here must be inserted — 
 
 The little Turk refused to be converted. 
 
 V-" 
 
 'is 
 
 66. 
 
 'Twas strange enough she should retain the impressioi 
 Through such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughte: 
 But, though three bishops told her the transgression. 
 She show'd a great dislike to holy water : 
 She also had no passion for confession ; 
 Perhaps she had nothing to confess : — no matter; * 
 Wliate'er the cause, the church made little of it — 
 She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. 
 
 67. 
 
 In fact, the only Christian she could bear 
 Was Juan, whom she seem'd to have selected 
 In place of what her home and friends once iver/;. 
 He naturally/ loved what he protected; 
 And thas they form'd a rather curious pair: 
 A guardian green in years, a ward connected 
 In neither clime, time, blood, witii her defender; 
 And yet this want of ties made theirs more tendcrlj 
 
 58. 
 
 They journey'd on through Poland and through War! 
 Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron: 
 Through Curland also, which tiiat famous farce saw . 
 Which gave hcr»dukcs the graceless name of "Biron.** 
 'Tis the same landscape which the modern Mars savt,. 
 Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the syren! 
 To lose, by one month's frost, some twenty years 
 Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 
 
CANTO X. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 255 
 
 59. 
 
 6a. 
 
 ILet not this seem an anti-climax: — "Oh ! 
 My g-uard! my old guard!" exclaim'd that God of clay. 
 Think of the thunderer's falling down below 
 Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! — 
 JAlas ! that glory should be chill'd by snow ! 
 But should we wish to warm us on our way 
 Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
 Vlight scatter fire through ice, like Hecia's tlame. 
 
 60. 
 
 ^'rom Poland they came on through Prussia proper, 
 
 jVnd Koenigsberg the capital, whose vaunt, 
 
 |3esides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 
 
 fias lately been the great Professor Kant. 
 
 IJuan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
 
 (Vbout philosophy, pursued his jaunt 
 
 fo Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 
 
 lave princes who spur more than their postillions. 
 
 61. 
 
 vnd tlience through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, 
 j-'ntil he rcach'd the castellated Rhine: — 
 fe glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye strike 
 ^U phantasies, not even excepting mine: 
 i gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike, 
 flake my soul pass the equinoctial line 
 between the present and past worlds, and hover 
 pon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 
 
 62. 
 
 ilut Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, 
 Vliicii Drachenfels frowns over, like a spectre 
 'f the good feudal times for ever gone, 
 
 11 wliich I have not time just now to lecture. 
 
 I inn thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, 
 j city which presents tothe inspector 
 [leven thousand maidenheads of bone. 
 
 lie greatest number flesh hath ever known. 
 
 63. 
 
 roin thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, 
 
 hat water-land of Dutchmen and of ditclies, 
 
 inhere juniper expresses its best juice — 
 
 lie poor man's sparkling substitute for riches, 
 
 en^tes and sages have condemn'd its use — 
 
 ut to deny the mob a cordial which is 
 
 no often all the clothing, meat, or fuel 
 
 '">d government has left them, seems but cruel. 
 
 64. 
 
 ere he cmbark'd, and, with a flowing sail, 
 
 I'^ent bounding for the island of the free, 
 
 owards which the impatient wind blew half a gale; 
 
 igh dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea, 
 
 nd sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale: 
 
 ut Juan, season'd, as he well might be 
 
 y former voyages, stood to watch tlie skiff's 
 
 'lilch pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliff's. 
 
 At length they rose, like a white wall along 
 The blue sea's border; and Don Juan felt — 
 What even young strangers feel a little strong 
 At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt — 
 A kind of pride that he should be among 
 Those haughty shop-keepers, who sternly dealt 
 Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole. 
 And made the very billows pay them toll. 
 
 66. 
 
 I have no great cause to love that spot of earth. 
 Which holds what mig/it have been the noblest nation 
 But, though I owe it little but my birth, 
 I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 
 For its decaying fame and former worth. 
 Seven years (the usual term of transportation) 
 Of absence lay one's old resentments level. 
 When a man's country's going to the devil. 
 
 67. 
 
 Alas ! could she but fully, truly, know 
 How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd; 
 How eager all the earth is for the blow 
 Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword; 
 How all the nations deem her their worst foe. 
 That worse than worst of foes — the once adored 
 False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, 
 \.nd now would cliain them, to the very mind; — 
 
 68. 
 
 Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, 
 Who is but first of slaves? The nations are 
 In prison ; but the jailor, what is he? 
 No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 
 Is the poor privilege, to turn tlie key 
 Upon the captive, freedom ? He's as far 
 From the enjoyment of the earth and air 
 Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 
 
 69. 
 
 Don ,Iuan now saw Albion's earliest beauties, 
 Thy cliff's, dear Dover! harbour, and hotel; 
 Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties; 
 Thy waiters running mucks at every bell; 
 Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 
 To those who upon land or water dwell; 
 And last, not least to strangers uninstructed, 
 Tliy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 
 
 70. 
 
 Juan, though careless, young, and magnifiquc, 
 And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, 
 Who did not limit much his bills per week. 
 Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it — 
 (His maggior-duorao, a smart, subtle Greek, 
 Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it:) 
 But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, 
 Is free, the respiration's worth the monev. 
 
256 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 UAN'IO } 
 
 71. 
 
 On with tlic horses ! Off to Canterbury ! [puddle ; 
 
 Tramp, tramp, o'er pebble, and splash, splash, through 
 
 Hurrah! how swiftly speeds the post so merry! 
 
 Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
 
 Along the road, as if they went to bury 
 
 Their fare ; and also pause, besides, to fuddle 
 
 With "schnapps" — sad dogs! whom "Hundsfot" or 
 
 Affect no more than lightning a conductor. ["Verflucter" 
 
 72. 
 
 Now, there is nothing gives a man such spirits. 
 
 Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry, 
 
 As going at full speed — no matter where its 
 
 Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry, 
 
 And merely for the sake of its own merits : 
 
 For the less cause there is for all this flurry, 
 
 The greater is the pleasure in arriving 
 
 At the great end of travel — which is driving. 
 
 73. 
 
 They saw at Canterbury the Cathedral; 
 Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloody stone, 
 Were pointed out as usual by the bedral. 
 In the same quaint, uninterested tone : — 
 There's glory again for you, gentle reader ! All 
 Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, 
 Half-solved into those sodas or magnesias, 
 Which form that bitter draught, the human species. 
 
 74. 
 
 The effect on Juan was of course sublime: 
 
 He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw 
 
 That casque, which never stoop'd, except to Time. 
 
 Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, 
 
 Who died in the then great attempt to climb 
 
 O'er kings, who noto at least must talk of law, 
 
 Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, 
 
 And ask'd why such a structure had been raised: 
 
 76. 
 
 And being told it was "God's house," she said 
 He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 
 He suffer'd infidels in his homestead, 
 The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 
 His holy temples in the lands wliich bred 
 The true believers; — and her infant brow 
 Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign 
 A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swiue. 
 
 76. 
 
 On, on! through meadows, managed like a garden, 
 A paradise of hops and high production; 
 For, after years of travel by a bard in 
 Countries of greater heat but lesser suction, 
 A green field is a sight which makes him pardon 
 The absence of that more sublime construction. 
 Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices. 
 Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices. 
 
 77. 
 
 And when I think upon a pot of beer — 
 
 But I won't weep! — and so, drive on, postillions! 
 
 As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
 
 Juan admired these highways of free millions; 
 
 A country in all senses the most dear 
 
 To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, 
 
 Who "kick against the pricks" just at this juncture, 
 
 And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. 
 
 78. 
 
 What a delightful thing's a turnpike-road ! 
 
 So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving « 
 
 The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 
 
 Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. \ 
 
 Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the God 
 
 Had told his son to satisfy his craving ^ 
 
 With the York mail; — but, onward as wc roll, % 
 
 "Surgit amari aliquid" — the toll ! ); 
 
 79. 
 
 Alas! how deeply painful is all payment ! 
 
 Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's purses. 
 
 As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, 
 
 Such is the shortest way to general curses. 
 
 They hate a murderer much less than a claimant 
 
 On that sweet ore which every body nurses ; 
 
 Kill a man's family, and he may brook it — 
 
 But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. 
 
 80. 
 
 So said the Florentine : ye monarehs, hearken 
 To your instructor ! Juan now was borne. 
 Just as the day began to wane and darken, 
 O'er the high hill which looks with pride or scorn 
 Toward the great city : — ye who have a spark in 
 Your veins of Cockney-spirit, smile or mourn, 
 According as you take things well or ill — 
 Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill! 
 
 8L 
 
 The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 
 A half-unqueneh'd volcano, o'er a space 
 Which well beseem'd the "Devil's drawing-room." 
 As some have qualified that wondrous place. 
 But Juan felt, though not approaching home, 
 As one who, though he were not of the race> 
 Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother. 
 Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t'other. 
 
 82. 
 
 A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping. 
 
 Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
 
 Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 
 
 In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 
 
 Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 
 
 On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; 
 
 A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
 
 On a fool's head — and there is London Town ! 
 
ICANTO XI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 257 
 
 83. 
 
 iBut Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 
 lAppear'd to him but as the magic vapour 
 Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 
 ,The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper) ; 
 iThe gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 
 ;Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, 
 Were nothing but the natural atmosphere — 
 |Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 
 
 84. 
 
 He paused — and so will I ; as doth a crew 
 Before tliey give their broadside. By and by, 
 JMy gentle countrymen, we will renew 
 Dur old acquaintance; and at least I'll try 
 To tell you truths you will not take as true, 
 because they are so : — a male Mrs. Fry, 
 iWith a soft besom will I sweep your halls, 
 Vud brush a web or two from ofiFthe walls. 
 
 85. 
 
 Oh, Mrs. Fry! why go to Newgate? Why 
 Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin 
 With Carlton, or with other houses? Try 
 Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 
 To mend the people 's an absurdity, 
 A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, 
 Unless you make their betters better : — Fie ! 
 I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 
 
 86. 
 
 Teach them the decencies of good threescore : 
 Cure them of tours. Hussar and Highland dresses; 
 Tell them that youth once gone returns no more; 
 That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses : 
 Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, 
 Too dull even for the dullest of excesses — 
 The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, 
 A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all; ■— 
 
 87. 
 
 Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late 
 On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, 
 To set up vain pretences of being great, 
 'Tis not so to be good ; and be it stated, 
 The worthiest kings have ever loved least state; 
 And tell them — but you won't, and I have prated 
 Just now enough ; but by and by I'll prattle 
 Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' batUe. 
 
 CANTO XL 
 
 Cantos IX. , X. , and XI. were written at Pisa , and published in 
 ondon, by Mr. John Hunt, in August, 1823. "That there is a great 
 leal of what is objectionable in these three cantos, who can deny? But 
 till Don Juan is, without exception , the first of Lord Byron's works, 
 t is by far the most original in point of conception. It is decidedly 
 riginal in point of tone. It contains the finest specimens of ludicrous 
 'Oetry that our age has witnessed. Don Juan, say the canting world 
 rbat it will , is destined to hold a permanent rank in the literature of 
 ur country. It will always be referred to as furnishing the most powerful 
 icture of that vein of thought (no matter how false and bad) which 
 istinguisbes a great portion of the thinking people of our time." 
 
 .iVhen Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter,' 
 
 lind proved it — 'twas no matter what he said: 
 
 jrhey say his system 'tis in vain to batter, 
 
 iroo subtle for the airiest human head; 
 
 ^nd yet who can believe it? I would shatter, 
 
 Jladly, all matters down to stone or lead, 
 
 )r adamant, to find the world a spirit, 
 
 Lnd wear my head, denying that I wear it. 
 
 2. 
 
 What a sublime discovery 'twas to make the 
 
 Universe universal Egotism ! 
 
 That all's ideal — all ourselves: I'll stake the 
 
 World (be it what you will) that that's no schism, [thee, 
 
 Oh, Doubt! — if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take 
 
 But which I doubt extremely — thou sole prism 
 
 Of the truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit! 
 
 Heaven's brandy — though bur brain can hardly bear it. 
 
 3. 
 
 For ever and anon comes indigestion, 
 (Not the most "dainty Ariel") and perplexes 
 Our soarings with another sort of question: 
 And that which after all my spirit vexes 
 Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, 
 Without confusion of the sorts and sexes. 
 Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 
 The world, which at the worst's a glorious blunder — 
 17 
 
258 
 
 BON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 If it be chance; or if it be according 
 To the old text, still better : — lest it should 
 Turn out so, we'll say nothing 'gainst the wording, 
 As several people think such hazards rude : 
 They're right : our days are too brief for affording 
 Space to dispute what no one ever could 
 l>ecidc, and every body one day will 
 Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 
 
 6. 
 
 And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
 Discussion, Avhich is neitiier here nor tliere: 
 If I agree that what is, is — then this I call 
 Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair. 
 The truth is, I've grown lately rather phthisical: 
 I don't know what tlie reason is — the air 
 Perhaps; but, as I suff"er from the shocks 
 Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 
 
 6. 
 
 The first attack at once proved the Pivinity ; 
 
 (But that I never doubted, nor the Devil ;) 
 
 The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity; 
 
 The third, the usual Origin of Evil ; 
 
 The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity 
 
 On so incontrovertible a level. 
 
 That I devoutly wish'd the three were four, 
 
 On purpose to believe so much the more. 
 
 To our theme : — The man who lias stood on the Acropolis, 
 
 And look'd down over Attica; or he 
 
 Who has saii'd where picturesque Constantinople is. 
 
 Or seen Tpmbuctoo, or hath taken tea 
 
 In small-eyed China's crockerj^-ware metropolis. 
 
 Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, 
 
 May not think much of London's first appearance — 
 
 But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence ? 
 
 8. 
 
 Don Juan had got out on Sliooter's Hill ; 
 Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 
 Which looks along that vale of good and ill 
 Where London-streets ferment in full activity; 
 While every thing around was calm and still, 
 Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he 
 Heard — and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum 
 Of cities, that boils over with their scum: — 
 
 9. 
 
 I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 
 Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit. 
 And lost in wonder of so great a nation, 
 Gave way to't, since he could not overcome it. 
 "And here," he cried, "is Freedom's chosen station ; 
 Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it 
 Racks, prisons, inquisitions; resurrection 
 Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 
 
 10. 
 
 Here are chaste wives, pure lives; here people pay 
 
 But what they please; and if that things be dear, 
 
 'Tis only that they love to throw away 
 
 Their cash, to show how much they have a-ycar. 
 
 Here laws are all inviolate; none lay 
 
 Traps for the traveller; ever}' highway's clear: 
 
 Here — " he was interrupted by a knife, 
 
 With, "Damn your eyes ! your money or your life!" 
 
 II. 
 
 These free-born sounds proceeded from four pads, 
 In ambush laid, who had perceived hiifi loiter 
 Behind his carriage; and, like handy lads. 
 Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, 
 In which the heedless gentleman who gads 
 Upon the road, unless he prove a lighter, 
 May find himself within that isle of riches 
 Exposed to lose his life as well as breeciics. 
 
 12. 
 
 JuE^n, who did not understand a word 1 
 
 Of English, save their shibboleth, "God damn ! " 
 
 And even that he had so rarely heard. 
 
 He sometimes thought 'twas only their "Salam," 
 
 Or "God be with you!" — and 'tis not absurd 
 
 To think so; for half English as I am 
 
 (To my misfortune) never can I say 
 
 I heard them wish "God with you," save that way; — 
 
 13. 
 
 Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, 
 
 And, being somcwliat choleric and sudden. 
 
 Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture, 
 
 And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 
 
 Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture. 
 
 And roared out, as he writhed his native mud in, 
 
 Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 
 
 "Oh Jack! I'm floor'd by that ere bloody Frencliraan 
 
 14. 
 
 On which Jack and his train set offat speed, 
 
 And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, 
 
 Came up, all marvelling at such a deed. 
 
 And ofl'ering, as usual, late assistance. 
 
 Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed A 
 
 As if liis veins would pour out his existence. 
 
 Stood calling out for bandages and lint. 
 
 And wish'd he had been less hasty with his Hint. 
 
 15. 
 
 "Perhaps," thought he, "it is the country's wont 
 
 To welcome foreigners in tliis way : now 
 
 I recollect some innkeepers who don't 
 
 Differ, except in robbing Avith a bow. 
 
 In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 
 
 But what is to be done? I can't allow 
 
 The fellow to lie groaning on the road : 
 
 So take him up; I'll help you with the load." 
 
 n 
 
 fi 
 
CAKTO XI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 259 
 
 la 
 
 But, ere they could perform this pious duty, 
 
 The dying man cried, "Hold ! I've g'ot ray gruel ! 
 
 Oh! for a glass of max/ We've miss'd our booty; 
 
 Let nie die where I am! " And, as the fuel 
 
 Of life shrunk in his licart, and thick and sooty 
 
 The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill 
 
 His breath, he from his swelling throat untied 
 
 A kerchief, crying ''Give Sal that!" — and died. 
 
 17. 
 
 The cravat, stain'd with bloody drops, fell down 
 IJefore Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 
 Exactly wiiy it was before him thrown, 
 Sox what the meaning of the man's farewell. 
 Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, 
 i thorough' varpiint, and a real swell, 
 uil flash, ail fancy, until fairly diddled — 
 iis pockets first, and then his body riddled. 
 
 18. 
 
 )0u Juan, having done the best he could 
 n all the circumstances of the case, 
 LS soon as Crowner's quest allow'd, pursued 
 lis travels to the capital apace ; — 
 stceming it a little hard he should 
 n twelve hours' time, and very little space, 
 lave been obliged to slay a free-born native 
 n self-defence; tliis made him meditative. 
 
 19. 
 
 [e from the world had cut off a great man, 
 
 Vho in his time had made heroic bustle. 
 
 Vho in a row like Tom could lead the van, 
 
 loozc in the ken, or at tiie spellken hustle? 
 
 Vho queer a flat? Who (spite of Bowstreet's ban) 
 
 •n the iiigli toby-spice so flash the muzzle? 
 
 V^ho on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing), 
 
 prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? 
 
 20. 
 
 lut Tom's no more — and so no more of Tom. 
 [eroes must die; and, by God's blessing, 'tis 
 ot long before the most of them go home. — 
 [ail! Thaniis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
 hat Juan's chariot, roiling like a drum 
 1 timnder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
 lirougii Kcnnington and all the other "tons," 
 ^hich make us wish ourselves in town at once; — 
 
 21. 
 
 l>rougi) groves, so call'd as being void of trees 
 Like lucus from 7io light) ; through prospects named 
 fount Pleasant, as containing nought to please, 
 or much to climb; tiirough little boxes framed 
 'f bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 
 l^ith "To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd; 
 "urough "Rows" most modestly call'd "Paradise," 
 V^hich Eve might quit without much sacrifice; — 
 
 22. 
 
 Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a w hirl 
 Of wheels, and roar of voices and confusion; 
 Here taverns wooing to a pint of "purl," 
 There mails fast flying off like a delusion; 
 There barbers' blocks with perriwigsin curl 
 In windows; here the lamp-lighter's infusion 
 Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass 
 (For in those days we had not got to gas) : — 
 
 23. 
 
 Through this, and much, and more, is the approach 
 Of travellers to mighty Babylon : 
 Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach. 
 With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
 I could say more, but do not choose to encroach 
 Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun 
 Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
 Of twilight, as the party cross'd tlie bridge. 
 
 24. 
 
 That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis — 
 
 Who vindicates a moment too his stream — 
 
 Though hardly heard through multifarious "dammc's."' 
 
 The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam. 
 
 The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where Fame is 
 
 A spectral resident — whose pallid beam 
 
 In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 
 
 Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 
 
 25. 
 
 The Druid's groves are gone — so much the better: 
 
 Stone-Henge is not — but what the devil is it? 
 
 But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter. 
 
 That madmen may not bite you on a visit; 
 
 The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor ; 
 
 The Mansion-House too (though some people quiz it) 
 
 To me appears a stiff" yet grand erection; 
 
 But then the Abbey's worth the whole collection. 
 
 26. s 
 
 The line of lights too up to Charing-Cross, 
 Pail-Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation 
 Like gold as in comparison to dross, 
 Match'd with the Continent's illumination. 
 Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss : 
 The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation. 
 And when they grew so — on their new-found lantliorn, 
 Instead of wicks, they made a wicked man tarn. 
 
 27. 
 
 A row of gentlemen along the streets 
 
 Suspended, may illuminate mankind, 
 
 As also bonfires made of country-seats ; 
 
 But the old way is best for the purblind : 
 
 The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 
 
 A sort of ignis-fatuus to the mind. 
 
 Which, though 'tis certain to perplex and frighten, 
 
 Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 
 
260 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 28. 
 
 But London's so well lit, that if Diogenes 
 
 Could recommence to hunt his honest man. 
 
 And found him not amidst the various progenies 
 
 Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
 
 'Twere not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his 
 
 Yet undiscover'd treasure. What /can, 
 
 I've done to find the same througliout life's journey, 
 
 But see the world is only one attorney. 
 
 29. 
 
 Over the stones still rattling, up Pall-Mali, 
 Through crowds and carriages — but waxing thinner 
 As thunder'd knockers broke the long-seal'd spell 
 Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 
 Admitted a small party as night fell, — 
 Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, 
 Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 
 St. James's Palace and St. James's "Hells." 
 
 30. 
 
 They reach'd the hotel: forth stream'd from the front-door 
 A tide of wcU-cIad waiters, and around 
 The mob stood, and as usual several score 
 Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 
 In decent London, when the daylight's o'er; 
 Commodious but immoral, tliey are found 
 Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage; — 
 But Juan now is stepping from his carriage 
 
 31. 
 
 Into one of the sweetest of hotels, 
 Especially for foreigners — and mostly 
 For those whom favour or whom fortune swells. 
 And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 
 There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells 
 (The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), 
 Until to some conspicuous square they pass, 
 And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 
 
 32. 
 
 Juan, whose was a delicate commission, 
 Private, though publicly important, bore 
 No title to point out with due precision 
 The exact afi'air on which he was sent o'er. 
 'Twas merely known that on a secret mission 
 A foreigner of rank had graced our shore. 
 Young, handsome, and aceomplish'd, wlio was said 
 (In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head. 
 
 33. V J 
 
 Some rumour also of some strange adventured; ' 
 Had gone before him, and his wars and loves; 
 And as romantic heads are pretty painters. 
 And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves 
 Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
 Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves, 
 He found himself extremely in the fashion, 
 Which serves our thinking people for a passion. 
 
 'i ~^ n ii IT" 
 
 i^ 
 
 34. 
 
 I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite 
 The contrary ; but then 'tis in the head; 
 Yet, as the consequences are as bright 
 As if they acted with the heart instead, 
 What after all can signify the site 
 Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 
 In safety to the place for which you start, 
 What matters if the road be head or heart? 
 
 35. 
 
 Juan presented in the proper place, 
 
 To proper placemen, every Russ credential; 
 
 And was received, with all the due grimace, 
 
 By those who govern in tlie mood potential; 
 
 Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, 
 
 Thought (what in state-affairs is most essential) 
 
 That they as easily might do the youngster. 
 
 As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. 
 
 36. 
 
 They err'd, as aged men will do; but by 
 
 And by we'll talk of that; and if we don't, 
 
 'Twill be because our notion is not high 
 
 Of politicians and their double front, 
 
 Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — ^■ 
 
 Now what I love in women is, they won't j/ 
 
 Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 
 
 So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 
 
 37. 
 
 And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but 
 The truth in masquerade; and I defy 
 Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
 A fact without some leaven of a lie. 
 The very shadow of true truth would shut 
 Up annals, revelations, poesy. 
 And prophecy — except it should be dated 
 Some years before the incidents related. 
 
 38. 
 
 Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 
 
 Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? 
 
 Slie rings the world's "Tc Deum," and her brow 
 
 Blushes for those who will not ; — but to sigh 
 
 Is idle; let us, like most others, bow. 
 
 Kiss hands, feet — any part of Majesty, 
 
 After the good example of "Green Erin," 
 
 Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearin 
 
 39. 
 
 Don Juan was presented, and his dress 
 And mien excited general admiration — 
 I don't know which was most admired or less: 
 One monstrous diamond drew much observation. 
 Which Catherine, in a moment of "ivresse" 
 (In love or brandy's fervent fermentation), 
 Bestow'd upon him as the public learn'd; 
 And, to say truth, it had been fairly carn'd. 
 
CANTO XL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 261 
 
 40. 
 
 Besides the ministers and underlings, 
 Who must be courteous to accredited 
 Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, 
 ^ Until their royal riddle's fully read, 
 ; The very clerks — those somewhat dirty springs 
 Of office, or the house of office, fed 
 By foul corruption into streams — even they 
 Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay. 
 
 41. 
 
 And insolence no doubt is what they are 
 Employ 'd for, since it is their daily labour, 
 lln the dear offices of peace or war; 
 JAnd should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour, 
 •When for a passport, or some other bar 
 To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore) 
 If he found not this spawn of tax-born riches, 
 jLike lap-dogs, the least civil sons of bitches. 
 
 j 42. 
 
 (But Juan was received with much "emprcssement:" — 
 
 'These phrases of refinement I must borrow 
 
 From our next neighbours' land, where, like a chessman. 
 
 There is a move set down for joy or sorrow, 
 
 JNot only in mere talking, but the press. Man, 
 
 In islands, is, it seems, downright and thorough, 
 
 More than on continents — as if the sea 
 
 (See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. 
 
 43. 
 
 |And yet the British "Damme" 's rather Attic : 
 jYour continental oaths are but incontinent. 
 And turn on things which no aristocratic 
 Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent 
 |This subject quote; as it would be schismatic 
 In politcsse, and have a sound affronting in 't: — 
 But "Damme" 's quite ethereal, though too daring — 
 Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 
 
 44. 
 
 For downright rudeness ye may stay at home; 
 For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
 Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam — 
 The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
 'jiToa leave behind, the next of much you come 
 pTo meet. However, 'tis no time to chat 
 Dn general topics : poems must confine 
 Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 
 
 45. 
 
 in the great world, — which, being interpreted, 
 
 iMeaneth the west or worst end of a city, 
 
 and about twice two thousand people bred 
 
 3y no means to be very wise or witty, 
 
 But to sit up while otiiers lie in bed, 
 
 Vnd look down on the universe with pity — 
 
 fuan, as an inveterate patrician, 
 
 WiiS well received by persons of condition. 
 
 46. 
 
 He was a bachelor, which is a matter 
 
 Of import both to virgin and to bride, 
 
 The former's hymeneal liopes to flatter; 
 
 And (should she not iiold fast by love or pride) 
 
 'Tis also of some moment to the latter: 
 
 A jib's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, 
 
 Requires decorum, and is apt to double 
 
 The horrid sin — and, what's still worse, the trouble. 
 
 47. 
 
 But Juan was a bachelor — of arts, 
 
 And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, and had 
 
 A.n air as sentimental as Mozart's 
 
 Softest of melodies : and could be sad 
 
 Or cheerful, without any "flaws or starts," 
 
 Just at the proper time; and, though a lad, 
 
 Had seen the world — which is a curious sight, 
 
 And very much unlike what people write. 
 
 48. 
 
 Fair virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded dames 
 Bloom'd also in less transitory hues ; 
 For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 
 The painting and the painted ; youth, ceruse. 
 Against his heart prcfcrr'd their'usual claims. 
 Such as no gentleman can quite refuse; 
 Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 
 Enquired his income, and if he had brothers. 
 
 49. 
 
 The milliners who furnish "drapery-misses" 
 
 Throughout the season, upon speculation 
 
 Of payment ere the honey-moon's last kisses 
 
 Have waned into a crescent's coruscatiotiTi.^ 
 
 Thought such an opportunity as this is, 
 
 Of a rich foreigner's initiation. 
 
 Not to be overlook'd — and gaye such credit, 
 
 Tha^ future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it 
 
 50. 
 
 The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets, 
 And with the pages of the last review 
 Line the interior of tlieir heads or bonnets. 
 Advanced in all tlicir azure's highest hue: 
 They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its 
 Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two ; 
 And which was softest, Russian or Castilian? 
 And whether in his travels he saw Ilion? 
 
 5L 
 
 Juan, who was a little superficial. 
 
 And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 
 
 Examined by this learned and especial 
 
 Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: 
 
 His duties warlike, loving, or official. 
 
 His steady application as a dancer. 
 
 Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, 
 
 Which now he found was blue instead of green. 
 
262 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CAMO 
 
 52. 
 
 However, lie replied at hazard, with 
 
 A modest confidence and calm assurance, 
 
 Wliich lent his learned lucubrations pith. 
 
 And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 
 
 That prodigy. Miss Araminta Smitli 
 
 (Who, at sixteen, translated "Hercules Furens" 
 
 Into as furious English), with her best look. 
 
 Set down his sayings in her common-place-book. 
 
 53. 
 
 Juan knew several languages — as well 
 He might — and brought them up with skill, in time 
 To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, 
 Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. 
 There wanted but this requisite to swell 
 His qualities (with them) into sublime : 
 Lady Fitz-Frisk}% and Miss Maevia Mannish, 
 Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 
 
 54. 
 
 However, he did pretty well, and was 
 Admitted as an aspirant to all 
 The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass, 
 At great assemblies or in parties small. 
 He saw ten thousand living authors pass. 
 That being about their average numeral; 
 Also the eighty "greatest living poets," 
 As every paltry magazine can show its, 
 
 55. 
 
 In twice five years the "greatest living poet," 
 
 Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 
 
 Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, 
 
 Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 
 
 Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it. 
 
 Nor sought of foolscap-subjects to be king — 
 
 Was reckon'd, a considerable time, 
 
 The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 
 
 56. 
 
 But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
 
 My Lcipsic, and my Moiit-Saint-Jean seems Cain: 
 
 "La Belle- Alliance" of dunces down at zero, 
 
 Now that the lion's fall'n, may rise again : 
 
 But t will fall at least as fell my hero; 
 
 Nor reign at all, or as a movarch reign; 
 
 Or to some lonely isle of jailors go. 
 
 With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 
 
 57. 
 
 Sir Walter reign'd before me; Moore and Campbell 
 Before and after ; but now, grown more holy, 
 The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
 With poets almost clergymen, or wholly; 
 And Pegasus hath a psalmodic amble 
 Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, 
 Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, 
 A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts ! 
 
 , 68. 
 
 Then there's my gentle Euphues, who, they say, 
 Sets.up for being a sort of moral me; 
 He'll find it rather dillicult some day 
 To turji out both, or either, it may be. 
 Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway; 
 And Wordswortii has supporters, two or three; 
 And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian, "Savage Landor," 
 Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 
 
 59. 
 
 John Keats — who was kill'd off by one critique, 
 Just as he really promised something great, 
 If not intelligible, — without Greek 
 Contrived to talk about the Gods of late. 
 Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
 Poor fellow I His was an untoward fate: 
 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 
 Should let itself be snuft'd out by an article. 
 
 60. 
 
 The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
 
 To that which none will gain — or none will know 
 
 The conqueror at least; who, ere time renders 
 
 His last award, will have the long grass grow 
 
 Above his burnt-out brain and sapless cinders. 
 
 If I might augur, I should rate but low 
 
 Their chances ; — they're too numerous, like the thirt 
 
 Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. 
 
 61. 
 
 This is the literary lower empire. 
 Where the Praetorian bands take up the matter; — 
 A "dreadful trade," like his who "gathers samphire," 
 The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter, 
 With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire. 
 Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, 
 I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, 
 And show them what an intellectual war is. 
 
 62. 
 
 I think I know a trick or two, would turn 
 Their flanks ; — but it is hardly worth my while 
 With such small gear to give myself concern : 
 Indeed I've not the necessary bile; 
 My natural temper's really aught but stern. 
 And even my Muse's worst reproof's a smile ; 
 And then she drops a brief and modern curtsey, 
 And glides away, assured she never hurts yc. 
 
 63. 
 
 My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 
 
 Amongst live poets and blue ladies, pass'd 
 
 With some small profit through that field so sterile. 
 
 Being tired in time, and neither least nor last. 
 
 Left it before he had been treated very ill; 
 
 And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd 
 
 Amongst the higher spirits of the day. 
 
 The sun's true son — no vapour, but a ray. 
 
CANTO XI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 263 
 
 94. 
 
 His morns he pass'd in business — which, dissected, 
 
 Was like all business, a laborious nothing, 
 
 That leads to lassitude, tlie most infected 
 
 And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, 
 
 And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, 
 
 And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 
 
 All kinds of toil, save for out country's good — 
 
 Which grows no better, thougii 'tis time it should. 
 
 e&. 
 
 His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons. 
 
 Lounging and boxing; and the twilight-hour 
 
 In riding round those vegetable punclieons 
 
 Call'd "Parks," where there is neither fruit nor tlovver 
 
 Enougii to gratify a bee's slight munchings ; 
 
 But after all it is the only "bower" 
 
 (In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair 
 
 Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 
 
 66. 
 
 riien dress, then dinner, then awakes the world ! 
 Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar 
 Through street and square fast flashing chariots, hurl'd 
 lAkc harncss'd meteors ! then along the floor 
 iialk mimics painting; then festoons are twirl'd ; 
 riien roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
 ~ »\'I)ich opens to the thousand happy few 
 n earthly Paradise of "or molu." 
 
 67. 
 
 stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 
 lUi the three-thousandth curtsey ; there the waltz — 
 ^he only dance which teaches girls to think — 
 lakes one in love even with its very faults, 
 iaioon, room, hall o'erflow beyond their brink, 
 ind long the latest of arrivals halts, 
 Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb, 
 nd gain an inch of staircase at a time. 
 
 68. 
 
 Iirice happy he, who, after a survey 
 )f the good company, can win a corner, 
 door that's in, or boudoir out of the way, 
 Vhere he may fix himself, like small "Jack Horner/' 
 nd let the Babel round run as it may, 
 nd look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 
 ►r an approver, or a mere spectator, 
 awning a little as the nigiit grows later. 
 
 69. 
 
 lutthis won't do, save by and by; and he 
 ^ho, like Don Juan, takes an active share, 
 [ust steer with care through all that glittering sea 
 •f gems and plumes, and pearls and silks, to where 
 Ic deems it is his proper place to be; 
 'issolving in the waltz to some soft air, 
 'rproudlicr prancing with mercurial skill 
 Vhete science marshals forth her own quadrille. 
 
 70. 
 
 Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
 Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride. 
 Let him take care that that which he pursues 
 Is not at once too palpably descried. 
 Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 
 His haste: impatience is a blundering guide 
 Amongst a people famous for reflection, 
 Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 
 
 71. 
 
 But, if you can contrive, get next at supper ; 
 
 Or, if forestall'd, get opposite and ogle: — 
 
 Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always upper 
 
 In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, 
 
 Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper, 
 
 The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue! Ill 
 
 Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
 
 Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. 
 
 72. 
 
 But these precautionary hints can touch 
 
 Only the common run, who must pursue. 
 
 And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too much 
 
 Or little overturns; and not the few 
 
 Or many (for the number's sometimes such) 
 
 Whom a good mien, especially if new, 
 
 Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, 
 
 Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since. 
 
 73. 
 
 Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome. 
 Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, 
 Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom 
 Before he can escape from so much danger 
 As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 
 Talk about poetry, and "rack and manger," 
 And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble; — 
 I wish they knew the life of a young noble. 
 
 74. 
 
 They are young, but know not youth — it is anticipated; 
 Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou; 
 Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated; 
 Their cash comes yVow, their wealth goes to a Jew; 
 Both senates see their nightly votes participated 
 Between the t3'rant's and the tribunes' crew; 
 And, having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and whored. 
 The family-vault receives another lord. 
 
 75. 
 
 "Where is the world," cries Young, "at eiffhti/ ? Where 
 The world in which a man was born?" Alas! 
 Where is the world oi eight years past? 'Twas there — 
 I look for it — 'tis gone, a globe of glass ! 
 Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere 
 A silent cliange dissolves the glittering mass. 
 Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings. 
 And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 
 
264 
 
 J' f 
 
 i/ 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 3 
 
 v^ ye. 
 
 Where is Napoleon the Grand ? God knows : 
 Where little Cagtlereagh? The Devil can tell: 
 Where Gra^an, Currau, Sheridan, all those 
 Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? 
 Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes? 
 And where the daughter, whom the Isles loved well ? 
 Where are those martyr'd Saints, the Fiye^er Cents ? 
 And where — oh where the devil are the Rents ? ^^ 
 
 ^''* [Diddled. 
 
 Where's Brummel?Dish'd.Where*sLongPoleWeIlesley? 
 Where'sWhitbread?Romilly? Where's George the Third? 
 Where is his will? (That's not so soon unriddled!) 
 And where is "Fum" the Fourth, our "royal bird?" 
 Gone down it seems to Scotland, to be fiddled 
 Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard : 
 "Caw me, caw thee" — for six months hath been hatching 
 This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 
 
 78. 
 
 Where is Lord This? And where my Lady That? 
 The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? 
 Some laid aside like an old opera-hat. 
 Married, unmarried, and remarried — (this is 
 An evolution oft perform'd of late). 
 Where are the Dublin shouts — and London hisses? 
 Where are the Grenvilles ? Turn'd as usual. Where 
 My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were. 
 
 79. 
 
 Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses ? 
 
 Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals 
 
 So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is — 
 
 Thou Morning-Post, sole record of the pannels 
 
 Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies 
 
 Of fashion — say what streams now fill tliose channels? 
 
 Some die, some fly, some languish on the continent; 
 
 Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 
 
 80. 
 
 Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes, 
 Have taken up at length with younger brothers j 
 Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks; 
 Somemaidshavebeenmade wives— some merely mothers; 
 Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks : 
 In short, the list of alterations bothers. ^ 
 
 ^There's little strange in this, but something strange is } 
 \The unusual quickness of these common changes. ^ ' 
 
 81. 
 
 Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 
 
 I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 
 
 The humblest individual under heaven, 
 
 Than might suffice a moderate century through. 
 
 I knew that nought was lasting, but now even 
 
 Change grows too changeable, without being new; 
 
 Nought's permanent among the human race, 
 
 Except the Whigs not getting into place. 
 
 'f'^ 
 
 82. 
 
 I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, 
 Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a duke 
 (No matter which) turn politician stupider, 
 If that can well be, than his wooden look. 
 But it is time that I should hoist my "blue Peter/', 
 And sail for a new theme : I have seen — and shook 
 To see it — the King hiss'd, and then caress'd ; 
 But don't pretend to settle which was best. 
 
 83. 
 
 I have seen the landholders without a rap — 
 I have seen Joanna Southcote — I have seen 
 The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap — 
 I have seen that sad aflair of the late Queen — 
 I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap — 
 I have seen a Congress doing all that's mean — 
 1 have seen some nations like o'erloaded asses 
 Kick off their burthens — meaning the high classes. 
 
 84. 
 
 I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 
 
 Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 
 
 I have seen the funds at war with house and land —3 
 
 I've seen the country-gentlemen turn squeakers — - 
 
 I've seen the people ridden o'er like sand 
 
 By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt liquors ) 
 
 Exchanged for "thin potations" by John Bull — 
 
 I have seen John half detect himself a fool. 
 
 85. 
 
 )■ 
 
 But "Carpe diem," Juan, "Carpe, carpe!" , 
 
 To-morrow sees another race as gay 
 
 And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy, 
 
 "Life's a poor player" — then "play out the play,'' 
 
 Ye villains!" and, above all, keep a sharp eye 
 
 Much less on what you do than what you say: 
 
 Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
 
 Not what you seem, but always what you see, 
 
 86. 
 
 But how shall I relate in other Cantos 
 
 Of what befell our hero in the land 
 
 Which 'tis the common cry and lie to vaunt as 
 
 A moral country? But I hold my hand — 
 
 For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 
 
 But 'tis as well at once to understand, 
 
 You are not a moral people, and you know it 
 
 Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 
 
 87. 
 
 What Juan saw and underwent, shall be 
 My topic with of course the due restriction 
 Wliich is required by proper courtesy; 
 And recollect the work is only fiction. 
 A nd that I sin g of neitherjninenor mCj^ 
 Though every scribe, in some slight turn of aiction. 
 Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 
 This — when I speak, I don't hint, but speak out. 
 
jCANTO 
 
 XII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 265 
 
 Whether he married with the third or fourth 
 
 Offspring of some sage, husband-hunting Countess, 
 
 iOr whether with some virgin of more worth 
 
 '(I mean in fortune's matrimonial bounties) 
 
 iHe took to regularly peopling earth, 
 
 iOf which your lawful awful wedlock fount is — 
 
 |)r whether he was taken in for damages, 
 
 ^or being too excursive in his homages, — 
 
 89. 
 
 Is yet within the unread events of time. 
 
 Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back 
 
 Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 
 
 For being as much the subject of attack 
 
 As ever yet was any work sublime, 
 
 By those who love to say that white is black. 
 
 So much the better ! — I may stand alone, 
 
 But would .,aot change my free thoughts for a throne. 
 
 CANTO XII. 
 
 F all the barbarous middle ages, that 
 hich is most barbarous is tlie middle age 
 
 f man; it is — I really scarce know what; 
 tut when we hover between fool and sage, 
 .nd don't know justly what we would be at — 
 . period something like a printed page, 
 ilack letter upon foolscap, while our hair 
 Jrows grizzled, and we are not what we were; • 
 
 foo old for youth — too young, at tliirty-fivc, 
 
 'o herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore, — 
 
 wonder people should be left alive; 
 
 ut, since they are, that epoch is a bore: 
 
 ove lingers still, although 'twere late to^^ixft; C - 
 
 nd as for other love, the illusion's o'er; '. 
 
 nd money, that most pure imagination, 
 
 leams only through the dawn of its creation. 
 
 3. 
 
 Ii gold! why call we misers miserable? 
 
 lieirs is the pleasure that can never pall ; 
 
 leirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain-cable 
 
 '^hich holds fast other pleasures great and small. 
 
 e who but see the saving man at table, 
 
 id scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 
 
 id wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, 
 
 aow not what visions spring from each cheese-paring. 
 
 ^ve or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker; 
 
 nbition rends, and gaming gains a loss ; 
 
 it making money, slowly first, then quicker, i, 
 
 id adding still a little through each cross 
 
 Vhich will come over things) beats love or liquor, 
 
 le gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross. 
 
 1 gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper^ 
 
 hich makes bank-credit like a bark of vapour .\ 
 
 Who hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 
 
 O'er Congress, whether royalist or liberal .' 
 
 Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain ? 
 
 (That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber all) 
 
 Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain 
 
 Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all ? 
 
 The shade of Bonaparte's noble daring ? — 
 
 Jew Rothschild, and his fellow Christian Barinjf. 
 
 6. . 
 
 Those, and the truly liberal Lafiljji. 
 
 Arc the true lords of Europe. Every loan 
 
 Is not a merely speculative hit, 
 
 But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 
 
 Republics also get involved a bit; 
 
 Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown 
 
 On 'Change; and even thy silver-soil, Peru, 
 
 Must get itself discounted by a Jew, 
 
 7. 
 
 Why call the miser miserable? ^s 
 
 I said before: the frugal life is his, 
 
 Which in a saint or cynic ever was 
 
 The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss 
 
 Canonization for the self-same cause. 
 
 And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities? 
 
 Because, you'll say, nought calls for such a trial; — 
 
 Then there's more merit in-his self-denial. 
 
 8. 
 
 He is your only poet ; — passion, pura 
 And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays, 
 Possessed, the ore, of which mere hopes allure 
 Nations athwart the deep : the golden rays 
 Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure ; 
 On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze. 
 While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dyes 
 Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 
 17* 
 
266 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 3 
 
 The lands on either side are his: the ship 
 From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads 
 For him the fragrant produce of each trip; 
 Beneath his cars of Ceres groan tlie roads. 
 And the vine bhishes like Aurora's lip; 
 His very cellars might be kings' abodes ; 
 While he, despising every sensual call, 
 Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 
 
 10. 
 
 Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
 To buiJd a college, or to found a race, 
 An hospital, a church, — and leave behind 
 Some dome surmounted by his meagre face : 
 Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 
 Even with the very ore which makes them base; 
 Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation. 
 Or revel in the joys of calculation. 
 
 11. 
 
 But whether all, or each, or none of these • 
 
 May be the hoarder's principle of action, 
 The fool will call such mania a disease: — 
 What is his own? Go — look at each transaction. 
 Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more ease 
 Than the mere plodding through each "vulgar fraction ?" 
 Or do they benefit mankind ? Lean miser ! 
 Let spendthrifts' heirs enquire of yours — who's wiser? 
 
 12. 
 
 How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests 
 Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 
 (Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 
 Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, 
 But) of fine unclipp'd gold, where dully rests 
 Some likeness which the glittering cirque confines, 
 Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid i^tamp: ,.' 
 
 Yes !i ready money J* Aladdin's lamp, } V 
 
 V 
 
 13. 
 
 'Love rules the camp, the court, the grove," — "for lov 
 Is heaven, und heaven is love:" — «o sings the bard ; 
 Which it were rather difficult to prove 
 (A thing with poetry in general hard). 
 Perhaps there may be something in "the grove," 
 At least it rhymes to "love;" but I'm prepared 
 To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) 
 If "courts" and "camps" be quite so sentimental. 
 
 14. 
 
 But if love don't, cash does, and cash alone: 
 Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides ; 
 Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none ; *> 
 Without cash, Malthus tells you — "take no brides." / 
 So cash rules love the ruler, on his own v j 
 
 High ground, as Virgin Cynthia sways the tides ; 
 And, as for "heaven" being "love," why not say honey 
 Is wax? Heaven is not love, 'tis matrimony. 
 
 15. 
 
 Is not all love prohibited whatever, 
 
 Excepting marriage? which is love, no doubt. 
 
 After a sort; but somehow people never 
 
 With the same thouglit the two words have help'd out 
 
 Love may exist unth marriage and should ever, 
 
 And marriage also may exist without ; 
 
 But love sans banns is both a sin and shame, / 
 
 And ought to go by quite another name. ^ 
 
 16. 
 
 Now if the "court" and "camp" and "grove" be not 
 
 Recruited all with constant married men. 
 
 Who never coveted their neighbour's lot, 
 
 I say that line 's a lap.sus of the pen ; — 
 
 Strange too in my "buon camerado" Scott, 
 
 So celebrated for his morals, when 
 
 My .leffrey held him up as an example 
 
 To me; — of which these morals are a sample. 
 
 17. 
 
 Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded. 
 And that's enough ; succeeded in my youth, 
 The only time when much success is needed: 
 And my success produced what I in sooth 
 Cared most about; it need not now be pleaded — 
 Whate'er it was, 'twas mine; I've paid, in truth, 
 Of late the penalty of such success, 
 But have not learn 'd to wish it any less. 
 
 18. 
 
 That suit in Chancery, — wiiich some persons plead 
 In an appeal to the unborn, Avhom they. 
 In the faith of their procreativc creed, 
 Baptize posteritj', or future clay, — 
 To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 
 To lean on for support in any way; 
 Since odds are that posterity will know- 
 No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 
 
 19. 
 
 Why, I'm posterity — and so arc you ; 
 
 And whom do we remember? Not a hundred 
 
 Were every memory written down all true. 
 
 The tenth or twentieth name would be but blunder'd; 
 
 Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few, 
 
 And 'gainst those few your annalists have thunder'd; 
 
 And Mitford, in the nineteenth century. 
 
 Gives, with Greek trutbgAe good old Greek the lie. 
 
 20. 
 
 Good people all, of every degree, 
 Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, 
 In this twelfth Canto 'tis my wish to be 
 As serious as if I had for inditers 
 Malthus and Wilberforce: — the last set free 
 The Negroes, and is worth a million fighters ; 
 While Wellington has but enslaved the whites, 
 [^nd Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes. 
 
CANTO XII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 267 
 
 21. 
 
 I'm serious — so are all men upon paper; 
 And why should I not form my speculation, 
 And hold up to the sun my little taper? 
 Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation 
 On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour; 
 While sages write against all procreation, 
 Unless a man can calculate his means \x 
 
 I Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 
 
 22. 
 
 That's noble! that's romantic! For my part, 
 
 I think that "philo-genitiveness" is — 
 
 (Now here's a word quite after my own heart, 
 
 [Though there's a shorter a good deal than this, 
 
 !if that politeness set it not apart; 
 
 jBut I'm resolved to say nought that's amiss) — 
 
 [I say, methinks that "philo-genitiveness" 
 
 Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. 
 
 r 
 
 j 23. 
 
 jAnd now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan ! 
 Thou art in London — in that pleasant place 
 Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing, 
 r [Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 
 JTis true, that thy career is not a new one; 
 iThou art no novice in the headlong chase 
 [)f early life; but this is a new land 
 Which foreigners can never understand. 
 
 24. 
 
 tVhat with a small diversity of climate, 
 
 yfhot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 
 
 j could send forth my mandate like a primate, 
 
 Jpon the rest of Europe's social state; 
 
 ^ut thou art the most difficult to rhyme at, 
 Ireat-Britain, which the Muse may penetrate: 
 ill countries have tiieir "lions," but in thee 
 'here is but one superb menagerie. 
 
 25. 
 
 iuti am sick of politics. Bcgini 
 
 Paulo majora." Juan, undecided 
 
 niongst tlie paths of being "taken in," 
 
 bove the ice had like a skaiter glided: 
 
 V^lien tired of play, he flirted without sin 
 
 Wth some of those fair creatures who have prided 
 
 hemselves on innocent tantalization, 
 
 nd hate all vice except its reputation. 
 
 26. 
 
 ut these are few, and in the end they make 
 pme devilish escapade or stir, which shows 
 |hat even the purest people may mistake 
 lieir way through virtue's primrose paths of snowsf' 
 nd then men stare, as if a new ass spake 
 J Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows 
 uick-silver small-talk, ending (if you note it) [it?" 
 ith the kind world's amen !— "W ho vvould have thought 
 
 27. 
 
 The little Leila, with her orient eyes 
 
 And taciturn Asiatic disposition, 
 
 (Which saw all western things with small surprise. 
 
 To the surprise of people of condition. 
 
 Who think that novelties are butterflies 
 
 To be pursued as food for inanition) 
 
 Her charming figure and romantic history. 
 
 Became a kind of fashionablc'mystcry. 
 
 28. 
 
 The women much divided — as is usual 
 
 Amongst the sex in little things or great. 
 
 Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you all • 
 
 I have always liked you better than I state: 
 
 Since I've grown moral, still I must accuse you all 
 
 Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; 
 
 And now there was a general sensation 
 
 Amongst you, about Leila's education. 
 
 29. 
 
 Jo'one point only were you settled and 
 You had reason; 'twas that a young Child of Grace, 
 As'beautiful as her own native land. 
 And far away, the last bud of her race, 
 Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command 
 Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space. 
 Would be much better taught beneath the eye 
 Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. 
 
 30. 
 
 So first there was a generous emulation. 
 
 And then there was a general competition 
 
 To undertake the orphan's education. 
 
 As Juan was a person of condition, 
 
 It had been an aflVont on this occasion 
 
 To talk of a subscription or petition ; 
 
 But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she-sages. 
 
 Whose talc belongs to "Hallam's Middle Ages," 
 
 31. 
 
 And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
 
 A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough — 
 
 Bogg'd to. bring vp the little girl, and "out," — 
 
 For that's the phrase that settles all things now. 
 
 Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout. 
 
 And all her points as thorough-bred to show; 
 
 And I assure you, that like virgin-honey 
 
 Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money). 
 
 32. 
 
 How all the needy honourable misters, 
 Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy^ 
 The watchful mothers and the careful sisters 
 (Who, by the bye, when clever, are more handy 
 At making matches, where "'tis gold that glisters," 
 Than their Ae-relatives) like flies o'er candy 
 Buzz round "the Fortune" with their busy battery, 
 To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery ! 
 
208 
 
 DON JUAN, 
 
 CANTO : 
 
 33. 
 
 Each aant, each cousin bath her speculation ; 
 Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
 Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 
 I've known them court an heiress for tlieir lover. 
 "Tantsene!" Such the virtues of high station. 
 Even in the hopeful isle, whose outlet 's "Dover \" 
 While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, 
 Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 
 
 34. 
 
 Some are soon bag'g'd, but some reject three dozen. 
 
 'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals 
 
 And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin 
 
 (Friends of the party) who begin accusals 
 
 Such as — "Unhcss Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen 
 
 Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 
 
 To his billets? VFAy waltz with him? Why, I pray, 
 
 Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day? - 
 
 35. 
 
 Why? — Why? — Besides, Fred, really was attach' dlt^ 
 'Twas not her fortune — he has enough without : w 
 The time will come she'll wisii that she had snatch'd «' 
 So good an opportunity, no doubt: — v^ 
 
 But the old marchioness some plan has hatch'd, tfu 
 As I'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout: ^ 
 
 And after all poor Frederick may do better — e. 
 Pray, did you see her answer to his letter ? " ^-^ 
 
 36. 
 
 Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 
 Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 
 After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
 Upon the sweep-stakes for substantial wives : 
 And when at last the pretty creature gets 
 Some gentleman who fights, or writes, or drives. 
 It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected 
 To find how very badly she selected. 
 
 37. 
 
 For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 
 
 Worn out with importunity ; or fall 
 
 (But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 
 
 To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
 
 A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure 
 
 (If 'tis not vain examples to recall) 
 
 To draw a high prize: now, howe'er he got her, I 
 
 Sec nought more strange in this than t'other lottery, ^ 
 
 38. 
 
 I, for my part — (one "modern instance" more, 
 "True, 'tis £f pity — pity 'tis, 'tis true") — 
 Was chosen from out an amatory score, 
 Albeit my years were less discreet than few; 
 But though I also had reform'd before 
 Those became one who soon were to be two ; 
 I'll not gainsay the generous public's voice — 
 That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 
 
 k^ 
 
 \ 
 
 39. 
 
 Oh, pardon my digression — or at least 
 Peruse ! 'Tis always with a moral end 
 That I dissert, like grace before a feast : 
 For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, 
 A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest. 
 My Muse by exhortation means to mend 
 All people, at all times, and in most places, 
 Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 
 
 40. 
 
 But now I'm going to be immoral; now 
 I mean to show things really as they are, 
 Not as they ought to be : for I avow, 
 That till we see what's what in fact, we're far 
 From much improvement with that virtuous plough 
 Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar 
 Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, 
 Only to keep its corn at the old price. 
 
 41. 
 
 But first of little Leila we'll dispose ; 
 
 For, like a day-dawn, she was young and pure. 
 
 Or like the old comparison of snows. 
 
 Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure. 
 
 Like many people every body knows. 
 
 Don Juan was delighted to secure 
 
 A goodly guardian for his infant charge. 
 
 Who might not profit much by being at large. 
 
 42. 
 
 Besides, he had founfl out that he was no tutor 
 (I wish that others would find out the same) : 
 And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter. 
 For silly wards will bring their guardians blame : 
 So, when he saw each ancient dame a suitor 
 To make his little wild Asiatic tame, 
 .Consulting the "Society for Vice- 
 Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 
 
 43. 
 
 Olden she was — but had been very young: 
 Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe: 
 Although the world has such an evil tongue 
 
 ■ That but my chaster ear will not receive 
 
 An echo of a syllable that's wrong: 
 
 In fact, there's nothing makes me so much grieve 
 
 I As that abominable tittle tattle, 
 
 I Which is the cud esche>i^ by human cattle. 
 
 ' 44. 
 
 Moreover I've remark'd (and I was once 
 A slight observer in a modest way). 
 And so may every one except a dunce. 
 That ladies in their youth a little gay, 
 Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense'' 
 Of the sad consequence of going astray, \/ 
 
 Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe, 
 Which the mere passionless can never know. 
 
 ' 
 
CANTO XII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 269 
 
 45. 
 
 ! While the harsli prude indemnifies her virtue 
 i'By railing at the unknown and envied passion, 
 1 Seeking' far less to save you than to hurt you, 
 j Or, what's still worse, to put you out of fashion, — 
 I The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, 
 1 Entreating you to pause before you dash on ; 
 i Expounding and illustrating the riddle 
 I Of epic love's beginning, end, and middle. 
 
 46. 
 
 , Now, wliethcr it be thus, or tliat they are stricter, 
 1 As better knowing why they should be so, 
 i 1 think you'll find from many a family-picture, 
 \ That daughters of such mothers as may know 
 ! The world by experience rather than by lecture, 
 i Turn out mucli better for the Smithfield-show 
 ! Of vestals brought into the marriage-mart. 
 Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. 
 
 ■ 47. 
 
 j I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about — 
 
 I As who has not, if female, young, and pretty? 
 
 jBut now no more the ghost of scandal stalk'd about; 
 
 jShe merely was deem'd amiable and witty, 
 
 I And several of her best bon-mots were havvk'd about; 
 
 JThcn she was given to charity and pity, 
 
 I And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 
 
 For being a most exemplary wife. 
 
 48. 
 
 IHigh in high circles, gentle iu her own, 
 
 She was the mild reprover of the young 
 
 jWhenever — which means every day — they'd shown 
 
 iAn awkward inclination to go wrong. 
 
 The quantity of good she did's unknown, — 
 
 Or at tlie least would lengthen out my song : 
 
 III brief, the little orphan of the East 
 
 Hctd raised an interest in her which increased. 
 
 49. 
 
 iluan too was a sort of favourite with her, 
 
 JBccausc she thought him a good heart at bottom. 
 
 A little spoil'd, but not so altogether; 
 
 Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, 
 
 jAnd how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither: 
 
 iriiough this might ruin others, it did not him, 
 
 M least entirely — for he had seen too many 
 
 Changes in youth to be surprised at any. 
 
 60. 
 
 Ind these vicissitudes tell best in youth ; 
 
 ?or when they happen at a riper age, 
 
 'eople are apt to blame the fates, forsooth, 
 
 ^nd wonder Providence is not more sage. 
 
 Adversity is the first path to truth : ^/^ 
 
 ie who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, 
 
 •Vhether his winters be eighteen or eighty, 
 
 tath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty. 
 
 51. 
 
 How far it profits is another matter. — 
 Our hero gladly saw his little charge 
 Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter 
 Being long married, and thus set at large, 
 Had left all the accomplishments she taught her 
 To be transmitted, like the Lord-Mayor's barge, 
 To the next comer ; or — as it will tell 
 More muse-like — say like Cytherea's shell. 
 
 62. 
 
 I call such things transmission ; for there is 
 A floating balance of accomplishment 
 Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 
 According as their minds or backs are bent. 
 Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss 
 Of metaphysics; others arc content 
 With music ; the most moderate shine as wits, 
 While others have a genius turn'd for fits. 
 
 63. 
 
 But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords. 
 
 Theology, fine arts, or finer stays 
 
 May be the baits for gentlemen or lords, 
 
 With regular descent, in these our days 
 
 The last year to the new transfers its hoards: 
 
 New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise 
 
 Of "elegant," et cetera, in fresh batches — 
 
 All matchless creatures and yet bent on matches. 
 
 54. 
 
 But now I will begin my poem. 'Tis 
 Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, 
 That from the first of Cantos up to this 
 I've not begun what we have to go through. 
 These first twelve books are merely flourishes, 
 Preludios, trying just a string or two 
 Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure ; 
 And when so, you shall have the overture. 
 
 56. 
 
 My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 
 
 About what's call'd success, or not succeeding: 
 
 Such thoughts are quite below the strain they've chosen; 
 
 'Tis a "great moral lesson" they are reading. 
 
 I thought, at setting off", about two dozen 
 
 Cantos would do; but, at Apollo's pleading. 
 
 If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, 
 
 I think to canter gently through a hundred. 
 
 ? 
 
 66. 
 
 Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 
 Yclept the great world; for it is the least, 
 Atthough the highest: but as swords have hilts 
 By which their power of mischief is increased. 
 When man in battle or in quarreMilts, 
 Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or cast; 
 Must still obey the high — which is their handle, 
 Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing-candle. 
 
270 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO :^ 
 
 57. 
 
 He bad many friends who had many wives, and was 
 Well look'd upon by both, to tliat extent 
 Of friendship which you may accept or pass, 
 It does nor good nor harm ; being merely meant 
 To keep the wheels going of the higher class, 
 And draw them nightly when a ticket's sent : 
 And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, 
 For the first season such a life scarce palls. 
 
 68. 
 
 A young unmarried man, with a good name 
 And fortune, has an awkward part to playj 
 For good society is but a game, 
 ""briie royal game of goose," as I may say, 
 -Where every body has some separate aim, 
 An end to answer, or a plan to lay — 
 The single ladies wishing to be double, 
 The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 
 
 69. 
 
 I don't mean this as general, but particular 
 Examples may be found of such pursuits: 
 Though several also keep their perpendicular 
 Like poplars, with good principles for roots; 
 Yet many have a method more reticular — 
 "Fishers for men," like Sirens with soft lutes: 
 For talk six times with the same single lady, 
 And you may get the wedding-dresses ready. 
 
 60. 
 
 ) 
 
 Perhaps you'll have a letter from the mother, 
 To say her daughter's feelings are ti ^epann' d ; 
 Perhaps you'll have a visit from the brother, 
 All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 
 What "your intentions are?" — One way or other 
 It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand; 
 And, between pity for her case and yours, \^ 
 You'll add to matrimony's list of cures. 
 
 61. 
 
 I've known a dozen weddings made even thus. 
 And some of them high names; 1 have also known 
 Young men who — though they hated to discuss 
 Pretensions which they never dream'd to have shown 
 Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, 
 Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, 
 And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, 
 In happier plight than if they formed a pair. 
 
 62, 
 
 There's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
 
 A peril — not indeed like love or marriage. 
 
 But not the less for this to be depreciated : 
 
 It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 
 
 The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 
 
 It adds an outward grace unto their carriage — 
 
 But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 
 
 "Couleur de rose," who's neither white nor scarlet. 
 
 63. 1 
 
 Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No," 
 And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and ofF-ing, 
 On a lee shore, till it begins to blow — 
 Then sees your heart wreck'd, witli an inward scoffing; 
 This works a world of sentimental woe. 
 And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin ; 
 But yet is merely innocent flirtation, / 
 
 Not quite adultery, but adulteration. ^ 
 
 64. 
 
 4 
 
 "Ye Gods, I grow a talker!" Let us prate. 
 The next of perils, though I place it sternest, 
 Is when, without regard to "Church or State," 
 A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
 Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — > 
 
 (Such, early traveller ! is the truth thou learnest) — 
 But in old England when a young bride errs, / 
 
 Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers ; "" 
 
 65. 
 
 For 'tis a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit- 
 Country, where a young couple of the same age 
 Can't form a friendship but the world o'erawes it. 
 Then there's the vulgar trick of those damn'd damages 
 A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it ! — 
 Forms a sad climax to romantic homages ; 
 Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders. 
 And evidences which regale all readers ! 
 
 66. 
 
 But they who blunder thus, are raw beginners : 
 A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
 Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners, 
 The loveliest Oligarchs of our Gynocracy ; 
 You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 
 Among the proudest of our Aristocracy, 
 So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste — 
 And all by having tact as well as taste. 
 
 67. 
 
 Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 
 
 Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more; 
 
 For he was sick — no, 'twas not the word sick 1 meant 
 
 But he had seen so much good love before. 
 
 That he was not in heart so very weak; — I meant 
 
 But thus much, and no sneer against the shore 
 
 Of white clifl"s, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings 
 
 Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knoekings 
 
 68. 
 
 But coming young from lands and scenes romantic, 
 Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for passion, 
 And passion's self must have a spice of frantic, 
 Into a country where 'tis half a fashion, 
 Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic. 
 Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation; 
 Besides (alas! his taste — forgive and pity !) 
 At first he did not think the women pretty. 
 
CANTO XIl. 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 271 
 
 69. 
 
 I say at first — for lie found out at fast. 
 
 But by degrees, that they were fairer far 
 
 Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 
 
 Beneath the influence of the eastern star -~~ 
 
 A further proof we should not judge in haste; 
 
 Yet inexperience could not be his bar 
 
 To taste; — the truth is, if men would confess, 
 
 That novelties please less than they impress. 
 
 70. 
 
 Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to 
 Trace up those shuflling negroes, Nile or Niger, 
 To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo, 
 Where Geography finds no one to oblige her 
 With such a chart as may be safely stuck to — 
 For Europe ploughs in Afric like "bos piger:" 
 But if I liad been at Timbuctoo, there 
 No doubt I should be told that black is fair 
 
 jit is. I will not swear that black is white ; 
 ^ut I suspect in fact that white is black. 
 ii\nd the whole matter rests upon eye-siglit. 
 [\sk a blind man, the best judge. You'll attack 
 
 •erhaps this new position — but I'm right; 
 j3r if I'm wrong, I'll not be ta'cn aback: — 
 
 [c hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
 'ithin; and what seest thou? A dubious spark. 
 
 ! 72. 
 
 1 
 
 jJut I'm relapsing into metaphysics, 
 
 fhat labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 
 
 [lonstruction as your cures for hectic phthisics, 
 
 Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame: 
 
 Lnd this reflection brings me to plain physics, 
 
 ind to the beauties of a foreign dame, 
 
 Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 
 
 'hose polar sammer s, all sun, and some ice. 
 
 73. 
 
 y they arc like virtuous mermaids, whose 
 beginnings ajre fair faces, ends mere fishes: — 
 fot that there's not a quantity of those 
 
 "' V^ho have a due respect for their own wishes, 
 like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows 
 re they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious- 
 I'hey warm into a scrape, but keep of course 
 
 i' Is a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 
 
 ut this has nought to do with their outsides. 
 said that Juan did not think them pretty 
 t the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 
 alf her attractions — probably from pity 
 nd rather calmly into the heart glides. 
 han storms it as a foe would take a city , 
 ut once there (if you doubt this, prithee try 
 le keeps it for you like a true ally 
 
 76. 
 
 She cannot step as does an Arab barb. 
 
 Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, 
 
 Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb, 
 
 Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning; 
 
 Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb*<^^ 
 
 le those bravuras (which I still am learning 
 
 To like, though I have been seven years ia Italy, 
 
 And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily) ; - 
 
 76. 
 
 She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
 
 Others, in that off-hand and dashing style 
 
 Which takes so much f- to give the devil his due; 
 
 Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, 
 
 Nor settles all things in one interview 
 
 (A thing approved as saving time and toil) ; 
 
 But though the soil may give you time and trouble, 
 
 Weil cultivated, it will render double. 
 
 77. 
 
 And if in fact she takes to a "grande passion." 
 
 It is a very serious thing indeed: 
 
 Nine times in ten 'tis but caprice or fashion, 
 
 Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, 
 
 The pride of a mere child with a new sash on. 
 
 Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed ; 
 
 But the tenth instance will be a tornado. 
 
 For there's no saying what they will or may do. 
 
 78. 
 
 The reason's obvious : if there's an eclat, 
 
 They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias; 
 
 And when the delica(;ies of the law 
 
 Have fill'd their papers with their comments various. 
 
 Society, that china without flaw, 
 
 (The hypocrite!) will banish them like Marius, 
 
 To sit amidst the ruin of their guilt: 
 
 For Fame's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 
 
 79. 
 
 Perhaps this is as it should be; — it is 
 A comment on theCospel's "Sin no more, 
 And be thy sins forgiven:" — but upon this 
 I leave the saints to settle their own score. 
 Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, 
 An erring woman finds an open door 
 For her return to Virtue — as they call 
 That Lady who should be at home to all. 
 
 80. 
 
 For me, I leave the matter where I find it. 
 
 Knowing that such uneasy Virtue leads 
 
 People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 
 
 And care but for discoveries and not deeds, 
 
 And as for Chastity, you'll never bind it 
 
 By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, 
 
 But aggravate the crime you have not prevented, 
 
 By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 
 
 / 
 
272 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 CANTO Xll 
 
 81. 
 
 But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 
 Upon the moral lessons of mankind: 
 Besides, he had not seen, of several hundred, 
 A lady altogether to his mind. 
 A little "bltse" — 'tis not to be wonder'd 
 At, that his heart had got a tougher rind : 
 And though not vainer from his past success. 
 No doubt his sensibilities were less. 
 
 82. 
 
 He also had been busy seeing sights - 
 The Parliament and all the other houses ; 
 Had sate beneath the gallery at^ights, 
 To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses) 
 The world to gaze upon those northern lights 
 Which flash'd as far as where the muskbull browses; 
 He had also stood at times behind the throne. 
 But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. 
 
 83, 
 
 He saw, however, at the closing session, 
 That noble sight, when really free the nation, 
 A king in constitutional possession 
 Of such a throne as is the proudest station. 
 Though despots know it not — till the progression 
 Of freedom shall complete their education. 
 'Tis not mere splendour makes the show august 
 To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 
 
 84. 
 
 There too he saw (whate'cr he may be now) 
 A prince, the prince of princes, at the time 
 With fascination in his very bow, 
 And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 
 Though royalty was written on his brow. 
 He had then the grace too, rare in every clime. 
 Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 
 A finish'd gentleman from top to toe. 
 
 86. 
 
 And Juan was received, as hath been said. 
 Into the best society : and there 
 Occurr'd what often happens, I'm afraid. 
 However disciplined and debonnaire: 
 The talent and good humour he display'd, 
 Besides the mark'd distinction of his air. 
 Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation. 
 Even though himself avoided the occasion. 
 
 86. 
 
 But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why 
 
 Is not to be put hastily together; 
 
 And as my object is morality 
 
 (Whatever people say) I don't know whether 
 
 I'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry. 
 
 But harrow up his feelings till they wither, 
 
 And hew out a huge monument of pathos. 
 
 As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. 
 
 87. 
 
 Here the twelfth Canto of our introduction 
 Ends. When the body of the book's begun, 
 IColfiifciind it of a different construction 
 From what some people say 'twill be when done: 
 
 , ' The plan at present's simply in concoction. 
 
 ^ I can't oblige you, reader ! to read on ; 
 (That's your affair, not mine : a real spirit 
 Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it. 
 
 88. 
 
 And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, 
 
 Remember, reader ! you have had before 
 
 The worst of tempests and the best of battles 
 
 That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore, [else: - 
 
 Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows whi 
 
 An usurer could scarce expect much more — 
 
 But my best Canto, save one on astronomy, 
 
 Will turn upon "political economy." 
 
 89. 
 
 That is your present theme for popularity: 
 
 Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, 
 
 It grows an act of patriotic charity. 
 
 To show the people the best way to break. 
 
 My plan (but F, if but for singularity. 
 
 Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 
 
 Mean time read all the national-debt-sinkers, 
 
 And tell me what you think of your great thinkers. 
 
CANTO XIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 273 
 
 \ 
 
 V 
 
 CANTO XIII. 
 
 I NOW mean to be serioas ; — it is time, 
 iSince laughter now-a-days is dcem'd too serious. 
 jA jest at vice by virtue's call'd a crime, 
 knd critically held as deleterious; 
 Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime, 
 |\lthoiigh, when long, a little apt to weary us; 
 A.nd therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, 
 is an old temple dwindled to a column. 
 
 The Lady Adeline Amundeville 
 
 'Tis an old Norman name, and to be found 
 
 n pedigrees by those who wander still 
 
 Hong the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
 
 fVas high-born, wealthy by her father's will, 
 
 \nd beauteous, even where beauties most abound, 
 
 |n Britain — which of course true patriots find 
 
 The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 
 
 i 3. 
 
 jll not gainsay them; it is not my cue; 
 
 (leave them to their taste, no doubt the best: 
 
 pd eye's an eye, and whether black or blue, 
 
 ! no great matter, so 'tis in request : 
 
 Cis nonsense to dispute about a hue — 
 
 he kindest may be taken as a test. 
 
 he fair sex should be always fair; and no man, 
 
 ill thirty, should perceive there's a plain woman. 
 
 4. 
 
 nd after that serene and somewhat dull 
 
 poch, tliat awkward corner turn'd for days 
 
 [ore quiet, when our moon's no more at full, </ 
 
 '/"e may presume to criticise or praise; 
 
 eoause indifference begins to lull 
 
 jur passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways; 
 
 jlso because the figure and the face 
 
 int, that 'tis time to give the younger place. 
 
 5. 
 
 I 
 
 enow that some would fain postpone this era, 
 
 Jluctant as all placemen to resign 
 
 leir post; but theirs is merely a chimera, 
 
 )r they have pass'd life's equinoctial line 
 
 it then they have their claret and madeira 
 
 > irrigate the dryness of decline; 
 
 id countj'-meetings and the Parliament, 
 
 id debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 
 
 y 
 
 6. 
 
 And is there not religion, and reform. 
 
 Peace, war, the taxes, and what's call'd the "Nation " 
 
 The struggle to be pilots in a storm? 
 
 The landed and the monied speculation? 
 
 The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, y 
 
 Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 
 
 Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; 
 
 Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 
 
 7. 
 
 Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd. 
 Right honestly, "he liked an honest hater" — 
 The only truth that yet has been confest 
 Within these latest thousand years or later. 
 Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest: — 
 For my part, I am but a mere spectator. 
 And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 
 Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistophclcs; 
 
 8. 
 
 But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 
 
 Though 'twas not once so. If I sneer sometimes, 
 
 It is because I cannot well do less. 
 
 And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
 
 I should be very willing to redress 
 
 Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, 
 
 Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
 
 Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 
 
 9. 
 
 Of all tales 'tis the saddest — and more sad. 
 Because it makes us smile; his hero's right. 
 And still pursues the right; — to curb the bad, 
 His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight 
 His guerdon: 'tis his virtue makes him mad ! 
 But his adventures form a sorry sight; — 
 A sorrier still is the great moral taught 
 By that real Epic unto all who have thought. 
 
 10. 
 
 Redressing injury, revenging wrong. 
 
 To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; 
 
 Opposing singly the united strong. 
 
 From foreign yoke to free the helpless native; — 
 
 Alas! must noblest views, like an old song, 
 
 Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative; 
 
 A jest, a riddle, fame through thin and thick sought? 
 
 And Socrates himself but wisdom's Quixote? 
 
 X8 
 
274 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO XII 
 
 n. 
 
 Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 
 
 A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
 
 Of his own country; — seldom since that day 
 
 Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm, 
 
 The world gave ground before her bright array: 
 
 And therefore have his volumes done such harm, 
 
 That all their glory, as a composition, 
 
 Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 
 
 12. 
 
 I'm "at my old Lunes" — digression, and forget 
 
 The Lady Adeline Amundcville; 
 
 Tiie fair most fatal Juan ever met, 
 
 Although she was not evil, nor meant ill ; 
 
 But destiny and passion spread the net 
 
 (Fate is a good excuse for our own will). 
 
 And caught them; — what do they not catch, methinks? 
 
 But I'm not Oedipus, and life's a Sphinx. 
 
 13. 
 
 I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 
 To venture a solution : "Davus sum !" 
 And now I will proceed upon the pair. 
 Sweet Adeline, amidst the ga}- world's hum, 
 Was the queen-bee, the glass of all that's fair; 
 Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb. 
 The last's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, 
 And since that time there has not been a second. 
 
 14. 
 
 Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation. 
 And wedded unto one she had loved well — 
 A man known in the councils of the nation. 
 Cool, and quite English ; imperturbable, 
 Though apt to act with fire upon occasion; 
 Proud of himself and her; the world could tell 
 Nought against cither, and both seem'd secure — 
 She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 
 
 15. 
 
 It chanced some diplomatical relations, 
 Arising out of business, often brought 
 Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 
 Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught 
 By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience. 
 And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, 
 And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 
 In making men what courtesy calls friends. 
 
 16. 
 
 And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 
 Rrserve and pride could make him, and full slow 
 In judging men — when once his judgment was 
 Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, 
 Had all the pertinacity pride has. 
 Which knows no ebb to its imperious (low. 
 And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 
 Because its own good pleasure hatii decided. 
 
 17. 
 
 His friendships therefore, and no less aversions, 
 Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but more 
 His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 
 And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went before. 
 His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians. 
 Of common likings, which make some deplore 
 What they should laugh at — the mere ague still 
 Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 
 
 18. 
 
 "Tis not in mortals to command success; 
 
 But do you more, Sempronius — don't deserve it ;" 
 
 And take my word, you won't have any less } 
 
 Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it; 
 
 Give gently way, when there's too great a press ; 
 
 And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it: — 
 
 For, like a racer or a boxer training, 
 
 'Twill make, if proved, vast efforts without painiiig.j 
 
 19. 
 
 Lord Henry also liked to be superior. 
 As most men do, the little or the great; 
 The very lowest find out an inferior, 
 At least they think so, to exert their state 
 Upon : for there are very few things wearier 
 Than solitary pride's oppressive weight, 
 Which mortals generously would divide, 
 By bidding others carry while they ride. 
 
 20. 
 
 In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal. 
 O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 
 In years he had the advantage of time's sequel ; 
 And, as he thought, in country much the same - 
 Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill 
 At which all modern nations vainly aim; 
 And the Lord Henry was a great debater. 
 So that few members kept the House up later. 
 
 21. 
 
 These were advantages : and then he thought — 
 It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 
 That few or none more than himself had cauglit 
 Court-mysteries, having been himself a minister: 
 He liked to teach that which he had been taught. 
 And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir; 
 And reconciled all qualities which grace man, 
 Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 
 
 22. 
 
 He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity; 
 He almost honour'd him for his docility, 
 Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavit| 
 Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
 He knew the world, and would not sec depravity 
 In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility, 
 If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop, — 
 For then they are very difficult to stop. 
 
ICANTO xm. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 275 
 
 i 23. 
 
 lAnd then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 
 ■Constantinople, and such distant places ; 
 jWhere people always did as they were bid, 
 k3r did what they should not with foreign graces. 
 0f coursers also spake they: Henry rid 
 jWell, like most Englishmen, and loved the races; 
 jAnd Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, 
 Could back a horse, as despots ride a Kussian. 
 
 nd tlms acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 
 Knd diplomatic dinners, or at other — 
 For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 
 as in Freemasonry a higher brother. 
 Upon his talent Henry had no doubts, 
 rtis manner show'd him sprung from a high mother; 
 j^.nd all men like to show their hospitality 
 To him whose breeding marches with his quality. 
 
 25. 
 
 it Blank-Blank-Square; — for we will break no squares 
 
 5y naming streets: since men are so censorious, 
 
 ind apt to sow an author's wheat with tares, 
 
 leaping allusions private and inglorious, 
 
 Vhcre none Avere dreamt of, unto love's aflairs, 
 
 Vhich were, or are, or are to be notorious ; 
 
 'hat therefore do I previously declare, 
 
 ord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank-Square. 
 
 26. 
 
 Jso there bin another pious reason 
 'or making squares and streets anonymous ; 
 Vhich is, that there is scarce a single season 
 Vhich doth not shake some very splendid house 
 Vith some slight heart-quake of domestic treason — 
 . topic scandal doth delight to rouse: 
 uch I might stumble over unawares, 
 nlcss I knew the very chastest squares. 
 
 27. 
 
 ris true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
 
 place where peccadillos are unknown; 
 ^iit I have motives, whether wise or silly, 
 or letting that pure sanctuary alone, 
 hcrefore I name not square, street, place, until I 
 ind one where notlung naughty can be shown, 
 
 vestal shrine of innocence of heart: 
 ■uch are — but I have lost the London Chart. 
 
 28. 
 
 1 1 Henry's mansion tlien in Blank-Blank-Squarc, 
 Vas Juan a recherche, welcome guest, 
 IS many other noble scions were; 
 nd some who had but talent for their crest; 
 I'r wealth, which is a passport every where; 
 'r even mere fashion, which indeed's the best 
 j.ecommendation ; — and to be well drest 
 iVill very often supersede the rest. 
 
 29. 
 
 And since "there's safety in a multitude 
 
 Of counsellors," as Solomon has said. 
 
 Or some one for him, in some sage, grave mood; — 
 
 Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 
 
 In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, 
 
 Where'er collective wisdom can parade. 
 
 Which is the only cause that we can guess, 
 
 Of Britain's present wealth and happiness; — 
 
 30. 
 
 But as there's safety grafted in the number 
 
 Of counsellors for men, — thus for the sex 
 
 A large acquaintance lets not virtue slumber; 
 
 Or should it shake, the choice will more perplex — 
 
 Variety itself will more encumber. 
 
 'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks; 
 
 And thus with women: howsoe'er it shock some's 
 
 Self-love, there's safety in a crowd of coxcombs, 
 
 31. 
 
 But Adeline bad not the least occasion 
 
 For such a shield, which leaves but little merit 
 
 To virtue proper, or good education. 
 
 Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, 
 
 Which judged mankind at their due estimation ; 
 
 And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it: 
 
 Secure of admiration, its impression 
 
 Was faint, as of an every-day possession. 
 
 To all she was polite without parade; 
 
 To some she show'd attention of that kind 
 
 Which Hatters, but is flattery convey'd 
 
 In sucli a sort as cannot leave behind 
 
 A trace unworthy either wife or maid; — 
 
 A gentle, genial courtesy of mind, 
 
 To those who were or pass'd for rheritorions. 
 
 Just to console sad Glory for being glorious; 
 
 33. 
 
 Which is in all respects, save now and then, 
 A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 
 Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men. 
 Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise. 
 The praise of persecution. Gaze again 
 On the most favour'd ; and, amidst the blaze 
 Of sunset-halos o'er the laurel-brow'd, 
 What can ye recognize ? — A gilded cloud. 
 
 34. 
 
 There also was of course in Adeline 
 That calm patrician polish in the address. 
 Which ne'er can pass tlie equinoctial line 
 Of any thing which Nature would express; 
 Just as a Mandarin finds nothing fine, — 
 At least his manner suffers not to guess 
 That any tiling he views can greatly please. 
 Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese 
 
276 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO XII 
 
 35. 
 
 Perhaps from Horace : his "Niladmiran" 
 Was what he call'd the "Art of Happiness;" 
 An art on which the artists greatly vary, 
 And have not yet attain'd to much success. 
 However, 'tis expedient to be wary : 
 Indifference certes don't produce distress; 
 And rash enthusiasm in good society 
 Were nothing but a moral inebriety. 
 
 36. 
 
 But Adeline was not indifferent : for, 
 
 (AW for a common-place! ) beneath the snow, 
 
 As a Volcano holds the lava more 
 
 Within — et catera. Shall I go on ?— No! 
 
 I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor: 
 
 So let the often-used volcano go. 
 
 Poor thing! how frequently, by me and others, 
 
 It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers ! 
 
 37. 
 
 I'll have another figure in a trice: — 
 
 What say you to a bottle of Champaign? 
 
 Frozen into a very vinous ice, 
 
 Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain; 
 
 Yet in the very centre, past all price, 
 
 About a liquid glassful will remain ; 
 
 And this is stronger than the strongest grape 
 
 Could e'er express in its expanded shape: 
 
 38. 
 
 ■'Tis the whole spirit brought to a quintessence; 
 And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre 
 A hidden nectar under a cold presence, 
 And such are many — thougli I only meant her. 
 From whom I now deduce these moral lessons. 
 On which the Muse has always sought to enter : 
 And your cold people are beyond all price, 
 When once you have broken their confounded ice. 
 
 39^ 
 
 But after all they are a north-west-passage 
 Unto the glowing India of the soul ; V 
 
 And as the good ships sent upon that message 
 Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole 
 (Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage). 
 Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal; 
 For, if the Pole's not open, but all frost 
 (A chance still) 'tis a voyage or vessel lost. 
 
 40. 
 
 And young beginners may as well commence 
 With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman ; "'' 
 While those who are not beginners, should have sense 
 Enough to make for port, ere time shall summon 
 With his gray signal-flag: and the past tense. 
 The dreary "Fuimus" of all tilings human, 
 Must be declined, wliile life's thin thread's spun out 
 Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 
 
 41. 
 
 But Heaven must be diverted : its diversion 
 Is sometimes truculent — but never mind: 
 The world upon the whole is worth the assertion 
 (If but for comfort) that all things are kind: 
 And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, 
 Of the two principles, but leaves behind 
 As many doubts as any otlier doctrine / 
 
 Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in.^ 
 
 42. 
 
 The English winter — ending in July, 
 
 To recommence in August — now was done, 
 
 'Tis the postillion's paradise: wheels fly; 
 
 On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run. 
 
 But for post-horses who finds sympathy? 
 
 Man's pity's for himself, or for his son. 
 
 Always premising that said son at college 
 
 Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge. 
 
 43. 
 
 The London winter's ended in July — 
 Sometimes a little later. I don't err 
 In this: whatever other blunders lie 
 Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 
 My Muse a glass of Weatherology ; 
 For Parliament is our barometer: 
 Let Radicals its other acts attack, 
 Its sessions form our only almanack. 
 
 44. 
 
 When its quicksilver's down at zero, — lo ! 
 Coach, chariot, lug-gage, baggage, equipage 1 
 Wheels whirl from Carlton-Palace to Soho, 
 And happiest they who horses can engage; 
 The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row 
 Sleeps from the cliivalry of this bright age ; 
 And tradesmen, witli long bills and longer faces, 
 Sigh — as the postboys fasten on the traces. 
 
 45. 
 
 They and their bills, "Arcadians both," arc left 
 
 To the Greek kalends of another session. 
 
 Alas! to them of ready cash bereft. 
 
 What hope remains? OS hope the full possession, 
 
 Or generous draft, conceded as a gift. 
 
 At a long date — till they can get a fresh one, 
 
 Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large, — 
 
 Also the solace of an overcharge. 
 
 46. 
 
 But these are trifles. Downward flies my Lord, 
 irodding beside my Lady in his carriage. 
 Away! away! "Fresh horses!" arc the word. 
 And clianged as quickly as hearts after marriage; 
 The obsequious landlord hath the change restored; 
 The postboys have no reason to disparage 
 Their fee; but, ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence, 
 The ostler pleads for a reminiscence. 
 
i ANTO XIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 277 
 
 47. 
 
 iris granted ; and the valet mounts the dickey — 
 'hat gentleman of lords and gentlemen; 
 Iso my Lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 
 rick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 
 an paint, "Cost viaggino iricchi!" 
 Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, 
 "but to sliow I've travell'd ; and what's travel, 
 nless it teaches one to quote and cavil ?) 
 
 48. 
 
 he London-winter and the country-summer 
 ere well nigh over. 'Tis perhaps a pity, 
 
 I'hen Nature wears tlie gown that doth become her, 
 
 b lose those best months in a sweaty city, 
 
 ad wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 
 
 stcning debates not very wise or witty, 
 
 e patriots their true country can remember ; 
 
 it there's no shooting (save grouse) till September. 
 
 49. 
 
 c done with my tirade. The world was gone ; 
 
 le twice two tliousand, for whom earth was made, 
 
 ere vanish'd to be what they call alone, — 
 
 latis, with thirty servants for parade, 
 . many guests or more ; before whom groan 
 . many covers, duly, daily laid. 
 '. t none accuse old England's hospitality — 
 J quantity is but condensed to quality. 
 
 60. 
 
 ]jrd Henry and the Lady Adeline 
 
 ]' parted, like the rest of their compeers, 
 
 ' c peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 
 
 ' c Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 
 
 1 ne than themselves could boast a longer line, 
 
 ^jliereTimc through heroes and through beauties steers; 
 
 M oaks, as olden as their pedigree, 
 
 1 Id of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 
 
 6L 
 
 aragraph in every paper told 
 
 their departure: such is modern fame: 
 
 J pity that it takes no further hold 
 1 m an advertisement, or much the same; 
 ^ len, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold, 
 
 i Morning-Post was foremost to proclaim — 
 
 parture, for his country-seat to-day, 
 I id H. Amundeville and Lady A. 
 
 62. 
 
 " e understand the splendid host intends 
 Tjentertain, this autumn, a select 
 A I numerous party of his noble friends ; 
 1 dst whom, we have heard from sources quite correct, 
 * Duke of D — the shooting season spends, 
 *V|,h many more by rank and fashion deck'd; 
 A) a foreigner of high condition, 
 T envoy of the secret Russian mission." 
 
 53. 
 
 And thus we see — who doubts the Morning-Post? 
 
 (Whose articles are like the "Thirty Nine," 
 
 Which those most swear to who believe them most) — 
 
 Our gay Russ-Spaniard was ordain'd to shine, 
 
 Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host. 
 
 With those who. Pope says, "greatly daring dine." 
 
 'Tis odd, but true, — last war, the news abounded 
 
 More with these dinners than the kiil'd or wounded ; — 
 
 64. 
 
 As thus : "On Thursday there was a grand dinner ; 
 Present, Lords A. B. C." — Earls, dukes, by name 
 Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner: 
 Then underneath, and in the very same 
 Column: Date, "Falmouth: There has lately been here 
 The Slap-Dash regiment, so well known to fame; 
 Whose loss in the late action we regret : 
 The vacancies are fill'd up — see Gazette." 
 
 66. 
 
 To Norman-Abbey whirl'd the noble pair, — 
 An old, old monastery once, and now 
 Still older mansion, of a rich and rare 
 Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 
 Few specimens yet left us can compare 
 Withal : it lies perhaps a little low. 
 Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind. 
 To shelter their devotion from the wind. 
 
 56. 
 
 It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 
 
 Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid-oak 
 
 Stood like Caractacus in act to rally 
 
 His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder-stroke; 
 
 And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 
 
 The dappled foresters — as day awoke. 
 
 The branching stag swept down with all his herd, 
 
 To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird. 
 
 57. 
 
 Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 
 
 Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 
 
 By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
 
 In currents througli the calmer water spread 
 
 Around: the wild fowl nestled in the brake 
 
 And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: 
 
 The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 
 
 With their green faces fix'd upon the flood. 
 
 68. 
 
 Its outlet dash'd into a steep cascade, 
 
 Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding 
 
 Its shriller echoes — like an infant made 
 
 Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 
 
 Into a rivulet ; and, thus allay'd. 
 
 Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 
 
 Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, 
 
 According as the skies their shadows threw. 
 
278 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO X 
 
 59. 
 
 A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile 
 
 (While yet the church was Rome's), stood lialf apart 
 
 In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. 
 
 These last had disappear'd — a loss to art : 
 
 The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, 
 
 And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, 
 
 Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march^ 
 
 In gazing on that venerable arch. 
 
 60. ' 
 
 Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 
 
 Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone: 
 
 But these had fallen, not when the friars fell. 
 
 But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, 
 
 When each house was a fortalice — as tell 
 
 The annals of fnll many a line undone, — 
 
 The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
 
 For those who knew not to resign or reign. 
 
 61. 
 
 But in a higlier niche, alone, but crown'd, 
 The Virgin Mother of the God-born child. 
 With her son in her blessed arms, look'd round, 
 Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd ; 
 She made the ea»-th below seem holy ground. 
 This may be superstition, weak or wild, 
 But even the faintest relics of a shrine 
 Of any worship, wake some thoughts divine. 
 
 62. 
 
 A mighty window, hollow in the centre. 
 Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, 
 Through which the dcepen'd glories once could enter, 
 Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings. 
 Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter. 
 The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings 
 The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire 
 Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like tire. 
 
 63. 
 
 But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
 
 The wind is winged from one point of heaven, 
 
 There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 
 
 Is musical — a dying accent driven 
 
 Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. 
 
 Some deem it but the distant echo given 
 
 Back to the night-wind by the waterfall, 
 
 And harmonized by the old choral wall : 
 
 64. 
 
 Others, that some original shape or form. 
 Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 
 (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm 
 In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 
 To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm. 
 Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower : 
 The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such 
 The fact: — I've heard it, — once perhaps too much 
 
 65. 
 
 Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 
 
 Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — 
 
 Strange faces, like to men in masquerade. 
 
 And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: 
 
 The springgush'd through grimmouths, of granite m 
 
 And sparkled into basins, where it spent 
 
 Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles. 
 
 Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 
 
 66. 
 
 The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 
 
 With more of the monastic than has been 
 
 Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable. 
 
 The cells too and refectory, I ween : 
 
 An exquisite small chapel had been able. 
 
 Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene; 
 
 The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk. 
 
 And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 
 
 67. 
 
 Huge halls, Icng galleries, spacious chambers, j<.iii'cl i 
 By no quite law ful marriage of the arts, | 
 
 Might shock a connoisseur; but, when combinci! 
 Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 
 Yet left a grand impression on the mind, j 
 
 At least of those whose e3'es are in their hearts. | 
 
 We gaze upon a giant for his stature, 
 Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 
 
 68. 
 
 Steel Barons, molten the next generation 
 
 To silken rows of gay and garter'd Earls. 
 
 Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation : 
 
 And Lady Marys, blooming into girls, 
 
 With fair long locks, had also kept their station ; 
 
 And Countesses mature in robes and pearls : 
 
 Al.so some beauties of Sir Peter Leiy, 
 
 Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely ; 
 
 69. 
 
 I 
 
 Judges, in very formidable ermine 
 
 Were there, with brows that did not much invite i 
 
 The accused to think their lordships would dctcrminj 
 
 His cause by leaning much from might to right : 
 
 Bishops, who had not left a single sermon ; 
 
 Attorneys-General, awful to the sight; 
 
 As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us > 
 
 Of the "Star Chamber" than of "Habeas Corpus. 
 
 70. 
 
 Generals, some all in armour, of the old j 
 
 And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead ; | 
 
 Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
 Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed: 
 Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold : 
 Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the stc> . 
 And here and there some stern high patriot stood. 
 Who could not get the place for which he sued. 
 
CANTO xm. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 279 
 
 n. 
 
 Bat, ever and anon, to soothe your vision, 
 Fatigued witli these liereditary glories, 
 There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 
 I Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's: 
 Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone 
 In Vernct's ocean-lights; and there the stories 
 Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 
 His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. 
 
 72. 
 
 Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine; 
 There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light. 
 Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 
 Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite; — 
 But io ! a Tcnicrs woos, and not in vain, 
 Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: 
 His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danisii 
 Or Dutch with thirst — What ho! a flask of Rhenish. 
 
 73. 
 
 3h, reader! If that thou canst read, — and know 
 Tis not enough to spell, or even to read, 
 To constitute a reader ; there must go 
 Virtues of whicli botli you and I liave need, 
 irstly, begin with the beginning (though 
 Piiat clause is hard) ; and secondly, proceed; 
 thirdly, commence not with tiie end — or, sinning 
 III this sort, end at least with the beginning. 
 
 74. 
 
 tut, reader, thou hast patient been of late, 
 Vhile I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, 
 lave built and laid out ground at such a rate, 
 'an Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer, 
 hat poets were so from their earliest date, 
 y Homer's "Catalogue of Ships" is clear ; 
 ut a mere modern must be moderate — 
 spare you, then, the furniture and plate. 
 
 75. 
 
 mellow autumn came, and with it came 
 promised party, to enjoy its sweets, 
 corn is cut, the manor full of game; 
 pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 
 russet jacket: — lynx-like in his aim, 
 ill grows his bag, and w onder/w/ his feats. 
 I, nutbrown partridges ! ah, brilliant pheasants! 
 id ah, ye poachers! — 'Tis no sport for peasants. 
 
 76. 
 
 English autumn, though it hath no vines, 
 tshing with bacchant coronals along 
 e paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines 
 e red grape in the sunny lands of song, 
 til yet a purchased choice of choicest wines ; 
 ^ claret light, and the madeira strong. 
 J iritain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, 
 ? very best of vineyards, is the cellar. 
 
 7t. 
 
 Then, if she hath not that serene decline 
 Which makes the southern autumn's da}' appear 
 As if 'twould to a second spring resign 
 The season, rather than to winter drear, — 
 Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine — 
 The sea-coal-fires, the earliest of the year; 
 Without doors too she may compete in mellow. 
 As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 
 
 78. 
 
 And for the effeminate villeggiatura — 
 
 Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the chase, 
 
 So animated that it might allure a 
 
 Saint from his beads to join the jocund race; 
 
 Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura, 
 
 And wear the Melton jacket for a space: — 
 
 If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 
 
 Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 
 
 79. 
 
 The noble guests, assembled at the abbey. 
 
 Consisted of — we give the sex i\\epas — 
 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke ; the Countess Crabbcy ; 
 
 The Ladies Scilly, Busey; — Miss Ecliit, 
 
 Miss Bombazccn, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabbey, 
 
 And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw : 
 
 Also the Honourable Mrs. Sleep, 
 
 W"ho look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep : 
 
 80. 
 
 With other Countesses of Blank — but rank ; 
 At once the "lie" and the "elite" of crowds; 
 Who pass like water filter'd in a tank, 
 All purged and pious from their native clouds ; 
 Or paper turn'd to jnoney by the Bank : 
 No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
 The "passee" and the past; for good society 
 Is no less famed for tolerance tlian piety. 
 
 That is, up to a certain point; which point 
 Forms the most difficult in punctuation 
 Appearances appear to form the joint 
 On which it hinges in a higher station; 
 And so that no explosion cry "Aroint 
 Thee, Witch !" or each Medea has her Jason ; 
 Or (to the point with Horace and with Puici), 
 " Omne tulit punctum, quae miscuit utile dulci " 
 
 82. 
 
 I can't exactly trace their rule of right, 
 Which hath a little leaning to a lottery : 
 I've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 
 By the mere combination of a coterie; 
 Also a so-so matron boldly fight 
 Her waj' back to the world by dint of plottery. 
 And shine the very Siria of the spheres. 
 Escaping w ith a few slight scarless sneers 
 
280 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO Xlli 
 
 83. 
 
 I have seen more than I'll say : — but we will see 
 How our villeggiatura will get on. 
 The party might consist of thirty-three 
 Of highest caste — the Bramins of the ton. 
 I have named a few, not foremost in degree, 
 But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
 By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, 
 There also were some Irish absentees. 
 
 84. 
 
 There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, 
 
 Who limits all his battles to the bar 
 
 And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly, 
 
 He shows more appetite for words than war. 
 
 There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly 
 
 Come out and glimmer'd as a six-weeks' star. 
 
 There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great free-thinker; 
 
 And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. 
 
 85. 
 
 There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — duke. 
 Ay, every inch a duke; there were twelve peers 
 Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in look 
 And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 
 For commoners had ever them mistook. 
 There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty dears ! 
 All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set 
 Less on a convent than a coronet. 
 
 86. 
 
 There were four honourable Misters, whose 
 Honour was more before their names than after; 
 There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, 
 Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft here, 
 Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse; 
 But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, 
 Because — such was his magic power to please — 
 The dice seem'd charm'd too with his repartees. 
 
 87. 
 
 There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 
 Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; 
 Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; 
 Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner. 
 There was the reverend Rodomont Precisian, 
 Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; 
 And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 
 Good at all things, but better at a bet. 
 
 88. 
 
 There was Jack Jargon the gigantic guardsman; 
 
 And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
 
 A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, 
 
 Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd. 
 
 There was thewaggishWelch Judge, JefferiesHardsman, 
 
 In his grave office so completely skill'd. 
 
 That when a culprit came for condemnation, 
 
 He had his judge's joke for consolation. 
 
 89. 
 
 Good company's a chess-board — there are kings, 
 Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world's 
 Save that the puppets pull at tlieir own strings ; [game 
 Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 
 My Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings, 
 Not stings, and flits through ether without aim. 
 Alighting rarely : were she but a hornet, 
 Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 
 
 90. 
 
 I had forgotten — but must not forget — 
 
 An orator, the latest of the session, 
 
 Who had deliver'd well a very set 
 
 Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression 
 
 Upon debate : the papers echoed yet 
 
 With this debut, which made a strong impression. 
 
 And rank'd with what is every day display'd — 
 
 "The best first speech that ever yet was made." 
 
 91. 
 
 Proud of his '*Hear hims !" proud too of his vote 
 
 And lost virginity of oratory, 
 
 Proud of his learning (just enough to quote) , 
 
 He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory: 
 
 Witii memory excellent to get by rote, 
 
 With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, 
 
 Graced with some merit and with more effrontery, 
 
 "His Country's pride," he came down to the country. 
 
 92. 
 
 There also were two wits by acclamation, 
 
 Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, 
 
 Both lawyers and both men of education ; 
 
 But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed: 
 
 Longbow was rich in an imagination, 
 
 As beautiful and bounding as a steed. 
 
 But sometimes stumbling over a potatoe, — [Cal; 
 
 While Strongbow's best things might have come fro 
 
 93. 
 
 Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; 
 
 But Longbow wild as an ^olian harp, 
 
 With which the winds of heaven can claim accord. 
 
 And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 
 
 Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word ; 
 
 At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp: 
 
 Both wits — one born so, and the other bred. 
 
 This by his heart — his rival by his head. 
 
 94. 
 
 If all these seem a heterogeneous mass 
 
 To be assembled at a country-seat. 
 
 Yet think, a specimen of every class 
 
 Is better than a hundrum tete-Ji-tete. 
 
 The days of comedy are gone, alas! 
 
 When Congreve's fool could vie with Moliere's bete: 
 
 Society is smoothed to that excess. 
 
 That manners hardly differ more than dress. 
 
CANTO XIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 281 
 
 95. 
 
 Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground — 
 
 jRidicuIous enough, but also dull; 
 
 iProfessions too are no more to be found 
 
 iProfcssional; and there is nought to cull 
 
 jOf folly's fruit; for though your fools abound, 
 
 ^They're barren and not worth the pains to pull. 
 
 iSociety is now one polish'd horde, 
 
 iForm'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. 
 
 \ ^' 
 
 |But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 
 JThc scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth; 
 And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning, 
 iYou may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 
 iFurther I'd quote, but Scripture, intervening, 
 JForbids. A great impression in my youth 
 jWas made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, ^ 
 
 •'That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies." 
 
 97. 
 
 ut when we can, we glean in this vile age 
 f cliaff, although our gleanings be not grist. 
 C must not quite omit the talking sage, 
 JKit-Cat, the famous conversationist, 
 iWho, in his common-place-book, had a page 
 iPrepared each morn for evenings. "List, oh list!" • 
 I'Alas, poor Ghost !" — What unexpected woes 
 liwait those who have studied their bon-mots! 
 
 I 98. 
 
 Firstly, they must allure the conversation 
 
 By many windings to their clever clinch ; 
 
 |lnd secondly, must let slip no occasion, 
 
 NJor late (abate) their hearers of an inch, 
 
 Put take an ell — and make a great sensation, 
 
 if possible; and thirdly never flinch 
 
 jtVhen some smart talker puts them to the test, 
 
 put seize the last word, which no doubt's the best. 
 
 99. 
 
 ord Henry and his lady were the hosts; 
 The party we have touch'd on were the guests: 
 Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 
 To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
 ' will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 
 VIbeit all human history attests, 
 That happiness for man — the hungry sinner! — 
 5ince Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. 
 
 100. 
 
 kVitness the lands which "flow'd with milk and honey," 
 
 ■Icid out unto the hungry Israelites : 
 
 To this we have added since, the love of money, 
 
 The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
 
 fouth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny; 
 
 liVe tire of mistresses and parasites; 
 
 iut oh, ambrosial cash! ali! who would lose thee? 
 
 JVhen we no more can use, or even abuse thee! 
 
 y 
 
 101. 
 
 The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, 
 Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport - 
 The first thing boys like, after play and fruit: 
 The middle-aged, to make the day more short ; 
 For ennui is a growth of English root, 
 Though nameless in our language: — we retort 
 The fact for words, and let the French translate 
 That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate. 
 
 102. 
 
 The elderly walk'd through the library, 
 
 And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, 
 
 Or sauntcr'd through the gardens piteously. 
 
 And made upon the hot-house several strictures, 
 
 Or rode a nag which trotted not too high. 
 
 Or on the morning-papers read their lectures, 
 
 Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 
 
 Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six. 
 
 103. 
 
 But none were "g^nc" : the great hour of union 
 Was rung by dinner's knell; till then all were 
 Masters of their own time — or in communion, 
 Or solitary, as they chose to bear 
 The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. 
 Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 
 What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 
 When, where, and how he chose for that repast 
 
 104. 
 
 The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — 
 Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, 
 Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale. 
 Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad; 
 Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail; 
 And settled bonnets by the newest code; 
 Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter. 
 To make each correspondent a new debtor. 
 
 105. 
 
 For some had absent lovers, all had friends ; — 
 The earth has nothing like a she-epistle, 
 And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 
 I love the mystery of a female missal. 
 Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, 
 But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle. 
 When he allured poor Dolon: — you had better 
 Take care what you reply to sueh a letter. 
 
 106. 
 
 Then there were billiards; cards too, but no dice; • 
 Save in the clubs no man of honour plays; — 
 Boats when 'twas water, skaiting when 'twas ice. 
 And the hard frosts destroy 'd the scenting days : 
 A.nd angling too, tliat solitary vice. 
 Whatever Isaac Walton sings or says: 
 The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
 Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. 
 18* 
 
282 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO xn 
 
 107. 
 
 With evening came the banquet and the wine; 
 The conversazione ; the duet, 
 Attuned by voices more or less divine ; 
 (My heart or head aches with the memory yet) 
 The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine; 
 But the two youngest loved more to be set 
 Down to the harp — because to music's charms 
 They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. 
 
 108. 
 
 Sometimes a dance (though rarely oh field-days. 
 For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 
 Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze: 
 Then there was small-talk ready wlien required; 
 Flirtation — but decorous ; the mere praise 
 Of charms that should or should not be admired. 
 The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, 
 And then retreated soberly — at ten. 
 
 109. 
 
 The politicians, in a nook apart, 
 
 Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres; 
 
 The wits watch'd every loop-hole for their art. 
 
 To introduce a hon-mot head and ears; 
 
 Small is the rest of those who would be smart, 
 
 A moment's good thing may have cost them years 
 
 Before they find an hour to introduce it. 
 
 And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it 
 
 110. 
 
 But all was gentle and aristocratic 
 
 In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold. 
 
 As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. 
 
 There now are no Squire Westerns as of old ; 
 
 And our Sophias are not so emphatic, 
 
 But fair as then, or fairer to behold. 
 
 We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jone 
 
 But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 
 
 Ml. 
 
 They separated at an early hour; 
 
 That is, ere midniglit — which is London's noon: 
 
 But in the country ladies seek their bower 
 
 A little earlier than the waning moon. 
 
 Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 
 
 May the rose call back its true colours soon ! 
 
 Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters. 
 
 And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters. 
 
 CANTO XIV. 
 
 If from great Nature's or our own abyss 
 Of tliought, we could but snatch a certainty, 
 Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss — 
 But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy. 
 One system cats another up, and this 
 Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 
 For when his pious consort gave him stones 
 In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 
 
 2; 
 
 But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast. 
 And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 
 Is difticult. Pray tell me, can you make fast. 
 After due search, your faith to any question ? 
 Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast, 
 You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. 
 Nothing more true than not to trust your senses; 
 And yet what are your other evidences? 
 
 3. 
 
 For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, 
 Admit, reject, contemn; and what know yov. 
 Except perhaps that you were born to die? 
 And both may after all turn out untrue. 
 An age may come, font of eternity. 
 When nothing shall be either old or new. 
 Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep 
 And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 
 
 4. 
 
 A sleep without dreams, after a rough day / 
 
 Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet / 
 
 How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay I 
 
 The very suicide that pays his debt 
 
 At once without instahoents (an old way 
 
 Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 
 
 Lets out ippaticntly his rushing breath, 
 
 Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 
 
3ANT0 XIV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 283 
 
 6. 
 
 i 
 
 fTis round him, near him, here, there, every where; 
 
 And there's a courage which grows out of fear. 
 
 Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 
 
 jlhe worst to know it: — when the mountains rear 
 
 rheir peaks beneath your human foot, and there 
 
 JTou look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
 
 The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a minute "^ 
 
 iVVithout an awful wish to plunge within it. 
 
 6. 
 
 |Tis true, you don't — but, pale and struck with terror, 
 iletire : but look into your past impression ! 
 vnd you will find, though shuddering at the mirror 
 )f your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, 
 The lurking bias, be it truth or error, 
 "oi\xG unknown: a secret prepossession, 
 plunge with aliyour fears — but where? Youknow not, 
 aid that's the reason why you do — or do not. 
 
 7. 
 
 Jut what's this to the purpose? you will say. 
 icat. reader, nothing; a mere speculation, 
 or which my sole excuse is — 'tis my way, 
 ometimes with and sometimes without occasion 
 write what's uppermost, without delay; 
 his narrative is not meant for narration, 
 ^ut a mere airy and fantastic basis, 
 I build up common things with common-places. 
 
 8. 
 
 bu know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith. 
 Fling up a straw, 'twill show the way the wind blows;' 
 nd such a straw, borne on by human breath, 
 1 poesy, according as the mind glows; 
 paper-kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 
 shadow which the onward soul behind throws; 
 nd mine's a bubble not blown up for praise, 
 at just to play with, as an infant plays. 
 
 6. 
 
 he world is all before me — or behind; 
 W I have seen a portion of that same, 
 ad quite enough for me to keep in mind; — 
 f passions too, I have proved enough to blame, 
 1 the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, 
 ^ho like to mix some slight alloy with fame: 
 >r I was rather famous in my time, 
 Qtil I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 
 
 10. 
 
 laye brought this world about my ears, and eke 
 »c other : tliat's to say, the Clergy — who 
 t>on my head have bid tlieir thunders break 
 
 pious libels by no means a few. 
 id yet I can't help scribbling once a week, 
 ting old readers, nor discovering new, 
 
 youtli I wrote because my mind was full, 
 id now because I feel it grow ing dull. 
 
 11. 
 
 But "why then publish?" — There are no rewards 
 
 Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary. 
 
 I ask in turn, — why do you play at cards? 
 
 Why drink ? Why read ? — To make some hour less dreary. 
 
 It occupies me to turn back regards 
 
 On what I've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery ; 
 
 And what I write I cast upon the stream. 
 
 To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 
 
 13. 
 
 I think that were I certain of success, 
 
 I hardly could compose another line: 
 
 So long I've battled either more or less. 
 
 That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. 
 
 This feeling 'tis not easy to express. 
 
 And yet 'tis not afl'ected, I opine. 
 
 In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing — 
 
 The one is winning, and the other losing. 
 
 13. 
 
 Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: 
 She gathers a repertory of facts. 
 Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, 
 But mostly sings of human things and acts — 
 And that's one cause she meets with contradiction; 
 For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts ; 
 And were her object only what's call'd glory. 
 With more ease too she'd tell a dillerent story. 
 
 14. 
 
 Love, war, a tempest — surely there's variety ; 
 
 Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
 
 A bird's-eye view too of that wild. Society ; 
 
 A slight glance thrown on men of every station. 
 
 If you have nought else, here's at least satiety 
 
 Both in performance and in preparation ; 
 
 And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, 
 
 Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. 
 
 16. 
 
 The portion of this world which I at present 
 Have taken up to fill the following sermon. 
 Is one of which there's no description recent: 
 The reason why, is easy to determine : 
 Although it seems both prominent and pleasant. 
 There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 
 A dull and family likeness through all ages, 
 Of no great promise for poetic pages. 
 
 16. 
 
 With much to excite, there's little to exalt; 
 Nothing that speaks to all men and all times ; 
 A sort of varnish over every fault; 
 A kind of common-place, even in their crimes : 
 Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 
 A want of that true nature which sublimes 
 Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth monotony 
 Of character, in those at least who have got any. 
 
284 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO xr 
 
 17. 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, 
 They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; 
 But then the roll-call draws them back afraid. 
 And they must be or seem what they were: still 
 Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade; 
 But when of the first sight you have had your fill, 
 It palls — at least it did so upon me, 
 This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 
 
 18. 
 
 When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, 
 Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, something more; 
 With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming; 
 Seen beauties brought to market by the score; 
 Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming; 
 There's little left but to be bored or bore. 
 Witness those "ci-devant Jeunes hommes" who stem 
 The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 
 
 19. 
 
 'Tis said — indeed a general complaint — 
 
 That no one has succeeded in describing 
 
 The nionde exactly as they ought to paint. 
 
 Some say, that authors onFy snatch, by bribing 
 
 The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, 
 
 To furnish matter for their moral gibing; 
 
 And that their books have but one style in common — 
 
 My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. 
 
 20. 
 
 But tliis can't well be true, just now; for writers 
 Are grown of the beau monde a part potential : 
 I've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, 
 Especially when young, for that's essential. 
 Why do their sketches fail them as inditers 
 Of what tl)ey deem themselves most consequential. 
 The real portrait of the highest tribe? 
 'Tis that, in fact, there's little to describe. 
 
 21. 
 
 "Haudignara loquor:" these are Nugae, "quarum 
 
 Pars parvayin," but still art and part. 
 
 Now I could mucli more easily sketch a harem, 
 
 A battle, wreck, or history of the heart. 
 
 Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 'em. 
 
 For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 
 
 " Vetabo Ccreris sacrum qui vulgarit" — 
 
 Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. 
 
 22. 
 
 And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 
 Lower'd, Icaven'd, like a history of Freemasons; 
 Which bears the same relation to tiie real, 
 As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 
 The grand Arcanum's not for men to see all ; 
 My music has some mystic diapasons; 
 And there is much which could not be appreciated 
 In any manner by the uninitiated. 
 
 23. 
 
 Alas ! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 
 The world (as, since that history, less polite 
 Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held) ^ 
 Has not yet given up the practice quite. '^ 
 Poor thing of usages ! coerc'd, compell'd, 
 Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 
 Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins 
 Have shaving too eutail'd upon their chins ; — 
 
 24. 
 
 A daily plague which, in the aggregate, 
 May average on the whole with parturition. 
 But as to women, who can penetrate 
 The real sufferings of their she-condition? 
 Man's very sympathy with their estate 
 Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. 
 Their love, their virtue, beauty, education. 
 But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation. 
 
 25. 
 
 All this were very well and can't be better ; 
 But even this is difficult, Heaven knows! 
 So many troubles fiom her birth beset her. 
 Such small distinction between friends and foes, 
 The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, 
 That — but ask any woman if she'd choose 
 (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been 
 Female or male ? a school-boy or a queen? 
 
 26. 
 
 "Petticoat influence" is a great reproach, 
 
 Which even those who obey would fain be thought 
 
 To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 
 
 But, since beneath it upon earth we are brought 
 
 By various joltings of life's hackney-coach, 
 
 I for one venerate a petticoat — 
 
 A garment of a mystical sublimity. 
 
 No matter whether russet, silk, or dimitj. 
 
 27. 
 
 Much I respect, and much I have adored, 
 In my young days, that cl.aste and goodly veil. 
 Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard, 
 And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 
 A golden scabbard on a Daraasque sword, 
 A loving letter with a mystic seal, 
 A cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 
 Before a petticoat and peeping ancle? 
 
 28. 
 
 4nd when upon a silent, sullen day, 
 With a Sirocco, for example, blowing, — 
 When even the sea looks dim with all its spray, 
 And sulkily the river's ripple's flowing. 
 And the sky shows that very ancient gray, 
 The sober, sad antithesis to glowing, — 
 'Tis pleasant, Uthen any thing is pleasant. 
 To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 
 
'CVKTO XIV, 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 285 
 
 29. 
 
 I We left our heroes and our heroines 
 |In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, 
 jQaitc independent of the Zodiac's signs, 
 iThough certainly more difficult to rhyme at, 
 Because the sun and stars, and aught tliat shines, 
 Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, — 
 ;Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun — 
 (Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one 
 
 30. 
 
 An in-door life is less poetical; 
 
 And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, 
 
 With which I could not brew a pastoral . 
 
 put be it as it may, a bard must meet 
 
 iA.ll difficulties, whether great or small, 
 
 To spoil his undertaking or complete. 
 
 And work away like spirit upon matter, 
 
 JEmbarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water. 
 
 31. 
 
 fuan — in this respect at least like saints — 
 ^as all things unto people of all sorts, 
 Ind lived contentedly, without complaints, 
 jn camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts — 
 liorn with that happy soul which seldom faints, 
 ^nd mingling modestly in toils or sports. 
 fie likewise could be most things to all women, 
 'ithout the coxcombry of certain She-iaen. 
 
 ! 32. 
 
 {I fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange; 
 jTis also subject to the double danger 
 pf tumbling first, and having in exchange 
 tome pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger: 
 put Juan had been early taught to range 
 yhe wilds, as dotli an Arab turn'd avenger, 
 to that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, 
 tuew that he had a rider on h.is back. 
 
 33. 
 
 Ind now in this new field, with some applause, 
 lie clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, 
 k-nd never craned, and made but few "faux pas," 
 |ind only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 
 ie broke, 'tis true, some statutes of the laws 
 ;>f hunting — for the sagcst youth is frail ; 
 
 Eode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, 
 nd once o'er several country-gentlemen. 
 
 34. 
 
 lut, on the whole, to general admiration 
 
 [e acquitted both himself and horse: the 'squires 
 
 larveil'd at merit of another nation ; [Sires, 
 
 he boors cried "Dang it! who'd have thought it?" — 
 
 he Nestors of the sporting generation, 
 
 wore praises, and recall'd their former fires ; 
 
 he huntsman's self relented to a grin, 
 
 nd rated him almost a whipper-in. 
 
 35. 
 
 Such were bis trophies — notof spear and shield, 
 But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes; 
 Yet I must own, — although in this I yield 
 To patriot sympathy a Briton's hlushes, — 
 He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 
 Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, 
 And what not, though he rode beyond all price, 
 Ask'd, next day, "If men ever hunted twice?" 
 
 36. 
 
 He also had a quality uncommon 
 
 To early risers after a long chase, 
 
 Wlio wake in winter ere the cock can summon 
 
 December's drowsy day to his dull race, — 
 
 A quality agreeable to woman. 
 
 When her soft, liquid words run on apace, 
 
 Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,— 
 
 He did not fall asleep just after dinner; 
 
 37. 
 
 But, light and airy, stood on the alert, 
 And shone in the best part of dialogue, 
 By humouring always what they might assert, 
 And listening to the topics most in vogue; 
 Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert ; 
 And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue! 
 He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer ; 
 In short, there never was a better hearer. 
 
 38. 
 
 And then he danced ; — all foreigners excel 
 
 The serious Angles in the eloquence 
 
 Of pantomime; — he danced, I say, right well. 
 
 With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
 
 A thing in footing indispensable: 
 
 He danced without theatrical pretence. 
 
 Not like a ballet-master in the van 
 
 Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. 
 
 39. 
 
 Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, 
 And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure; 
 Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground. 
 And rather held in than put forth his vigour; 
 And than he had an ear for music's sound, 
 Which might defy a crotchet-critic's rigour. 
 Such classic ^a* — sans flaws — set off our hero. 
 He glanced like a personified Bolero ; 
 
 40. 
 
 Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora, 
 
 In Guido's famous fresco, which alone 
 
 Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 
 
 Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. 
 
 The "tout ensemble" of his movements wore a 
 
 Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, 
 
 And ne'er to be described ; for, to the dolour 
 
 Of bards and prosers. words arc void of colour. 
 
286 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 41. 
 
 No marvel then he was a favourite; 
 
 A full-grown Cupid, very much admired; 
 
 A little spoil'd, but by no means so quite; 
 
 At least he kept his vanity retired. 
 
 Such was his tact, he could alike delight 
 
 The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. 
 
 The Puchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved "tracasserie," 
 
 Began to treat him with sortie small "agacerie." 
 
 42. 
 
 She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde,- 
 
 Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated 
 
 For several winters in the grand, grand monde. 
 
 I'd rather not say what might be related 
 
 Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 
 
 Besides there might be falsehood in what's stated: 
 
 Her late performance had been a dead set 
 
 At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 43. 
 
 This noble personage began to look 
 A little black upon this new flirtation ; 
 But such small licences must lovers brook, 
 Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 
 Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke! 
 'Twill but precipitate a situation 
 Extremely disagreeable, but common 
 To calculators when they count on woman. 
 
 ^ 
 
 44. 
 
 The circle smil'd, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd; 
 The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd; 
 Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd; 
 Some would not deem such women could be found; 
 Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard ; 
 Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound ; 
 And several pitied with sincere regret 
 Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 45. 
 
 But what is odd, none ever named the Duke, 
 Who, one might think, was something in the affair. 
 True, he was absent, and 'twas rumour'd took 
 But small concern about the when, or where, 
 Or what his consort did; if he could brook 
 He«r gaieties, none had a right to stare : 
 Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, 
 Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out. 
 
 46. 
 
 But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line! 
 Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, 
 My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, 
 Began to think the Duchess' conduct free; 
 Regretting mucli that she iiad chosen so bad a line, 
 And waxing chiller in her courtesy, 
 Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility. 
 For which most friends reserve their sensibility. 
 
 47. 
 
 There's nought in this bad world like sympathy ; 
 
 'Tis so becoming to the soul and face; 
 
 Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, 
 
 And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. 
 
 Without a friend, what were humanity, 
 
 To hunt our errors up with a good grace? 
 
 Consoling us with — "Would you had thought twice! 
 
 Ah! if you had but follow'd my advice!" 
 
 48. 
 
 Oh, Job ! you had two friends ; one's quite enough, 
 Especially when we are ill at ease; 
 They are but bad pilots when the weather's rough, 
 Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 
 Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, 
 As they will do like leaves at the first breeze: 
 When your affairs come round, one way or t'other. 
 Go to the coffee-house and take another. 
 
 49. 
 
 But this is not my maxim : had it been. 
 
 Some heart-aches had been spared me; yet I care not 
 
 I would not be a tortoise in his screen 
 
 Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not. 
 
 *Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen 
 
 That which humanity may bear, or bear not : 
 
 'Twill teach discernment to the sensitive, 
 
 And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 
 
 50. 
 
 Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, 
 Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight-blast, 
 Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so," ^ 
 Uttcr'd by friends, those prophets of the past. 
 Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, 
 Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, 
 And solace your slight lapse 'gainst "honos mores," 
 With a long memorandum of old stories. 
 
 51. 
 
 The Lady Adeline's serene severity 
 Was not confined to feeling for her friend. 
 Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity 
 Unless her habits should begin to nxend ; 
 But Juan also shared in her austerity. 
 But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd : 
 His inexperience moved her gentle ruth. 
 And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 
 
 62. 
 
 These forty days' advantage of her years — 
 
 And hers were those which can face calculation, 
 
 Boldly referring to the list of peers 
 
 And noble births, nor dread the enumeration, — 
 
 Gave her a right to have maternal fears 
 
 For a young gentleman's fit education, 
 
 Though she was far from that leap-year, whose leap, 
 
 In female dates, strikes time all of a heap. 
 
r CAMO XIV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 287 
 
 53. 
 
 This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty — 
 Say sevea-and-twenty; for I never knew 
 The strictest in chronology and virtue 
 Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 
 'J\i, Time ! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty 
 With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. 
 Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower, 
 [f but to keep thy credit as a inower. 
 
 64. 
 
 Jut Adeline was far from that ripe age, 
 
 vVhose ripeness is but bitter at the best: 
 
 Twas rather her experience made her sage, 
 
 ""or she had seen the world, and stood its test, 
 
 LS I have said in — I forget what page; 
 
 ily Muse despises reference, as you have gucss'd 
 
 }y tliis time; — but strike six from seven-and-twenty, 
 
 ind you will find her sum of years in plenty. 
 
 55. 
 
 .t sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted, 
 he put all coronets into commotion : 
 t seventeen too the world was still enchanted 
 V^ith the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 
 t eighteen, though below her feet still panted 
 hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 
 he had consented to create again 
 hat Adam, call'd "the happiest of men." 
 
 ) ^• 
 
 llncc then she had sparkled through three glowing win- 
 
 'dmired, adored ; but also so correct, f ters, 
 
 hat she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 
 
 I'^ithout the apparel of being circumspect; 
 
 licy could not even glean the slightest splinters 
 
 rom oft" the marble, which had no defect. 
 I he had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage 
 
 b bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 
 
 57. 
 
 )ndiy the wheeling fire-flies flew around her. 
 lose little glittcrcrs of the London night; 
 \it none of these possess'd a sting to wound her — 
 le was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight, 
 rhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder; 
 it, wliatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right; 
 id wiiether coldness, pride, or virtue dignify, 
 woman, so she's good, what does it signify i ^ 
 
 58. 
 
 utc a motive like a lingering bottle, 
 hich with the landlord makes too long a stand, 
 aving all clarctless the unmoisten'd throttle, 
 pecially with politics on hand; 
 
 1 ate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, 
 lio whirl the dust as Simooms whirl the sand ; 
 
 1 ate it, as I hate an argument, 
 
 ( uaureate's ode, or servile Peer's "Content." 
 
 59. 
 
 'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things. 
 They are so much intertwisted with the earth; 
 So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 
 I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 
 To trace all actions to their secret springs 
 Would make indeed some melancholy mirth; 
 But this is not at present my concern. 
 And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. 
 
 60. 
 
 With the kind view of saving an Mat, 
 
 Both to the duchess and diplomatist. 
 
 The Lady Adeline, as soon's she saw 
 
 That Juan was unlikely to resist — 
 
 (For foreigners don't know that a/aux pas 
 
 In England ranks quite on a different list 
 
 From those of other lands, unblest with juries. 
 
 Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is;) — 
 
 61. 
 
 The Lady Adeline resolved to take 
 Such measures as she thought might best impede 
 The further progress of this sad mistake. 
 She thought with some simplicity indeed ; 
 But innocence is bold even at the stake, 
 And simple in the world, and doth not need 
 Nor use those palisades by dames erected, 
 Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 
 
 62. 
 
 It was not that she fear'd the very worst : 
 His Grace was an enduring, married man. 
 And was not likely all at once to burst 
 Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 
 Of Doctors' Commons; but she dreaded first 
 The magic of her Grace's talisman. 
 And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 
 With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 63. 
 
 Her Grace too pass'd for being an intrigante, 
 And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere ; 
 One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt 
 A lover with caprices soft and dear. 
 That like to make a quarrel, when they can't 
 Find one, each day of the delightful year; 
 Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, 
 And — what is worst of all — won't let you go : 
 
 64. 
 
 The sort of thing to torn a young man's head, 
 Or make a Wertiier of him in the end. 
 No wonder then a purer soul should dread 
 This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ; ^ 
 
 It were much better to be wed or dead. 
 Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 
 'Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 
 If that a ^'bonne fortune" be really "bonne." 
 
288 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CAMO xr 
 
 65. 
 
 And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart. 
 Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, 
 She call'd her husband now and then apart. 
 And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile 
 Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 
 To wean Don Juan from the Siren's wilej 
 And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, 
 In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 
 
 66. 
 
 Firstly, he said, "he never interfered 
 In any body's business but the king's;" 
 Next, that "he never judged from what appear'd, 
 Without strong reason, of those sorts of things;" 
 Thirdly, that "Juan had more brain than beard, 
 And was not to be held in leading-strings;" 
 And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 
 "That good but rarely came from good advice." 
 
 67. 
 
 And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth 
 Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 
 To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth, 
 At least as far as bienseance allows : 
 That time would temper Juan's faults of youth; 
 That young men rarely made monastic vows; 
 That opposition only more attaches — 
 But here a messenger brought in despatches : 
 
 68. 
 
 And being of the council call'd "the privy," 
 Lord Henry walk'd into- his cabinet. 
 To furnish matter for some future Livy 
 To tell how he reduced the nation's debt; 
 And if their full contents I do not give ye, 
 It is because I do not know them yet. 
 But I shall add them in a brief appendix. 
 To come between mine epic and its index. 
 
 69. 
 
 But ere he went, he added a slight hint. 
 Another gentle common-place or two. 
 Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint. 
 And pass, for want of better, though not new: 
 Then broke his packet, to see what was in't. 
 And having casually glanced it through, 
 Retired ; and, as he went out, calmly kiss'd her, 
 Less like a young wife than an aged sister, 
 
 70. 
 
 He was a cold, good honourable man, 
 
 Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing; 
 
 A goodly spirit for a state-divan, 
 
 A figure fit to walk before a king; 
 
 Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
 
 On birth-days, glorious with a star and string ; 
 
 The very model of a chamberlain — 
 
 And such I mean to make him when I reign. 
 
 71. 
 
 But there was something wanting on the whole — 
 I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell — y^ 
 Which pretty women — the sweet souls! — call Soul. 
 Certes it was not body ; he was well 
 Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 
 A handsome man, that human miracle; 
 And in each circumstance of love or war 
 Had still preserved his perpendicular. 
 
 72. 
 
 Still there was something wanting, as I've said — 
 
 That undefinable "Je ne sais quoi," 
 
 Which, for what I know, may of yore have led 
 
 To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
 
 The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed; 
 
 Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
 
 Was much inferior to King Menelaus; — 
 
 But thus it is some women will betray us. 
 
 73. 
 
 There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, 
 .Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 
 By turns the diflference of the several sexes : 
 Neither can show quite how they would be loved. . 
 The sensual for a short time but connects us, 
 The sentimental boasts to be unmoved; 
 But both together form a kind of centaur, 
 Upon whose back 'tis better not to venture. 
 
 74. 
 
 A something all-sufficient for the heart y 
 
 Is that for which the sex are always seeking; ' ' 
 
 But how to fill up that same vacant part? 
 
 There lies the rub — and this tliey are but weak in. 
 
 Frail mariners afloat without a chart. 
 
 They run before the wind through high seas breaking;! 
 
 And when they have madethe shore through every shO(i 
 
 'Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 
 
 76. 
 
 There is a flower call'd "Love in idleness," 
 
 For which see Shakspeare's ever-blooming garden;— 
 
 I will not make his great description less. 
 
 And beg his British Godship's humble pardon, 
 
 If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 
 
 I touch a single leaf where he is warden; — 
 
 But, though the flower is different, with the French 
 
 Or Swiss Rousseau, cry, " Voilii la Pervenche J" 
 
 76. 
 
 Eureka! I have found it ! What I mean 
 To say is, not that love is idleness. 
 But that in love such idleness has been / 
 An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
 Hard labour's an indifferent go-between; 
 Your men of business are not apt to express 
 Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, 
 Convey'd Medea asier supercargo. 
 
CANTO XIV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 289 
 
 77. 
 
 "Beatus illeprocul" from "negotiis," 
 Saith Horace; the great little poet's wrong; 
 His other maxim, "Noscitur a sociis," 
 [Is much more to the purpose of his song ; 
 iThough even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
 jUnless good company he kept too long; 
 But, in his teetli, whate'er their state or station, 
 Thrice happy they who have an occupation! 
 
 78. 
 
 [A.dam exchanged his paradise for ploughing; 
 
 Eve made up millinery with fig-leaves — 
 
 The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing, 
 
 l^s far as I know, that the church receives: 
 
 i^nd since that time it need not cost much showing, 
 
 fhat many of the ills o'er which man grieves, 
 
 ind still more women, spring from not employing 
 
 Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 
 
 79. 
 
 Lnd hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
 
 \ rack of pleasures, where we must invent 
 
 . something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 
 
 ards may sing what they please about Content;. / 
 
 'ontented, when translated, means but cloy'd; [y 
 
 nd hence arise the woes of sentiment, 
 
 lue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 
 
 educed to practice and perform'd like dances. 
 
 80. 
 
 no declare, upon an affidavit, 
 
 pmances I ne'er read like those I have seen; 
 
 or, if unto the world I ever gave it, 
 
 'ould some believe that such a tale had been : 
 
 it such intent I never had, nor have it; 
 ( ime truths are better kept behind a screen, 
 , ipecially when they would look like lies; 
 
 herefore deal in generalities. 
 
 81. 
 
 .n oyster may be cross'd in love," — and why ? 
 ^ cause he mopeth idly in his shell, 
 J id heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, 
 - ich as a monk may do within his cell: 
 -! d Apropos of monks, their piety 
 ''ith sloth hath found it difficult to dwell ; 
 '1 ose vegetables of the Catholic creed 
 ^' s apt exceedingly to run to seed. [/ 
 
 82. 
 
 <i, Wilberforce! thou man of black renown, 
 
 'jliose merit none enough can sing or say, 
 "^u hast struck one immense colossus down, 
 Ipu moral Washington of Africa ! 
 It there's another little thing, I own, 
 
 • lich you should perpetrate some summer's day, 
 •Ad set the other half of earth to rights : 
 
 *u have freed the blacks — now pray shut up the whites, 
 
 83. 
 
 Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander' 
 
 Ship off the holy three to Senegal ; 
 
 Teach them that '"sauce for gooSc is sauce for gander. 
 
 And ask them how they like to be in thrall? 
 
 Shut upaeach high heroic salamander. 
 
 Who eats fire gratis (since the pay's but small) ; 
 
 Shut up — no, not the king, but the pavilion, 
 
 Or else 'twill cost us all another million. 
 
 84. 
 
 Shut up the world at large; let Bedlam out. 
 And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
 All things pursue exactly the same route, 
 As now with those oi soi-disant sound mind. 
 This I could prove beyond a single doubt. 
 Were there a jot of sense among mankind; 
 But till that point d'appui is found alas ! 
 Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 'twas. 
 
 85. 
 
 Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 
 
 Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion ; 
 
 Her conduct had been perfectly correct. 
 
 As she had seen nought claiming its expansion. 
 
 A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd. 
 
 Because 'tis frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one ; 
 
 But when the latter works its own undoing. 
 
 Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin, l^ 
 
 86. 
 
 She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 
 Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, 
 The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move 
 Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 
 She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 
 No bickerings, no connubial turmoil : 
 Their union was a model to behold. 
 Serene and noble, — conjugal, but cold. 
 
 87. 
 
 There was no great disparity of years. 
 Though much in temper; but they never clash'd ; 
 They moved like stars united in their spheres. 
 Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd. 
 Where mingled and yet separate appears 
 The river from the lake, all blucly dash'd 
 Through the serene and placid glassy deep. 
 Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 
 
 88. 
 
 Now, when she once had ta'en an interest 
 In any thing, however she might flatter 
 Herself that her intentions were the best, 
 Intense intentions are a dangerous matter : 
 Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd. 
 And gather'd as they run, like growing water. 
 Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 
 Was not at first too readily impress'd, 
 19 
 
290 
 
 DON JUAN, 
 
 CANTO i 
 
 89. 
 
 But when it was, she bad that lurking demon 
 Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 
 Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, 
 That is, when they succeed ; but greatly blamed 
 As obstinacy, both in men and women, • 
 
 Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed: — 
 And 'twill perplex the casuists in morality 
 To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 
 
 90. 
 
 Had Bonaparte won at Waterloo, 
 
 It had been firmness; now 'tis pertinacity: 
 
 Must the event decide between the two? 
 
 I leave it to your people of sagacity 
 
 To draw the line between the false and true, 
 
 If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity: 
 
 My business is with Lady Adeline, 
 
 Who in her way too was a heroine. 
 
 91. 
 
 She knew not her own heart; then how should I? 
 
 I think not she was then in love with Juan: 
 
 If so, she would have had the strength to fly 
 
 The wild sensation, unto her a new one: 
 
 She merely felt a common sympathy 
 
 (I will not say it was a false or true one) 
 
 In him, because she thought he was in danger — 
 
 Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger. 
 
 92. 
 
 She was, or thought she was, his friend — and this 
 Without the farce of friendship, or romance 
 Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 
 Ladies who have studied friendship but in France, 
 Or Germany, where people jawrety kiss. 
 To thus much Adeline would not advance; 
 But of such friendship as man's may to man be, 
 She was as capable as woman can be. 
 
 93. 
 
 No doubt the secret influence of the sex 
 
 Will there, as also in the ties of blood. 
 
 An innocent predominance annex. 
 
 And tune the concord to a finer mood. 
 
 If free from passion, which all friendship checks, 
 
 And your true feelings fully understood, 
 
 No friend like to a woman earth discovers, V/ 
 
 So that you have not been nor will be lovers. 
 
 94. 
 
 Love bears within its breast the very germ 
 Of change; and how should this be otherwise? 
 That violent things more quickly find a terra 
 Is shown through nature's whole analogies; 
 And how should the most fierce of all be firm? 
 Would you have endless lightning in the skies? 
 Methinks Love's very title says enough : 
 How should "the tender passion" e'er be totigh t 
 
 I 
 
 95. 
 
 Alas ! by all experience, seldom yet 
 (I merely quote what I have heard from many) 
 Had lovers not some reason to regret 
 The passion which made Solomon a Zany. 
 I've also seen some wives (not to forget 
 The marriage-state, the best or worst of any) 
 Who were the very paragons of wives, 
 Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 
 
 96. 
 
 I've also seen some {qvcoXq friends ('tis odd, 
 But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 
 That faithful were through thick and thin, abroad, 
 At home, far more than ever yet was love — 
 Who did not quit me when oppression trod 
 Upon me ; whom no scandal could remove; 
 Who fought, and fight, in absence too, my battles, 
 Despite the snake Society's loud rattles. 
 
 97. 
 
 Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 
 Grew friends in this or any other sense, 
 Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine: 
 At present I am glad of a pretence 
 To leave them hovering, as the efiiect is fine, 
 And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense ; 
 The surest way for ladies and for books 
 To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 
 
 98. 
 
 Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish 
 To read Don Quixote in the original, 
 A pleasure before which all others vanish; 
 Whether their talk was of the kind call'd "small," 
 Or serious, are the topics I must banish 
 To the next Canto; where, perhaps, I shall 
 Say something to the purpose, and display 
 Considerable talent in my way. 
 
 99. 
 
 Above all, I beg all men to forbear 
 Anticipating aught about the matter: 
 They '11 only make mistakes about the fair, 
 And Juan too, especially the latter. 
 And I shall take a much more serious air 
 Than I have yet done in this epic satire. 
 It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 
 Will fall; but if they do, 'twill be their ruin. 
 
 100. 
 
 But great things spring from little: — would you thii 
 
 That, in our youth, as dangerous a passion 
 
 As e'er brought man and woman to the brink 
 
 Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion, 
 
 As few would ever dream could form the link 
 
 Of such a sentimental situation ? 
 
 You'll never guess, I'll bet you millions, milliards — 
 
 It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards. 
 
IIANTO XV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 291 
 
 101. 
 
 (Tis strange — but true; for truth is always strange; 
 
 Stranger than fiction ; if it could be told, 
 
 iHow much would novels gain by the exchange! 
 
 IHow diftcrently the world would men behold ! 
 
 IHow oft would vice and virtue places change ! 
 
 |rhe new world would be nothing to the old, 
 
 jtf some Columbus of the moral seas 
 
 |Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 
 
 102. 
 
 What "antres vast and deserts idle" then 
 Would be discover'd in the human soul ! 
 What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, 
 With self-love in the centre as their pole! \y^ 
 What Anthropophagi are nine often 
 Of those who hold the kingdoms in controul! 
 Were things but only call'd by their right name, 
 Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame. 
 
 CANTO XV. 
 
 1. 
 
 h! — What should follow slips from my reflection: 
 pThatevcr follows ne'ertlieless may be 
 \& ij)ropos of hope or retrospection, 
 Is though the lurking thought had follow'd free. 
 Lll present life is but an interjection, 
 in "Oh !" or "Ah 1" of joy or misery, 
 |)ra"Ha! ha!" or "Bah!" — a yawn, or "Pooh!" 
 !)f which perhaps the latter is most true. 
 
 2. 
 
 3ut, more or less, the whole's a syncope 
 
 i)r a singultus — emblems of emotion, 
 
 |rbe grand antithesis to great ennui, 
 
 jrV^herewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, 
 
 pat watery outline of eternity, 
 
 j)r miniature at least, as is my notion, 
 
 jiVhich ministers unto the soul's delight, 
 
 jn seeing matters which are out of sight. 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 3. 
 
 Jut all are better than the sigh supprcst, 
 
 'orroding in the cavern of the heart, 
 
 (faking the countenance a mask of rest, 
 
 ^nd turning human nature to an art. 
 
 ■"ew men dare show their thoughts of worst or best; 
 
 )issimulation always sets apart 
 
 V. corner for herself; and therefore fiction 
 
 s that which passes with least contradiction. 
 
 4. 
 
 ih! who can tell? Or rather, who can not 
 temember, without telling, passion's errors? 
 'he drainer of oblivion, even the sot, 
 lath got blue devils for his morning mirrors : 
 Vhat though on Lethe's stream he seem to float, 
 le cannot sink his tremors or his terrors ; 
 'he ruby glass, that shakes within his hand, 
 'Caves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 
 
 1/ 
 
 5. 
 
 And as for love — Oh, Love! We will proceed. 
 
 The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
 A pretty name as one would wish to read. 
 Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 
 There's music in the sighing of a reed; 
 There's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
 There's music in all things, if men had cars: l- 
 Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 
 
 6. 
 
 The Lady Adeline, right honourable, 
 
 And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so; 
 
 For few of the soft sex are very stable 
 
 In their resolves — alas ! that I should say so ! 
 
 They differ as wine differs from its label, u---^ 
 
 When once decanted ; — I presume to guess so, 
 
 But will not swear: yet both upon occasion, 
 
 Till old, may undergo adulteration. 
 
 7. 
 
 But Adeline was of the purest vintage, 
 
 The unmingled essence of the grape ; and yet 
 
 Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, 
 
 Or glorious as a diamond richly set; 
 
 A page where Time should hesitate to print age, 
 
 And for which Nature might forego her debt — 
 
 Sole creditor whose process doth involve in't 
 
 The luck of finding every body solvent. 
 
 8. 
 
 Oh, Death! thou dunnest of all duns! thou daily i_ 
 
 Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap. 
 
 Like a meek tradesman when approaching palely, 
 
 Some splendid debtor he would take by sap : 
 
 But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
 
 Advances with exasperated rap, 
 
 And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome. 
 
 On ready money or "a draft on Ransom." 
 
292 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 9. 
 
 Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor Beauty ! 
 
 She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. 
 
 What though she now and then may slip from duty, 
 
 The more's the reason why you ought to stay. 
 
 Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations for your booty. 
 
 You should be civil in a modest way : 
 
 Suppress then some slight feminine diseases, 
 
 And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 
 
 10. 
 
 Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 
 
 Where she was interested (as was said). 
 
 Because she was not apt, like some of us, 
 
 To like too readily, or too high bred 
 
 To show it — points we need not now discuss — 
 
 Would give up artlessly both heart and head 
 
 Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent, 
 
 For objects worthy of the sentiment. 
 
 11. 
 
 Some parts of Juan's history, which rumour, 
 
 That live-gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure. 
 
 She had heard; but women hear with more good humour 
 
 Such aberrations than we men of rigour. 
 
 Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more 
 
 Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour; 
 
 Because he had, like Alcibiades, 
 
 The art of living in all climes with ease. 
 
 12. 
 
 His manner was perhaps the more seductive. 
 
 Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce ; 
 
 Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 
 
 Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse 
 
 Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, 
 
 To indicate a Cupidon broke loose. 
 
 And seem to say, "resist us if you can" — \/ 
 
 Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 
 
 13. 
 
 They are wrong — that's not the way to set about it; 
 As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. 
 But right or wrong, Don Juan was without it; 
 In fact, his manner was his own alone : 
 Sincere he was — at least you could not doubt it, 
 In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
 The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 
 An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 
 
 14. 
 
 By nature soft, his whole address held off 
 
 Suspicion : though not timid, Jiis regard 
 
 Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof. 
 
 To shield himself, than put you on your guard: 
 
 Perhaps 'twas hardly quite assured enough, / 
 
 But modesty's at times its own reward, ^ 
 
 Like virtue; and the absence of pretension 
 
 Will go much further than there's need to mention. 
 
 15. 
 
 Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful, but not loud ; 
 Insinuating without insinuation; 
 Observant of the foibles of the crowd, 
 Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation ; 
 Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud, 
 So as to make them feel he knew his station 
 And theirs; — without a struggle for priority, 
 He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority. 
 
 16. 
 
 That is, with men : with women he was what 
 They pleased to make or take him for ; and their 
 Imagination 's quite enough for that : 
 So that the outline 's tolerably fair. 
 They fill the canvass up — and "verbum sat." 
 If once their phantasies be brought to bear 
 Upon an object, whether sad or playful, 
 They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. 
 
 17. 
 
 Adeline, no deep judge of character, 
 
 Was apt to add a colouring from her own. 
 
 'Tis thus the good will amiably err, 
 
 And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 
 
 Experience is the chief philosopher, 
 
 But saddest when his science is well known : 
 
 And persecuted sages teach the schools 
 
 Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 
 
 18. 
 
 Was it not so, great Locke? and greater Bacon ? 
 Great Socrates ? And thou. Diviner still, 
 Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, 
 And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill ? 
 Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, 
 How was thy toil rewarded? We might fill 
 Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
 But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 
 
 19. 
 
 I perch upon an humbler promontory, 
 
 Amidst life's infinite variety : 
 
 With no great care for what is nicknamed glory, 
 
 But speculating as I cast mine eye 
 
 On what may suit or may not suit my story, 
 
 And never straining hard to versify, 
 
 I rattle on exactly as I'd talk 
 
 With any body in a ride or walk. 
 
 20. 
 
 I don't know that there may be much ability 
 Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ; 
 But there 's a conversational facility, 
 Which may round off an hour upon a time. 
 Of tliis I'm sure at least, there 's no servility 
 In mine irregularity of chime. 
 Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary, 
 Just as I feel the "Improvisatore." 
 
CANTO XV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 293 
 
 21. 
 
 "Omnia vult belle Matho dicere — die aliquando 
 Et bene, die neutrum, die aliquando male." 
 The first is rather more than mortal ean do; 
 The second may be sadly done or gaily ; 
 The third is still more difficult to stand to ; 
 The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily: 
 The whole together is what I could wish 
 To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 
 
 22. 
 
 A modest hope — but modesty 's my forte, 
 And pride my feeble: — let us ramble on. 
 [ meant to make this poem very short, 
 But now I can't tell where it may not run. 
 N'o doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 
 To critics, or to hail the setting sun 
 Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 
 Were more; — but I was born for opposition. 
 
 23. 
 
 Sntthcn 'tis mostly on the weaker side : 
 
 50 that I verily believe if they 
 
 Who now are basking in their full-blown pride, 
 
 Were shaken down, and "dogs had had their day," 
 
 Though at the first I might perchance deride 
 
 Their tumble, I should turn the other way, 
 
 \nd wax an ultra-royalist in loyaltj', 
 
 Because I hate even democratic royalty. 
 
 24. 
 
 ' think I should have made a decent spouse, 
 f I had never proved the soft condition ; 
 think I should have made monastic vows, 
 Jut for my own peculiar superstition: 
 Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd ray brows, 
 'for broken my own head, nor that of Priscian, 
 iot worn the motley mantle of a poet, 
 f some one had not told me to forego it. 
 
 25. 
 
 iJut "laissez aller" — knights and dames I sing, 
 puch as the times may furnish. 'Tis a flight 
 |i\'^hich seems at first to need no lofty wing, 
 plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite : 
 jPhe difficulty lies in colouring 
 
 Keeping the due proportions still in siglit) 
 A^ith nature manners which are artificial, 
 
 ^nd rend' ring general that which is especial. 
 
 26. 
 
 ^hc difference is, that in the days of old 
 
 ten made the manners ; manners now make men — 
 
 *inned like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold, 
 
 it least nine, and a ninth beside often. 
 
 "few this at all events must render cold 
 
 irour writers, who must either draw again 
 
 |)ays better drawn before, or else assume 
 
 'he present, with their common-place costume. 
 
 27. 
 
 We'll do our best to make the best on't : — March ! 
 March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flutter; 
 And when you may not be sublinje, be arch. 
 Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 
 We surely shall find something worth research: 
 Columbus found a new world in a cutter. 
 Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, 
 While yet America was in her non-age. 
 
 28. ^ 
 
 When Adeline, in all her growing sense 
 
 Of Juan's merits and his situation, 
 
 Felt on the whole an interest intense — 
 
 Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation. 
 
 Or that he had an air of innocence. 
 
 Which is for innocence a sad temptation, — 
 
 As women hate half measures, on the whole. 
 
 She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. t- 
 
 29. 
 
 She had a good opinion of advice, 
 
 Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, 
 
 For which small thanks are still the market-price. 
 
 Even where the article at highest rate is. 
 
 She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, 
 
 And morally decided, the best state is »^,-^' 
 
 For morals, marriagej and this question carried, 
 
 She seriously advised him to get married. 
 
 30. 
 
 Juan replied, with all becoming deference, 
 He had a predilection for that tie ; 
 But that at present, with immediate reference 
 To his own circumstances, there might lie 
 Some difficulties, as in his own preference, 
 Or that of her to whom he might apply ; 
 That still he'd wed with such or such a lady, 
 If that they were not married all already. 
 
 31. 
 
 Next to the making matches for herself, 
 And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, 
 Arranging them like books on the same shelf, 
 There's nothing women love to dabble in 
 More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf) , y 
 Than match-making in general : 'tis no sin 
 Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 
 That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 
 
 32. 
 
 But never yet (^except of course a Miss 
 Unwed, or Mistress never to be wed. 
 Or wed already, who object to this) 
 Was there chaste dame who had not in her head 
 Some drama of the marriage-unities. 
 Observed as strictly both at board and bed. 
 As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
 They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 
 
294 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 33. 
 
 They generally have some only son, 
 
 Some heir to a large property, some friend 
 
 Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 
 
 Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end 
 
 A line, and leave posterity undone. 
 
 Unless a marriage was applied to mend 
 
 The prospect and their morals: and besides, 
 
 They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 
 
 34. 
 
 From these they will be careful to select, 
 
 For this an heiress, and for that a beauty ; 
 
 For one a songstress who hath no defect, 
 
 For t'other one who promises much duty; 
 
 For this a lady no one can reject. 
 
 Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty; 
 
 A second for her excellent connections ; 
 
 A third, because there can be no objections. 
 
 35. 
 
 When Rapp, the Harmonist, embargoed marriage 
 In his harmonious settlement — (which flourislics 
 Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, 
 Because it breeds no more moutlis than it nourishes, 
 Without those sad expenses which disparage 
 What Nature naturally most encourages) — 
 Wiiy caird he "Harmony" a state sans wedlock? 
 Now here I have got the preacher at a dead lock. 
 
 36. 
 
 Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
 Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 
 But whether reverend Rapp learn'd tliis in Germany 
 Or no, 'tis said his sect is rich and godly, 
 Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 
 Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. 
 My objection 's to his title, not his ritual. 
 Although I wonder how it grew habitual. 
 
 37. 
 
 But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons. 
 Who favour, malgre Malthus, generation — 
 Professors of that genial art, and patrons 
 Of all the modest part of propagation. 
 Which after all at such a desperate rate runs. 
 That half its produce tends to emigration, 
 That sad result of passions and potatoes — 
 Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. 
 
 38. 
 
 Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell; 
 
 I wish she had : his book's the eleventh commandment, 
 
 Which says, "thou shalt not marry" — unless tvell: J 
 
 This he (as far as I can understand) meant; 
 
 'Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell. 
 
 Nor canvass what "so eminent a hand" meant ; 
 
 But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 
 
 Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 
 
 39. 
 
 But Adeline, who probably presumed 
 
 That Juan had enough of maintenance. 
 
 Or separate maintenance, in case 'twas doom'd — 
 
 As on the whole it is an even chance 
 
 That bridegrooms after they are fairly groom' d. 
 
 May retrograde a little in the dance 
 
 Of marriage (which might form a painter's fame. 
 
 Like Holbein's "Dance ofDeath"— but 'tis the same) 
 
 40. 
 
 But Adeline determined Juan's wedding 
 
 In her own mind, and that's enough for woman. 
 
 But then, with whom? There was the sage Miss Readi 
 
 Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss Kuc 
 
 And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. [m 
 
 She deemed his merits something more than common 
 
 All these were unobjectionable matches, 
 
 And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. 
 
 41. 
 
 There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea. 
 That usual paragon, an only daughter, 
 Who seem'd the cream of equanimity, 
 Till skimm'd — and then there was some milk and wa 
 With a slight shade of Blue too it might be, 
 Beneath the surface; but what did it matter ? 
 Love 's riotous, but marriage should have quiet. 
 And, being consumptive, live on a milk-diet. .- 
 
 42. 
 
 And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 
 A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 
 Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or bluestring; 
 But whether English dukes grew rare of late. 
 Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string. 
 By which such sirens can attract our great. 
 She took up with some foreign younger brother, 
 A Russ or Turk — the one's as good as t'other. 
 
 43. 
 
 And then there was — but why should I go on, 
 Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 
 Indeed a certain fair and fairy one. 
 Of the best class, and better than her class, — 
 Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 
 O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 
 A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 
 A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 
 
 44. 
 
 Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 
 Child to the care of guardians good and kind; 
 But still her aspect had an air so lonely ! 
 Blood is not water; and where shall we find 
 Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie 
 By death, w hen we are left, alas ! behind. 
 To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 
 Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb? 
 
JJCANTO XV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 295 
 
 46. 
 
 Early in years, and yet more infantine 
 
 In fig:ure, she had something of sublime 
 
 In eyes which sadly shone, as Seraphs' shine. 
 
 All youtli — but with an aspect beyond time; 
 
 Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline; 
 
 Mournful — but mournful of another's crime. 
 
 She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, 
 
 And grieved for those who could return no more. 
 
 46. 
 
 jSIic was a Catholic too, sincere, austere, 
 jAs far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 
 feiiAnd deem'd that fallen worship far more dear 
 siPerhaps because 'twas fallen; her sires were proud 
 ii;:|Of deeds and days when they had fili'd the ear 
 Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 
 To novel power; and as she was the last, 
 She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 
 
 47. 
 
 She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, 
 is seeking not to know it; silent, lone, 
 \^s grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, 
 i; \nd kept her heart serene within its zone. 
 There was awe in the homage which she drew; 
 3er spirit scem'd as seated on a throne 
 impart from the surrounding world, and strong 
 ;q its own strength — most strange in one so young! 
 
 48. 
 
 j*Jow it so happen'd, in the catalogue 
 
 J)f Adeline, Aurora was omitted, 
 
 |\lthough her birth and wealth had given her vogue 
 
 j3eyond the charmers we have already cited; 
 
 3er beauty also seem'd to form no clog 
 
 Vgainst her being mcntion'd as well fitted, 
 
 iy many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
 
 )f single gentlemen who would be double. 
 
 ind this omission, like that of the bust 
 )f Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 
 tlade Juan wonder, as no doubt he nftst. 
 i'his he express'd half smiling and half serious; 
 iVhen Adeline replied with some disgust, 
 Ind with an air, to say the least, imperious, 
 5he marvcll'd "what he saw in such a baby 
 Is that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?" 
 
 60. 
 
 ; uan rejoined — "She was a Catholic, 
 i^nd therefore fittest, as of his persuasion; 
 iince he was sure his mother would fall sick, 
 ind the Pope thunder excommunication, 
 f ~" But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 
 lerself extremely on the inoculation 
 )f others with her own opinions, stated — 
 ks usual — the same reason which she late did 
 
 I 
 
 61. 
 
 And wiitrefore not ? A reasonable reason, 
 If good, is none the worse for repetition ; 
 If bad, the best way's certainly to tease on 
 And amplify: you lose much by concision, 
 Whereas insisting in or out of season 
 Convinces all men, even a politician ; 
 Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 
 So the end's gain'd, what signifies the route ? 
 
 62. 
 
 Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
 
 For prejudice it was — against a creature 
 
 As pure as sanctity itself from vice, 
 
 With all the added charm of form and feature, 
 
 For me appears a question far too nice. 
 
 Since Adeline was liberal by nature; 
 
 But nature *s nature, and has more caprices 
 
 Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 
 
 63. 
 
 Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 
 With which Aurora on those baubles look'd. 
 Which charm most people in their earlier day : 
 For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, 
 And womankind too, if we so may say. 
 Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, 
 Like "Anthony's by Caesar," by the few 
 Who look upon them as they ought to do. 
 
 64. 
 
 It was not envy — Adeline had none ; 
 Her place was fer beyond it, and her mind. 
 It was not scorn — which could not light on one 
 Whose greatcst/ault was leaving few to find. 
 It was not jealousy, I think: but shun 
 Following the "ignes fatui" of mankind. 
 
 It was not but 'tis easier far, alas ! 
 
 To say what it was not, than what it was. 
 
 66. 
 
 Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme 
 Of such discussion. She was there a guest 
 A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream; 
 Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, 
 Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam 
 Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 
 Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled 
 She had so much, or little, of the child. 
 
 66. 
 
 The dashing and proud air of Adeline 
 Imposed not upon her: she saw her blaze ^, 
 
 Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, 
 Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 
 Juan was something she could not divine, 
 Being no Sibyl in the new world's ways ; 
 Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, 
 Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 
 
296 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 67. 
 
 His fame too, — for he bad that kind of fame 
 Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, 
 A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, 
 Half virtues and whole vices being combined; 
 Faults which attract because they are not tame; 
 Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind: — 
 These seals upon her wax made no impression. 
 Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 
 
 58. 
 
 Juan knew nought of such a character — 
 High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; 
 Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere: 
 The Island-girl, bred up by the lone sea, 
 More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 
 Was Nature's all : Aurora could not be 
 Nor would be thus; — the difference in them 
 Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 
 
 59. 
 
 Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 
 
 Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, 
 
 And, as my friend Scott says, "I sound my Warisou;" 
 
 Scott, the superlative of my comparative — 
 
 Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, 
 
 Serf, Lord, Man, with such skill as none would share it, if 
 
 There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 
 
 Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 
 
 60. 
 
 I say, in my slight way I may proceed 
 
 To play upon the surface of humanity. 
 
 I write the world, nor care if the world read, 
 
 At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 
 
 My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed 
 
 More foes by this same scroll: when I began it, I 
 
 Thought that it might turn out so — now I know it. 
 
 But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 
 
 61. 
 
 The conference or congress (for it ended 
 As congresses of late do) of the Lady 
 Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 
 Some acids with the sweets — for she was heady; 
 But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended. 
 The silvery bell rung, not for "dinner ready," 
 But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress, 
 Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less. 
 
 62. 
 
 Great things were now to be achieved at table, 
 With massy plate for armour, knives and forks 
 For weapons ; but what Muse since Homer's able 
 (His feasts are not the worst part of his works) 
 To draw up in array a single day-bill 
 Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks 
 In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, 
 Than witches, bitches, or physicians brew. 
 
 63. 
 
 There was a goodly "soupe k la bonne femme," 
 Though God knows whence it came from; there was 
 A turbot for relief of those who cram, 
 Relieved with dindon k la Perigueux ; 
 
 There also was the sinner that I am! 
 
 How shall I get this gourmand-stanza through? — 
 Soupe k la Beauveau, whose relief was Dory, ^ 
 Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 
 
 64. 
 
 But I niust crowd all into one grand mess 
 Or mass; for should I stretch into detail. 
 My Muse would run much more into excess, 
 Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. 
 But though a "bonne vivante," I must confess 
 Her stomach's not her peccant part : this tale, 
 However, doth require some slight refection, 
 Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 
 
 65. 
 
 Fowls k la Conde, slices eke of salmon. 
 With sauces Genevoises, and haunch of venison; 
 Wines too which might again have slain young Aram 
 A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon ; 
 They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, 
 Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; 
 And then there was Champaign with foaming whirls, 
 As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 
 
 66. 
 
 Then there was God knows what "k I'Allemandc," 
 "A I'Espagnole," "timballe," and "Salpicon" — 
 With things I can't withstand or understand. 
 Though swallow'd with much zest upon the v.hole; 
 And "entremets" to piddle with at hand. 
 Gently to lull down the subsiding soul; 
 While great LucuUus' robe triomphale muffles — [truffl 
 (There's Fame} — young partridge - fillets, dcck'd w 
 
 67. 
 
 What are i\\e fillets on the victor's brow 
 
 To these? They are rags or dust. Where is the art h 
 
 Which nodded to the nation's spoils below ? 
 
 Where the triumphal chariot's haughty march? 
 
 Gone to where victories must like dinners go. 
 
 Further I shall not follow the research: 
 
 But oil ! ye modern heroes with your cartridges. 
 
 When will your names lend lustre even to partridges ^ 
 
 68. 
 
 Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, 
 Follow'd by "Petits puits d'Amour" — a dish 
 Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
 So every one may dress it to his wish. 
 According to the best of dictionaries. 
 Which encyclopedizeboth flesh and fish; 
 But even sans "confitures," it no less true is, 
 There's pretty picking in those "petits puits." 
 
OANTO XV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 297 
 
 The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 
 
 Of intellect expended on two courses; 
 
 And indigestion's grand multiplication 
 
 Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 
 
 Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, 
 
 That cookery could have call'd forth such resources, 
 
 As form a science and a nomenclature 
 
 From out the commonest demands of nature? 
 
 70. 
 
 The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ; 
 The diners of celebrity dined well; 
 The ladies with more moderation mingled 
 In the feast, pecking less than I can tell; 
 Also the younger men too ; for a springald 
 Can't like ripe age in gourmandise excel, 
 But thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
 (When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 
 
 71. 
 
 Alas ! I must leave undescribed the gibier, 
 The salmi, the consomme, the puree. 
 All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber 
 Than could roast-beef in our rough John Bull way: 
 I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 
 "Bubble and squeak" would spoil my liquid lay ; 
 But I have dined, and must forego, alas ! 
 The chaste description even of a "b^casse," 
 
 72. 
 
 And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
 From nature for the service of the gout, — ■ 
 Taste or the^ow^, — pronounce it as inclines 
 Your stomach! Ere you dine, the French will do; 
 |But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
 I Which prove plain English truer of the two. 
 iHast ever had the gout? I have not had it — 
 IBut I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 
 
 73. 
 
 The simple olives, best allies of wine. 
 Must I pass over in my bill of fare? 
 I must, although a favourite "plat" of mine 
 In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where: 
 On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine, 
 IThe grass my table-cloth, in open air. 
 On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 
 ')f whom half my philosophy the progeny is. 
 
 74. 
 
 Amidst this tumult offish, flesh and fowl, 
 A.nd vegetables, all in masquerade. 
 The guests were placed according to their roll, 
 But various as the various meats display 'd: 
 Don Juan sat next an "k I'Espagnole" — 
 So damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; 
 But so far like a lady, that 'twas drest 
 Superbly, and contained a world of zest. 
 
 75. 
 
 By some odd chance too he was placed between 
 
 Aurora and the Lady Adeline — 
 
 A situation difficult, I ween. 
 
 For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
 
 Also the conference which we have seen 
 
 Was not such as to encourage him to shine; 
 
 For Adeline, addressing few words to him. 
 
 With two transcendent eyes scem'd to look through him. 
 
 76. 
 
 I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears : 
 This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things 
 Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears. 
 Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs; 
 Like that same mystic music of the spheres. 
 Which no one hears so loudly though it rings. 
 'Tis wonderful how oft the sex have heard 
 Long dialogues which pass'd without a word ! 
 
 77. 
 
 Aurora sat with that indifference 
 
 Which piques a preux Chevalier — as it ought: 
 
 Of all offences that's the worst offence, 
 
 Wljich seems to hint you are not worth a thought. 
 
 Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence. 
 
 Was flot exactly pleased to be so caught. 
 
 Like a good ship entangled among ice, 
 
 And after so much excellent advice. 
 
 78. 
 
 To his gay nothings nothing was replied, 
 Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 
 Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, 
 Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 
 The devil was in the girl! Could it be pride? 
 Or modesty, or absence, or inanity? 
 Heaven knows! But Adeline's malicious eyes 
 Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 
 
 79. 
 
 And look'd as much as if to say, "I said it;" — 
 A kind of triumph I'll not recommend. 
 Because it sometimes, as I've seen or read it, 
 Both in the case of lover and of friend. 
 Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, 
 To bring what was a jest to a serious end ; 
 For all men prophesy what is or was, 
 And hate those who won't let them come to pass. 
 
 80. 
 
 Juan was drawn thus into some attentions. 
 Slight but select, and just enough to express, 
 To females of perspicuous comprehensions. 
 That he would rather make them more than less. 
 Aurora at the last (so history mentions. 
 Though probably much less a fact than guess) 
 So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison. 
 As once or twice to smile, if not to listen 
 
 X9* 
 
2cr^ 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO X\ 
 
 &1. ^ 
 
 From answering, she began to question : this 
 With her was rare; and Adeline, who as yet 
 Tliought her predictions went not much amiss, 
 Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette — 
 So very difficult, they say, it is 
 To keep extremes from meeting, when once set 
 In motion ; but she Jiere too much refined — 
 Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 
 
 But Juan had a sort of winning way, 
 
 A proud humility, if such there be, 
 
 Which show'd sucli deference to what females say, 
 
 As if each charming word were a decree. 
 
 His tact too temper'd bim from grave to gay. 
 
 And taught him whe» to be reserved or free : 
 
 He had the art of drawing people out, 
 
 Without tbeir seeing what be was about. 
 
 8a 
 
 # 
 
 Aurora, who in her indifference 
 Confounded him in common with the crowd 
 Of flutterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 
 Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud, — 
 Commenced — (from such slight things will great com- 
 To feel that flattery which attracts the proud [mence) 
 Rather by deference than compliment. 
 And wins even by a delicate dissent. 
 
 84. 
 
 And then he had good looks; — that point was carried 
 Nem, con. amongst the women, which I grieve 
 To say leads oft to crim, con. with the married -^ 
 A case which to the juries we may leave, 
 Since with digressions we too long have tarried. 
 Now though we know of old that looks deceive. 
 And always liave done, somehow tiiese good looks 
 Make more impression than the best of books. 
 
 8&^ 
 
 Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
 
 Was very young, although so very sage, 
 
 Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
 
 Especially upon a printed page. 
 
 But Virtue's self, with all lier tightest laces. 
 
 Has not the natural stays of strict old age; 
 
 And Socrates, that model of all duty, 
 
 Own'd too a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. 
 
 86. 
 
 And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 
 
 But innocently so, as Socrates : 
 
 And really, if the Sage sublime and Attic 
 
 At seventy years had phantasies like these. 
 
 Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 
 
 Has shown, I know not why they should displease 
 
 In Virgins — always in a modest way, 
 
 Observe; for that with me 's a "sine qua." 
 
 87. 
 
 Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke, 
 (See Littleton) whene'er 1 iiave exprest 
 Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
 Twill opposites, the second is the best. 
 Perhaps I have a third too,in a nook. 
 Or none at all — which seems a sorry jest ; 
 But if a writer should be quite consistent. 
 How could he possibly show things existent? 
 
 88. 
 
 If people contradict themselves, can I 
 
 Help contradicting them, and every body, 
 
 Even my veracious self! — but that's a lie; 
 
 I never did so, never will — how should I? 
 
 He who doubts all things, nothing can deny ; 
 
 Truth's fountains may be clear — her streams are mudd 
 
 And cut through such canals of contradiction. 
 
 That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 
 
 89. 
 
 Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 
 Are false, but may be render'd also true 
 By those who sow them in a land that's arable; 
 'Tis wonderful what fable will not do ! 
 'Tis said it makes reality more bearable ; 
 Hut what's reality ? Who has its clue? 
 Philosophy? No; she too much rejects. 
 Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects? 
 
 90. 
 
 Some millions must be wrong, that's prettj' dear ; 
 Perhaps it may turn out that all were riglit. 
 God help us I Since we have need on our career 
 To keep our holy beacons always bright, 
 'Tis time that some new prophet should appear, 
 Or old indulge man with a second sight. 
 Opinions wear out in some thousand years. 
 Without a small refreshment from the spheres. 
 
 91. 
 
 But here again, why will I thus entangle 
 Myself with metaphysics? None can hate 
 So much as I do any kind of wrangle; 
 And yet, such is my folly, or my fate, 
 I always knock my head against some angle 
 About the present, past, or future state : 
 Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyriaii, 
 For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 
 
 92. 
 
 / 
 
 But tliough I am a temperate theologian, ^ 
 
 And also meek as a metapliycician. 
 
 Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, 
 
 As Eldon on a lunatic commission, — 
 
 In politics, my duty is to show Jolin 
 
 Bull something of the lower world's condition. 
 
 It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecia, 
 
 To sec men let these scroundrel sovereigns break law. 
 
CiVTO XVI. 
 
 m 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 299 
 
 93 
 
 But politics, and policy, and piety, 
 
 Arc topics which I sometimes introduce, 
 
 Not only for the sake of their variety, 
 
 But as subservient to a moral use; 
 
 Because my business is to dress society, 
 
 And stutt" with saffe that very verdant goose. 
 
 And now, that we may furnish with some matter all 
 
 Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 
 
 And now I will give up all argument; 
 And positively henceforth no temptation 
 IShall "fool me to the top up of my bent;" 
 jYcs, I'll begin a thorough reformation, 
 [indeed 1 never knew what people meant 
 ' (By deeming that my Muse's conversation 
 jWas dangerous ; — 1 think she is as harmless 
 (As some who labour more and yet may charm less. 
 
 96 
 
 95. 
 
 y 
 
 Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost? 
 
 No; but you have heard — I understand — be dumb! 
 
 \nd don't regret the time you may have lost, 
 
 For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
 
 \nd do not think I mean to sneer at most 
 
 Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
 
 That source of the sublime and the mysterious : — 
 
 '■"or certain reasons, my belief is serious. 
 
 Serious? You laugh: — you may; that will I not; 
 
 My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
 
 I say I do believe a haunted spot 
 
 Exists — and where? That shall I not recall, 
 
 Because I'd rather it should be forgot. 
 
 "Shadows the soul of Richard" may appal; 
 
 In short, upon that subject I've some qualms very 
 
 Like those of the philosopher of Malmsl)ury. 
 
 99. 
 
 The night (I sing by night — .sometimes an owl, 
 And now and then a nightingale) — is dim, 
 And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 
 Rattles around me her discordant hymn : 
 Old portraits from old walls upon me sc•o^\ I — 
 I wish to Heaven they would not look so grim ; 
 The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 
 I think too t4jat I have sate up too late: 
 
 98. 
 
 And therefore, though 'tis by no means my way 
 To rhyme at noon — when I have other things 
 To tliink of, if I ever think, — I say 
 I feel some chilly midnight shudderings. 
 And prudently postpone, until mid-day, 
 Treating a topic which alas! but brings 
 Shadows; — but you must be in my condition 
 Before you learn to call this superstition. 
 
 99. 
 
 Between two worlds life hovers like a star, Zx^*^^ 
 
 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge: 
 How little do we know that which we are! 
 How less what we may be! The eternal surge 
 Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 
 Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 
 Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves 
 Of empires hcare but like some passing waves. 
 
 CANTO XVI. 
 
 1. 
 
 HE antique Persians taught three useful things, — 
 > draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. 
 lis was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings — 
 mode adopted since by modern youth. 
 )ws have they, generally with two strings; 
 ^rses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 
 speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 
 it draw the long bow better now than ever. 
 
 The cause of this effect, or this defect, — 
 "For this effect defective comes by cause," — 
 Is what I have not leisure to inspect; 
 But this I must say in my own applause, 
 Of all the Muses that I recollect, 
 Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws 
 In some things, mine's beyond all contradiction 
 The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 
 
300 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO X' 
 
 And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 
 From any thing, this Epic will contain 
 A wilderness of the most rare conceits, 
 Which you might elsewhere hope to iind in vain. 
 'Tis true there be some bitters with the sweets. 
 Yet mix'd so slightly that you can't complain, 
 But wonder they so few arc, since my tale is 
 "De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis." 
 
 But of all truths which she has told, the most 
 True is that which she is about to tell. . 
 I said it was a story of a ghost — / 
 
 What then? I only know it so befell. 
 Have you explored the limits of the coast. 
 Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell? 
 'Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 
 The sceptics who would not believe Columbus. 
 
 Some people would impose now with authority, 
 Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle; 
 Men whose historical superiority 
 Is always greatest at a miracle. 
 But Saint Augustine has the great priority, 
 Who bids all men believe the impossible. 
 Because 'tis so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he 
 Quiets at once with "quia impossibil." 
 
 6. 
 
 And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all; 
 
 Believe : — if 'tis improbable, you tnust; 
 
 And if it is impossible, you shall: 
 
 'Tis always best to take things upon trust. 
 
 I do not speak profanely, to recall 
 
 Those holier mysteries, which the wise and just 
 
 Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, 
 
 As all truths must, the more they arc disputed. 
 
 7. 
 
 I merely mean to say what Johnson said. 
 
 That in the course of some six tliou&and years, 
 
 All nations have believed that from the dead 
 
 A visitant at intervals appears: 
 
 And what is strangest upon this strange head, ^y 
 
 Is, that whatever bar the reason rears 
 
 'Gainst such belief, there 's something stronger still 
 
 In its behalf, let those deny who will. 
 
 8. 
 
 The dinner and the soiree too were done, 
 The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired, 
 The banqucteers had dropp'd off one by one — 
 The song was silent, and the dance expired: 
 The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone 
 Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired, 
 And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloon 
 Than dying tapers — and tlie peeping moon. 
 
 9. 
 
 The evaporation of a joyous day 
 Is like the last glass of Champagne, without 
 The foam which made its virgin-bumper gay ; 
 Or like a system coupled witii a doubt ; 
 Or like a soda-bottle when its spray 
 Has sparkled and let half its spirit out; 
 Or like a billow left by storms behind, 
 Without the animation of the wind, 
 
 10. 
 
 ;;v 
 
 Or like an opiate which brings troubled rest. 
 Or none; or like — like nothing that I know 
 Except itself; — such is the human breast ; 
 A thing, of which similitudes can show 
 No real likeness, — like the old Tyrian vest 
 Dyed purple, none at present can tell how. 
 If from a shell-fish or from cochineal. 
 So perish every tyrant's robe piecc-mcal ! 
 
 11. 
 
 But next to dressing for a rout or ball, 
 Undressing is a woe; our robe-de-chambre 
 May sit like that of Nessus,and recall 
 Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear, than amber. 
 Titus exclaim'd : "I've lost a day !" Of all 
 The nights and days most people can remember 
 (I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd") 
 I wish they'd state how many they have gain'd. 
 
 12. 
 
 And Juan, on retiring for the night. 
 
 Felt restless, and perplexed, and compromised; 
 
 He thought \urora Raby's eyes more bright 
 
 Than Adeline (such is advice) advised; 
 
 If he had known exactly his own plight, 
 
 He probably would have philosopiiised; 
 
 A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 
 
 Till wanted ; therefore Juan only sigh'd. 
 
 13. 
 
 He sigh'd; — the next resource is the full moon^ 
 
 Where all sighs are deposited ; and now 
 
 It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 
 
 As clear as such a climate will allow ; 
 
 And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 
 
 To hail her with the apostrophe — "Oh, thou!" 
 
 Of amatory egotism the tuism, 
 
 Which further to explain would be a truism. 
 
 14. 
 
 But lover, poet, or astronomer, 
 Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold. 
 Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her: 
 Great tiioughts we catch from thence (besides a cold 
 Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err) ; 
 Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 
 The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways. 
 And also hearts, if there be truth ia lays. 
 
 !» 
 
PTO XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 301 
 
 15w 
 
 Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
 i For contemplation rather than his pillow : 
 
 The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, 
 ; Let in the rippled sound of the lake's billow 
 
 With all the mystery by midnight caused; 
 ! Below his window waved (of course) a willow; 
 i And he stood gazing out on the cascade 
 I That flash'd and after darken 'd in the shade. 
 
 16. 
 
 Upon his table or his toilet, — tohich 
 '' Of these is not exactly ascertain'd — 
 I (I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 
 jOf nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd,) 
 i A lamp burn'd high, wiiile he leant from a niche, 
 jWhere many a Gothic ornament remain'd, 
 ilnchisell'd stone and painted glass, and all 
 
 jTliat time has left our fathers of their hall. 
 
 j 
 
 I • 17. 
 
 jTlicn, as the night was clear, though cold, he threw 
 iHis chamber-door wide open — and went forth 
 'Into a gallery, of a sombre hue, 
 Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth, 
 lOf knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 
 'As doubtless should be people of high birth. 
 But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 
 Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 
 
 18. 
 
 ( 
 
 ' [The forms of the grim knights and pictured saints 
 Look living in the moon; and as you turn 
 'Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
 |0f your own footsteps — voices from the urn 
 |\ppcar to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 
 Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, 
 IAs if to ask how you can dare to keep 
 
 i |\. vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 
 
 19. 
 
 ^nd the pale smile of beauties in the grave, 
 riie charms of other days, in starlight gleams 
 jlimmer on high; their buried locks still wave 
 \long the canvass; their eyes glance like dreams 
 )n ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 
 5ut death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 
 \ picture is t lie past; even ere its frame 
 ie gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 
 
 20. 
 
 \s Juan mused on mutability, 
 
 )r on his mistress — terms synonymous — 
 
 vo sound, except tlie echo of his sigh, ^/ 
 
 )r step ran sadly through that antique house, 
 
 •V^hen suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 
 
 V supernatural agent — or a mouse, 
 
 »Vhose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
 
 dost people, as it plays along the arras. 
 
 21. 
 
 It was no mouse; butlo! a monk, array 'd 
 In cowl and beads>and dusky garb, appear'd. 
 Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade. 
 With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; 
 His garments only a slight murmur made; 
 He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, 
 But slowly; and as he passed Juan by. 
 Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 
 
 22. 
 
 Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint 
 Of such a spirit in these halls of old, 
 But thought, like most men, there was nothing in't 
 Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, 
 Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint. 
 Which passes ghosts in currency like gold. 
 But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
 And did he see this ? or was it a vapour 2 
 
 23. 
 
 Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd — the thing of air. 
 
 Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t'other place ; 
 
 And Juan gaz'd upon it with a stare, 
 
 Yet could not speak or move; but, on its base 
 
 As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 
 
 Twine like a knot of snakes around his face; 
 
 He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted, 
 
 To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 
 
 24. 
 
 The third time, after a still longer pause. 
 
 The shadow pass'd away — but where? the half 
 
 Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 
 
 To think his vanishing unnatural : 
 
 Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 
 
 Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall. 
 
 Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 
 
 Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 
 
 25. 
 
 He stood — how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
 An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes 
 Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd; 
 Then by degrees rccall'd his energies, 
 And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream, 
 But could not wake; he was, he did surmise. 
 Waking already, and return'd at length 
 Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 
 
 26. 
 
 All there was as he left it .- still his taper 
 Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, 
 Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour; 
 He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 
 Their oflSce; he took up an old newspaper; 
 The paper was right easy to peruse; 
 He read an article the King attacking. 
 And a long eulogy of "Patent Blacking." 
 
302 
 
 I>ON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO XV) 
 
 27. 
 
 Tin's savour'd of this world ; but his hand shook — 
 He shut Ills door, and after having read 
 A paragraph, I think about Home Tooke, 
 Undrcst, and rather slowly went to bed. 
 There,couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, 
 With what he had seen his phantasy he fed, 
 And tliough it was no opiate, slumber crept 
 Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. 
 
 28. 
 
 He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, 
 Pondcr'd upon Ilis visitant or vision, 
 And whether it ought not to be disclosed, 
 At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 
 The more he thought, the more his mind was posed; 
 In the mean time,his valet, whose precision 
 Was great, because his master brook'd no less, 
 Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 
 
 29. 
 
 Hedress'd; and, like young people, he was wont 
 To take some trouble with his toilet, but 
 This morning rather spent less time upon't; 
 Aside his v«ry mirror soon was put ; 
 His curls fell negligently o'er his front. 
 His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut. 
 His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 
 Almost a hair's breadth too much on one side. 
 
 30. 
 
 And when he walk'd dowa into the saloon, 
 He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea. 
 Which he perhaps had not discover'^ soon, 
 Had it not happcn'd scalding hot to be, 
 Which made him have recourse unto his spoon; 
 So much distrait he was, that all could see 
 That something was the matter — Adeline 
 The first — but what she could not well divine. 
 
 31. 
 
 She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale 
 Herself; then hastily look'd down, and mutter'd 
 Something, but what's not stated in my tale. 
 Lord Henry said, his muffin was ill butter'd ; 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fuike play'd with her veil. 
 And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. 
 Aurora Raby, with her large dark eyes, 
 Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. 
 
 32. 
 
 But seeing him all cold and silent still. 
 
 And every body wondering more or less, 
 
 Fair Adtfflne inquired, "if he were ill?" 
 
 He started, and said, "Yes — no — rather — yes." 
 
 The family-physician had great skill. 
 
 And being present, now began to express 
 
 His readiness to feel his pulse and tell 
 
 The cause, but Juan said, "He was quite well." 
 
 33. 
 
 "Quite well; yes; no." — These answers were say sterious 
 And yet his looks appcar'd to sanction both, 
 However they might savour of delirious; 
 Something like illness of a sudden growth 
 Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious. 
 But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 
 To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted 
 It was not the physician that he wanted. 
 
 34. 
 
 Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, 
 
 Also the muffin whereof he complain'd. 
 
 Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate. 
 
 At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd; 
 
 Then ask'd her Grace what news were of theDukcof late 
 
 Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain'd 
 
 With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 
 
 Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 
 
 35. 
 
 Then Henry turn'd to Juan and address'd 
 
 A few words of condolence on his state: 
 
 "You look," quoth he, "as if you had had your rest 
 
 Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 
 
 "What Friar?" said Juan ; and he did his best 
 
 To put the question with an air sedate, 
 
 Or careless; but the cflort was not valid 
 
 To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 
 
 3& 
 
 "Oh ! have you never heard of the Black Friar ? 
 The Spirit of these walls?" — "In truth not 1." 
 "Why Fame — butFame you know's sometimes a liar- 
 Tells an odd story, of which by the by : 
 Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, - 
 Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 
 For such sights, though the tale is half believed. 
 The Friar of late bas not been oft perceived. 
 
 37. 
 
 The last time was — " "I pray," said Adeline — 
 (Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow, 
 And from its context thought she could divine 
 Connections stronger than he chose to avow 
 With this same legend), — "if you but design 
 To jest, you'll choose some other theme just now, 
 Because the present tale has oft been told. 
 And is not much improved by growing old." 
 
 36. 
 
 "Jest !" quoth Milor; "Why, Adeline, you know 
 That we ourselves — 'twas in the honey-moon — 
 Saw — " "Well, no matter, 'twas so long ago ; 
 But, come, I'll set your story to a tune." 
 Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow. 
 She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon 
 As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 
 The air of "'Tvvas a Friar of Orders Gray." 
 
CANTO XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 303 
 
 39. 
 
 "But add the words," cried Henry, "wlueh you made; 
 
 For Adeline is half a poetess," 
 
 Turning round to the rest, he smiling; said. 
 
 Of course the others could not but express 
 
 In courtesy their wish to see display'd 
 
 By one three talents, for there were no less — 
 
 The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once 
 
 Could hardly be united by a dunce. 
 
 After some fascinating hesitation, — 
 
 The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, 
 
 I can't tell why, to this dissimulation — 
 
 Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground 
 
 \i first, then kindling into animation, 
 
 4dded her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 
 
 Vnd sang with much simplicity, — a merit 
 
 Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 
 
 Beware! beware I of the Black Friar, 
 
 Who sitteth by Norman stone. 
 For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 
 
 And his mass of the days that arc go»>c. 
 When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 
 
 Made Norman Church his prey, 
 And expeird the friars, one friar still 
 
 Would not be driven away. 
 
 Though he came in his might, with KingHenry's right. 
 
 To turn churcli-lands to lay. 
 With sword in hand, and torch to light 
 
 Their walls, if they said nay, 
 A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd. 
 
 And he did not seem form'd of clay, 
 For he's seen in the porch, and he's seen in the chnrcb 
 
 Though he is not seen by day. 
 
 And wlicthcr for good, or whether for ill, 
 
 1 It is not mine to say : 
 
 jBut still with the house of Amundeville 
 
 He abideth night and day. 
 By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis said, 
 c flits on the bridal eve ; 
 
 id 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death 
 
 He comes — but not to grieve. 
 
 « 
 
 When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn, 
 
 And when augl)t is to befall 
 fhat ancient line, in tiie pale moonshine 
 
 He walks from hall to hall, 
 lis form you may trace, but not his face, 
 
 'Tis shadow'd by his cowl; 
 iut his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 
 
 And they seem of a parted soul, n/ " 
 
 But beware! beware! ofthc Black Friar, 
 
 He still retains his sway. 
 For he is yet the church's heir 
 
 Whoever may be the lay; 
 Amundeville is lord by day, 
 
 But the monk is lord by night; 
 Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 
 
 To question that friar's right. 
 
 Say nought to him as he walks the hall, 
 
 And he'll say nought to you ; 
 He sweeps along in his dusky pall. 
 
 As o'er the grass the dew. 
 Then grammercy! for the Black Friar; 
 
 Heaven sain him! fair or foul, 
 And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 
 
 Let ours be for his soul. 
 
 4U 
 
 The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires . 
 Died from the touch tliat kindled them to sound ; 
 And the pause follow'd, which, when song expires, 
 Pervades a moment those who listen round; 
 And then of course the circle much admires, 
 Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound. 
 The tones, the feeling, and the execution, 
 To the performer's diffident confusion. 
 
 42. 
 
 Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 
 As if she rated such accomplishment 
 As the mere pastime of an idle day, 
 Pursued an instant for her own content. 
 Would now and then as 'twere without display, 
 Yet with display in fact, at times relent 
 To such performances with haughty smile. 
 To show she cmdd, if it were worth )ii:x while. 
 
 43. 
 
 Now this (but we will whisper it aside) 
 Was — pardon the pedantic illustration — 
 Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride, 
 As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 
 Deeming the sage would be much mortified, 
 Or thrown into a philosophic passion, 
 For a spoil'd carpet — but the "Attic Bee" 
 Was much consoled by Us own repartee. 
 
 44, 
 
 Tims Adeline would throw into the shade 
 
 (By doing easily whene'er she chose 
 
 What dilettanti do with vast parade) 
 
 Their sort oi half -profession: for it grows 
 
 To something like this when too oft display'd. 
 
 And that it is so, every body knows. 
 
 Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T'other, 
 
 Show ofiF — to please their company or mother. 
 
304 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO X 
 
 46. 
 
 Oh ! the long evenings of duets and trios ! 
 The admirations and the speculations; 
 The "Mamma Mias!" and tlie "Amor Mios!" 
 The "Tanti palpitis" on such occasions: 
 Tne "Lasciamis," and quavering "Addios!" 
 Amongst our own most musical of nations; 
 With "Tu mi cliamases" from Portingale, 
 To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail. 
 
 46. 
 
 In Babylon's biavuras — as the home 
 
 Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Grey Highlands, 
 
 That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 
 
 O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 
 
 The calentures of music which o'ercome 
 
 A.I1 mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh lands, 
 
 No more to be beheld but in such visions, — 
 
 Was Adeline well versed, as compositions. 
 
 47. 
 
 She also-liad & twilight tinge of "Blue," 
 
 Could write rhymes, and compose more than she wrote; 
 
 Made epigrams occasionally too 
 
 Upon her friends, as every body ought. 
 
 But still from that sublimer azure hue. 
 
 So much the present dye, she was remote; 
 
 Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, 
 
 And, what was worse, was not ashamed to show it. 
 
 48. 
 
 Aurora — since we are touching upon taste, 
 
 Which now-a-days is the thermometer 
 
 By whose degrees all characters are class'd — 
 
 Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 
 
 The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste 
 
 Had more of her existence, for in her 
 
 There was a depth of feeling to embrace 
 
 Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as space. 
 
 49. 
 
 Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace, 
 The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, 
 If she had any, was upon her face, 
 And that was of a fascinating kind. 
 A little turn for mischief you might trace 
 Also thereon, — but that's not much; we find 
 Few females without some such gentle leaven, 
 For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. 
 
 60. 
 
 I have not heard she was at all poetic, 
 
 Though once she was seen reading the "Bath Guide," 
 
 And "Hayley's Triumphs," which she deem'd pathetic, 
 
 Because, she said, her temper had been tried 
 
 So much, the bard had really been prophetic 
 
 Of what she had gone through with, — since a bride. 
 
 But of all verse, what most insured her praise 
 
 Were sonnets to herself, or "bouts rim^s." 
 
 61. 
 
 'Twere difficult to say what was the object 
 Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 
 To bear on what appear'd to her the subject 
 Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 
 Perhaps she merely had the simple project 
 To laugh him out of his supposed dismay; 
 Perhaps she might viish to confirm him in it. 
 Though why I caunot say — at least this minute. 
 
 62. 
 
 But so far the immediate effect 
 Was to restore him to his self-propriety, 
 A thing quite necessary to the elect. 
 Who wish to take the tone of their society: 
 In which you cannot be too circumspect, 
 Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, 
 But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy, 
 On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 
 
 63. 
 
 And therefore Juan now began to rally 
 
 His spirits, and without more explanation, 
 
 To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
 
 Her Grace too also seized the same occasion, 
 
 With various similar remarks to tally, 
 
 But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration | 
 
 Of this same mystic Friar's curious doings, i 
 
 About the present family's deaths and wooings. ! 
 
 64. 
 
 Of these few could say more than has been said; 
 They pass'd, as such things do, for superstition 
 With some, while others, who had more in dread 
 The theme, half credited the strange tradition ; 
 And much was talk'd on all sides on that head ; 
 But Juan, when cross-question'd on the >ision. 
 Which some supposed (though he had notavow'd it)| 
 Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. ' 
 
 66. 
 
 And then, the mid-day having worn to one, 
 The company prepared to separate : 
 Some to their several pastimes, or to none; 
 Some wondering 'twas so early, some so late. 
 There was a goodly match too, to be run 
 Between some greyhounds on my Lord's estate, 
 And a young race-horse of old pedigree, 
 Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see. 
 
 66. 
 
 There was a picture-dealer who had brought 
 A special Titian, warranted original. 
 So precious that it was not to be bought. 
 Though princes the possessor were besieging all. 
 The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought 
 The civil list (he deigns to accept, obliging all 
 His subjects by his gracious acceptation) 
 Too stftinty, in these times of low taxation. 
 
CANTO XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 305 
 
 67. 
 
 But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, — 
 The friend of artists, if not arts, — the owner. 
 With motives the most classical and pure, 
 So that he would liave been tlie very donor. 
 Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 
 So much he deem'd his patronage an honour, 
 Had brought the Capo-d'opera, not for sale, 
 ! Bat for his judgment, — never known to fail. 
 
 58. 
 
 : There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 
 i Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, [thick, 
 
 Brought to survey these grey walls, which, tliougii so 
 Might have from time acquired some slight defect; 
 ; Who, after rummaging the abbey through thick 
 j And thin, produced a plan, whereby to erect 
 I New buildings of correctest conformation, 
 
 iAnd throw down old, which he call'd restoration. 
 59. 
 
 I The cost would be a trifle — an "old song" 
 I Set to some thousands ('tis'the usual burthen 
 i Of that same tune, wnen people hum it long) — 
 i The price would speedily repay its worth in 
 i An edifice no less sublime than strong, 
 By which Lord Henry's good taste would go Ibrtli in 
 Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, 
 For Gothic daring shown in English money. 
 
 60. 
 
 [There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
 'Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase; 
 Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage. 
 And one on tithes, which sure arc Discord's torches. 
 Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage, 
 "Untying" squires "to fight against the churches;" 
 There was a prize-ox, a prize-pig, and ploughman, 
 For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 
 
 61. 
 
 rhere were two poachers caught in a stecl-trap 
 leady for jail, their place of convalescence ; 
 There was a country-girl in a close cap 
 Ind scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, since - 
 Since — since — in youth, I had the sad mishap 
 Jut luckily I have paid few parish-fees since) 
 ^iiat scarlet cloak, alas ! unclos'd with rigour, 
 'resents the problem of a double figure. 
 
 1^ 
 
 62. 
 
 reel within a bottle is a mystery, 
 •ne can't tell how it e'er got in or out, 
 herefore the present piece of natural history, 
 leave to those who are fond of solving doubt, 
 nd merely state, though not for the Consistory, 
 ord Henry was a Justice, and that Scout, 
 he Constable, beneath a warrant's banner, 
 'ad bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. 
 
 63. 
 
 Now Justices of peace must judge all pieces 
 Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 
 And morals of the country from caprices 
 Of those who have not a licence for the same; 
 And of all things, excepting tithes and leases, 
 Perhaps these are most difficult to tame: * 
 
 Preserving partridges and pretty wenches 
 Are puzzles to the most precautious benches,* 
 
 64. 
 
 The present culprit was extremely pale. 
 
 Pale as if painted so; her cheek being red 
 
 By nature, as in higher dames less hale 
 
 'Tis white, at least when they just rise from bed. 
 
 Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail. 
 
 Poor soul ! for she was country-born and bred. 
 
 And knew no better in her immorality 
 
 Than to wax white — for blushes are for quality. 
 
 65. 
 
 Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye 
 Had gather'd a large tear into its corner, 
 Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry, 
 For she was not a sentimental mourner, 
 Parading all her sensibility, 
 Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner. 
 But stood in trembling, patient tribulation 
 To be call'd up for her examination. 
 
 66. 
 
 Of course these groups were scattcr'd here and there, 
 
 Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
 
 The lawyers in the study; and in air 
 
 The prize-pig, ploughman, poachers; the men sent 
 
 From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 
 
 Both busy (as a general in his tent 
 
 Writing despatches) in their several stations. 
 
 Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 
 
 67. 
 
 But this poor girl was left in the great hall, 
 While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 
 Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the "small") 
 A mighty mug of moral double ale : 
 She waited until Justice could recall 
 Its kind attentions to their proper palo, 
 To name a thing in nomenclature rather 
 Perplexing for most virgins — a child's father. 
 
 68. 
 
 You see here was enough of occupation 
 For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses. 
 There was much bustle too and preparation 
 Below stairs on the score of second courses, 
 Because, as suits their rank and situation. 
 Those who in counties have great land-resources, 
 Have "public-days," when all men may carouse, 
 Though not exactly what's call'd "open house," 
 
 20 
 
306 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO XV 
 
 But once a week or fortnight, uninvited 
 (Thus we translate a general invitation) 
 All country-gentlemen, esquired or knighted, 
 May drop in without eards, and take their station 
 At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
 With fashionable wines and conversation; 
 And, as the isthmus of the grand connection, 
 Talk o'er themselves, the past and next election. 
 
 70. 
 
 Lord Henry was a great eiectioneerer. 
 Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit. 
 But county-contests cost him rather dearer, 
 Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbit 
 Had English influence, in the self-same sphere here; 
 His son, the Honourable Dick Dicedrabbit, 
 Was member for the "other Interest" (meaning 
 The same self-interest, with a different leaning). 
 
 71. 
 
 Courteous and cautious therefore in his county. 
 
 He was all things to all men, and dispensed 
 
 To some civility, to others bounty. 
 
 And promises to all — which last commenced 
 
 To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
 
 Not calculating how much they condensed ; 
 
 But what with keeping some, and breaking others. 
 
 His word had the same value as another's. 
 
 72. 
 
 A friend to freedom and freeholders — yet 
 No less a friend to government — he held» 
 That he exactly the just medium hit 
 'Twixt place and patriotism — albeit compcll'd, 
 Such was his Sovereign's pleasure (though unfit, 
 He added modestly, when rebels rail'd), 
 To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd, 
 But that with them all law would be demolish'd. 
 
 73. 
 
 He was "free to confess" — (whence comes this phrase? 
 
 Is't English? No — 'tis only parliamentary) 
 
 That innovation's spirit novv-a-days 
 
 Had made more progress than for the last century. 
 
 He would not tread a factious path to praise. 
 
 Though for the public weal disposed to venture high; 
 
 As for his place, he could but say this of it, 
 
 That the fatigue was greater than the profit. 
 
 74. 
 
 Heaven, and his friends, knew that private life 
 Had ever been his sole and whole ambition; 
 But could he quit his king in times of strife. 
 Which threaten'd the whole country with perdition? 
 When demagogues would with a butcher's knife 
 Cut through and through (oh! damnable incision !) 
 The Gordian or the Gcordi-an knot, whose strings 
 Have tied together Commons, Lords, and Kings. 
 
 75. 
 
 Sooner "come place into the civil list 
 
 And champion him to the utmost" — he would keep it, 
 
 Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd: 
 
 Profit he cared not for, let otiiers reap it; 
 
 But should the day come when place ceased to exist, 
 
 The country would have far more cause to weep it ; 
 
 For how oould it go on? Explain who can ! 
 
 He gloried in the name of Englishman. 
 
 76. 
 
 He was as independent — ay, much more — 
 Than those who were not paid for independence. 
 As common soldiers, or a common — shore. 
 Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 
 O'er the irregulars in lust or gore. 
 Who do not give professional attendance. 
 Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 
 To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 
 
 77. 
 
 All this (save the last stanza) Henry said, 
 
 And thought. I say no more — I've said too much ; 
 
 For all of us have either heard or read 
 
 Of — or upon the hustings — some slight such 
 
 Hints from the independent heart or head 
 
 Of the oflRcial candidate. I'll touch 
 
 No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung, 
 
 And grace is said j the grace I should have sung — 
 
 78. 
 
 But I'm too late, and therefore must make play. 
 'Twas a great banquet, such as Albion old 
 Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 
 Were something very glorious to behold. 
 But 'twas a public feast and public day, — 
 Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold. 
 Great plenty, much formality, small cheer. 
 And every body out of their own sphere. 
 
 I 
 
 79. 
 
 The squires familiarly formal, and j jj 
 
 My lords and ladies proudly condescending; j 
 
 The very servants puzzling how to hand ..igj 
 
 Their plates — without it might be too much bending 
 From their high places, by the sideboard's stand — 
 Yet like their masters fearful of offending; 
 For any deviation from the graces 
 Might cost both men and master too — their places. ■<', 
 
 80. 
 
 There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 
 Whose hounds ne'er err'd , nor greyhounds dcign'd t 
 Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen [lurcl 
 
 Earliest to rise, and last to quit tlie search 
 Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 
 There were some massy members of the church, 
 Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches, 
 And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. 
 
tfANTO XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 307 
 
 81. 
 
 There were some country-wags too, — and alas ! 
 Some exiles from the town, who had been driven 
 To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 
 And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven. 
 And lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 
 I sate next that o'erwhelming son of Heaven, 
 The very powerful parson, Peter Pith, 
 The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with. 
 
 82. 
 
 i I knew him in his livelier London days, 
 I A brilliant diner-out, though but a curate ; 
 I And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
 I Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 
 ! (Oh, Providence! how wondrous are thy ways, 
 j Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate?) 
 j Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln, 
 A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on. 
 
 83. 
 
 His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes; 
 Bat both were thrown away amongst the fens; 
 !For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 
 jNo longer ready ears and short-hand pens 
 Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax : 
 The poor priest was reduced to common-sense, 
 ;0r to coarse efforts very loud and long, 
 To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng. 
 
 84. 
 
 jThere is a difference, says the song, "between 
 'S. beggar and a queen," or was (of late 
 The latter worse used of the two we've seen — 
 |But we'll say nothing of affairs of state) 
 i difference "'twixt a bishop and a dean," 
 \. difference between crockery-ware and plate, 
 Vs between English beef and Spartan broth — 
 Vnd yet great heroes have been bred by both. 
 
 85. 
 
 latof all nature's discrepancies, none 
 Jpon the whole is greater than the difference 
 beheld between the country and the town, 
 )f which the latter merits every preference 
 'rom those who have few resources of their own, 
 j^nd only think, or act, or feel with reference 
 1^0 some small plan of interest or ambition — 
 
 jJoth which are limited to no condition. 
 
 I 
 
 86. 
 
 itut "en avant \" The light loves languish o'er 
 |<ong banquets and too many guests, although 
 slight repast makes people love much more, 
 iacchus and Ceres being, as we know, 
 'ven from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
 Vith vivifying Venus, who doth owe 
 these the invention of champagne and trudlcs: 
 emperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles 
 
 87. 
 
 Dully past o'er the dinner of the day; 
 
 And Juan took his place, he knew not where. 
 
 Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, 
 
 And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair; 
 
 Though knives and forks chang'd round as in a fray, 
 
 He seem'd unconscious of all passing there, 
 
 Till some one, with a groan, express'd a wish 
 
 (Unheeded twice) to have a fin offish. 
 
 88. 
 
 On which, at the third asking of the banns. 
 
 He started; and perceiving smiles around 
 
 Broadening to grins, he colour'd more than once, 
 
 And hastily — as nothing can confound 
 
 A wise man more than laughter from a dunce — 
 
 Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound. 
 
 And with such hurry, that ere he could curb it, 
 
 He had paid his neighbour's prayer with half a turbot. 
 
 This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd. 
 The supplicator being an amateur ; 
 But others, who were left with scarce a third. 
 Were angry — as they well might, to be sure. 
 They wonder'd how a young man so absurd 
 Lord Henry at his table should endure; 
 And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
 Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 
 
 00. 
 
 They little knew, or might have sympathised. 
 That he the night before had seen a ghost ; 
 A prologue which but slightly harmonised 
 With the substantial company engross'd 
 By matter, and so much materialised. 
 That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 
 Of two things — how (the question rather odd is) 
 Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 
 
 9L 
 
 But what confused him more than smile or stare 
 
 From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around. 
 
 Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air, 
 
 Especially as he had been renown'd 
 
 For some vivacity among the fair. 
 
 Even in the country-circle's narrow bound — 
 
 (For little things upon my Lord's estate 
 
 Were good small-talk for others still less great) — 
 
 92. 
 
 Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his 
 And something like a smile upon her cheek- 
 Now this he really rather took amiss : 
 In those who rarely smile, their smiles bespeak 
 A strong external motive; and in this 
 Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique 
 Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 
 Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles, 
 
308 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO XV 
 
 9.3. 
 
 'Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 
 
 Indicative of some surprise and pity; 
 
 And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 
 
 Wiuch was not very wise and still less witty, 
 
 Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 
 
 A most important outwork of the city — 
 
 As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
 
 By last night's ghost been driven from their defences. 
 
 94. 
 
 But what wa.4 bad, she did not blush in turn. 
 Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the contrary ; 
 Her aspect was as usual, still — not stern — 
 And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, 
 Yet grew a little pale — with what? concern ? 
 I know not : but her colour ne'er was high — 
 Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and always clear 
 As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 
 
 95. 
 
 But Adeline was occupied by fame 
 
 Tliis day; and watching, witching, condescending 
 
 To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, 
 
 And dignity with courtesy so blending, 
 
 As all must blend whose part it is to aim 
 
 (Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
 
 At their lord's, son's, or similar connection's 
 
 Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 
 
 96. 
 
 Though this was most expedient on tlie whole, 
 
 And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 
 
 On Adeline while playing her grand role. 
 
 Which she went through as tliougli it were a dance 
 
 (Betraying only now and then her soul 
 
 By a look scarce perceptibly askance 
 
 Of weariness or scorn), began to feel 
 
 Some doubt how much of Adeline was real; 
 
 97. 
 
 So well she acted, all and every part 
 
 By turns — with that vivacious versatility. 
 
 Which many people take for want of heart. 
 
 They err — 'tis merely what is call'd mobility, 
 
 A thing of temperament and not of art, 
 
 Thougli seeming so, from its supposed facility ; 
 
 And false — though true ; for surely they're sincerest, 
 
 Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. 
 
 98. 
 
 This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, 
 Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never; 
 But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers. 
 Little that's great, but much of what is clever; 
 Most orators, but very few financiers. 
 Though all Exchequer-Chancellors endeavour, 
 Of late years, tf» dispense with Cocker's rigours, 
 And grow quite figurative with their figures. 
 
 99. 
 
 The poets of arithmetic are they 
 Who, though they prove not two and two to be 
 Five, as they would do in a modest way, 
 Have plainly made it out that four are three. 
 Judging by what they take, and what they pay. 
 The Sinking-Fund's unfathomable sea, 
 That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
 The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 
 
 100. 
 
 While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 
 The fair Fitz-Fuike seem'd very much at ease; 
 Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces, 
 Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize 
 The ridicules of people in all places — 
 That honey of jour fashionable bees — 
 And store it up for mischievous enjoyment ; 
 And this at present was her kind employment. 
 
 101. 
 
 However, the day closed, as days must close; 
 The evening also waned — and coflfee came. 
 Each carriage was announced, and Ladies rose, 
 And curtsying oft", as curtsies country-dame. 
 Retired: with most unfashionable bows 
 Their docile esquires also did the same, 
 Delighted with the dinner and their host, 
 But with the Lady Adeline the most. 
 
 102. 
 
 Some praised her beauty ; others her great grace ; 
 The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity 
 Was obvious in each feature of her face, 
 Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity. 
 Yes : She was truly worthy her high place! 
 No one could envy her deserved prosperity; 
 And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity ! 
 Draperied her form with curious felicity ! 
 
 103. 
 
 Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises. 
 
 By an impartial indemnification 
 
 For all her past exertion and soft phrases, 
 
 In a most edifying conversation, 
 
 Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces, 
 
 And families, even to the last relation; 
 
 Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, 
 
 And truculent distortion of their tresses. 
 
 104. 
 
 True, she said little — 'twas the rest that broke 
 
 Forth into universal epigram : 
 
 But then 'twas to the purpose what she Sf>oke: 
 
 Like Addison's "faint praise," so wont to damn, 
 
 Her own but served to set oft" every joke, 
 
 As music chimes in with a raolodrame. 
 
 How sweet the task to shield an absent friend! 
 
 I ask but this of mine, to — not defend. 
 
Hi CANTO XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 309 
 
 105. 
 
 There were but two exceptions to this keen 
 i Skirmish of wits o'er the departed; one, 
 • Aurora, with her pure and placid mien; 
 1 And Juan too, in general behind none 
 I In gay remark on what he had heard or seen, 
 I Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone; 
 } In vain he heard the others rail or rally, 
 
 He would not join tbem in a single sally. 
 
 ! ^^• 
 
 I'Tis true he saw Aurora look as though 
 
 I She approved his silence; she perhaps mistook 
 
 j Its motive for that charity we owe 
 
 [But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 
 
 [Further; it might or it might not be so. 
 
 |But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 
 
 Observing little in his reverie. 
 
 Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 
 
 [ri 
 
 107. 
 
 he ghost at least had done him this much good 
 In making liim as silent as a ghost. 
 If in the circumstances which ensued 
 He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. 
 And certainly Aurora had renew'd 
 jln him some feelings he bad lately lost 
 jOr harden'd; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
 [Are so divine, that I must deem them real : — 
 
 108. 
 
 jThc love of higher things and better days; 
 The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
 iOf what is call'd the world and the world's ways ; 
 The moments when we gather from a glance 
 jMore joy than from all future pride or praise, 
 Which kindle manhood^ but can ne'er entrance 
 The heart in an existence of its own, ^/ 
 
 Of which another's bosom is the zone. 
 
 109. 
 
 Who would not sigh ^4i at r«v KvSegetav! 
 
 jlhat hath a memory, or that had a heart? 
 
 Alas! her star must wane like that of Dian ; 
 
 Way fades on ray, as years on years depart. 
 
 iVnacreon only had the soul to tic an 
 
 lUnwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart 
 
 JDf Eros ; but, though thou hast play'd ns many tricks, 
 
 5till we respect thee, "Alma Venus Genetrix!" 
 
 110. 
 
 And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 
 [Heaving between tliis world and worlds boyond, 
 jOon Juan, when the midnight-hour of pillows 
 Arrived, retired to his : but to despond 
 Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 
 Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 
 Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banisit sleep, 
 And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep, 
 
 111. 
 
 The night was as before; he was undrcst. 
 Saving his night-gown, which is an undress; 
 Completely "^ans culotte," and without vest ; 
 In short, he hardly could be clothed with less ; 
 But, apprehensive of his spectral guest, 
 He sate, with feelings awkward to express 
 (By those who have not had such visitations), 
 Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 
 
 112. 
 
 And not in vain he listen'd — Hush ! what 's that ? 
 I see — I see — Ah, no ! — 'tis not — j-ot 'tis — 
 Ye powers! it is the — the — the — Pooh ! tliecaii 
 The devil may take that stealthy pace of his! 
 So like a spiritual pit-a-pat. 
 Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
 Gliding the first time to a rendezvous. 
 And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 
 
 113. 
 
 Again — what is 't? The wind ? No, no, — this time 
 
 It is the sable Friar as before. 
 
 With awful footsteps reguJar as rhyme, 
 
 Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
 
 Again, through shadows of the night sublime, 
 
 When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
 
 Thn starry darkness round her like a girdle 
 
 Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood curdle. 
 
 114. 
 
 A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass. 
 
 Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter 
 
 Like showers which on the midnight-gusts will pass, 
 
 Sounding like very supernatural water, L-""^' 
 
 Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas ! 
 
 For iramaterialisra 's a serious matter; 
 
 So that even those whose faith is the most great 
 
 In souls immortal, shun tbem t^tc-k-tete. 
 
 115. 
 
 Were his eyes open? — Yes! and his mouth <oo. 
 Surprise has this effect, — to make one dumb, 
 Yet leave the gate which Eloquence slips throiigli 
 As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
 Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew. 
 Tremendous to a mortal tympanum : 
 His eyes were open, and (as was before 
 Stated) his mouth. What open'd next ? — The door. 
 
 116. 
 
 It open'd with a most infernal creak, 
 
 Like that of hell. "Lasciate ogni speranza, 
 
 Voi che entrate !" The hinge seem'd to speak, 
 
 Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanza ; 
 
 Or — but all words upon such themes are weak: ^■- 
 
 A single shade 's suflicient to entrance a y>^ 
 
 Hero — for what is substance to a spirit ? 
 
 Or how is't matter trembles to come near it? 
 
310 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO : 
 
 117. 
 
 The door flew wide, not swiftly — but, as fly 
 The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 
 And then swung back; nor close — but stood awry, 
 Half letting in long shadows on the light, 
 Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, 
 For he had two, both tolerably bright, — 
 And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 
 The sable Friar in his solemn hood. 
 
 118. 
 
 Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
 The nig-ht before; but, being sick of shaking. 
 He first inclined to think he had been mistaken. 
 And then to be ashamed of such mistaking ; 
 His own internal ghost began to awaken 
 Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking — 
 Hinting, that soul and body on the whole 
 Were odds against a disembodied soul. 
 
 119. 
 
 And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce ; 
 And he arose, advanced, — the shade retreated ; 
 But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 
 Follow'd ; his veins no longer cold, but heated, 
 Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, 
 At whatsoever risk of being defeated : 
 The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until 
 Hereach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone-still. 
 
 120. 
 
 Juan put forth one arm — Eternal Powers ! 
 
 It touch'd no soul, nor body, but the wall, 
 
 On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers 
 
 Chequcr'd with all the tracery of the hall : 
 
 He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers 
 
 When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. 
 
 How odd, a single hobgoblin's non-entity 
 
 Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity . 
 
 121. 
 
 But still the shade remain'd; the blue eyes glared. 
 
 And rather variably for stony death ; 
 
 Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared — 
 
 The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath. 
 
 A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd ; 
 
 A red lip, with two rows of pearl beneath, 
 
 Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud 
 
 The moon peep'd, just escaped from a gray cloud. 
 
 122. 
 
 And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
 His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder ! 
 It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust. 
 Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. 
 He found, as people on most trials must, 
 That he had made at first a silly blunder. 
 And that in his confusion he had caught 
 Only the wall instead of what he sought. 
 
 123. 
 
 The ghost, if ghost it were, secni'd a sweet soul. 
 As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 
 A dimpled chin, a neck ')f ivory, stole 
 Forth into something much like flesh and blood ; 
 Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, 
 And they reveal'd (alas! that e'er they should !) 
 In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk. 
 The phantom of her frolic Grace — Fitz-Fuike! 
 
311 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 • Drow 
 
 HE morning-watch was come; the ves 
 Her course, and gently made her liquic 
 The cloven billow flash'd from oflf her pro< 
 In furrows form'd by tliat majestic plough; 
 The waters with their world were all before ; 
 Behind, the South Sea's many an islet-shore. 
 The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 
 Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
 The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
 5wam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
 The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
 Vnd lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
 The sail resumed its lately-shadow'd white, 
 ^nd the wind flutter'd with a freshening fligiit; 
 The purpling ocean owns the coming Sun -- 
 5ut, ere he break, a deed is to be done. 
 
 The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 
 iecure in those by whom the watch was kept: 
 lis dreams were of Old England's welcome shore, 
 >f toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er; 
 [is name was added to the glorious roll 
 If those who search the storm-surrounded pole. 
 
 he worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure, 
 
 nd why should not his slumber be secure? 
 
 la^! his deck was trod by unwilling feet, 
 
 nd wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet; 
 
 oung hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle, 
 C^here summer-years and summer-women smile; 
 |[en without country, who, too long estranged, 
 fad found no native home, or found it changed, 
 Ind, half-uncivilized, preferr'd the cave 
 
 f some soft savage to the uncertain wave; 
 
 lie gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd; 
 
 lie wood without a path but where they will'd ; 
 
 ihe field o'er which promiscuous Plenty pour'd 
 
 er horn; the equal land without a lord ; 
 
 he wish — wliich ages have not yet subdued 
 
 1 man — to have no master save his mood; 
 
 jhe earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold, 
 
 The glowing sun and produce all its gold; 
 
 The freedom which can call each grot a home; ^ 
 
 The general garden, where all steps may roam. 
 
 Where Nature owns a nation as her child, 
 
 Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild; 
 
 Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know ; 
 
 Their unexploring navy, the canoe; 
 
 Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase; 
 
 Their strangest sight, an European face: — 
 
 Such was the country which these strangers yearn'd 
 
 To see again — a sight they dearly earn'd. 
 
 Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate ! 
 
 Awake! awake! Alas! it is too late! 
 
 Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 
 Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. 
 Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast, 
 The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest; 
 Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command 
 The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand; 
 That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
 Its desperate escape from duty's path, 
 Glares round thee, in the scarce-believing eyes 
 Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice; 
 For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, 
 Unless he drain the wine of passion — rage. 
 
 In vain, not silenced by the eye of death, 
 Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath : 
 They come not; they are few, and, overawed, 
 Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud. 
 In vain thou dost demand the cause; a curse 
 Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 
 Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade. 
 Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid. 
 The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast 
 In hands as stcel'd to do the deadly rest. 
 Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming, "Fire !" 
 But they who pitied not could yet admire; 
 Some lurking remnant of their former awe 
 
312 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 Restrain'd them longer than their broken law ; 
 They would not dip their souls at once in blood, 
 But left thee to the mercies of the flood. 
 
 "Hoist out the boat I" was now the leader's cry ; 
 And who dare answer "No" to mutiny, 
 In the first dawning of the drunken hour, 
 The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power? 
 The boat Is lower'd with all the haste of hate, 
 With its slight plank between thee and thy fate; 
 Her only cargo such a scant supply 
 As promises the death their hands deny; 
 And just enough of water and of bread 
 To keep, some days, the dying from the dead: 
 Some cordage, canvass, sails, and lines, and twine, 
 But treasures all to hermits of the brine. 
 Were added after, to the earnest prayer 
 Of those who saw no hope save sea and air; 
 And last, that trembling vassal of the pole. 
 The feeling compass, navigation's soul. 
 
 And now the self-elected chief finds time 
 
 To stun the first sensation of his crime. 
 
 And raise it in his followers — "Ho ! the bowl !" 
 
 Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 
 
 "Brandy for heroes!" Burke could once exclaim — 
 
 No doubt a liquid path to epic fame; 
 
 And such the new-born heroes found it here. 
 
 And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer. 
 
 "Huzza! for Olaheite !" was the cry; 
 
 How strange such shouts from sons of mutiny ! 
 
 The gentle island, and the genial soil. 
 
 The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil, 
 
 The courteous manners but from nature caught, 
 
 The wealth unhoarded, and the love unbought; 
 
 Could these have charms for rudest sea-boys, driven 
 
 Before the mast by every wind of heaven ? 
 
 And now, even now prepared with others' woes 
 
 To earn mild virtue's vain desire — repose ? 
 
 Alas! such is our nature! all but aim 
 
 At the same end, by pathways not the same; 
 
 Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name, 
 
 Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame, 
 
 Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 
 
 Tlian aught we know beyond our little day. 
 
 Yet still there whispers the small voice within. 
 
 Heard through gain's silence, and o'er glory's din: 
 
 Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 
 
 Man's conscience is the oracle of God! 
 
 The launch is crowded with the faithful few 
 Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew: 
 But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
 Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
 And view'd their Captain's fate with piteous eyes; 
 While others scoflTd his augur'd miseries, 
 Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail, 
 And the slight bark, so laden and so frail 
 The tender nautilus who steers his prow, 
 The sea-born sailor of his shell-canoe, 
 The ocean-mab, the fairy of the sea, 
 
 Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free ! 
 He, when the lightning-wing'd tornados sweep 
 The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — 
 And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
 Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. 
 
 When all was now prepared, the vessel clear. 
 Which hail'd her master in the mutineer — 
 A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
 Show'd the vain pity which but irritates; 
 Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye, 
 And told, in signs, repentant sympathy; 
 Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, 
 Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth. 
 But, soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn, 
 Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 
 Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward boy 
 His chief had cherish'd only to destroy. 
 And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
 Exclaim'd, "Depart at once! delay is death!" 
 Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all: 
 In that last m^|^t could a word recall 
 Remorse foa^Hplack deed as yet half-done, 
 And, what he hid from many, shew'd to one: 
 When Bligh, in stern reproach, demanded where 
 Was now his grateful sense of former care? 
 Where all liis hopes to see his name aspire 
 And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher ? 
 His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
 "'Tis that! 'tis that! I am in hell! in hell !" 
 No more he said ; but, urging to the bark 
 His chief, commits him to his fragile ark : 
 These the sole accents from his tongue that fell, 
 But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 
 
 The arctic sun rose broad above the wave; 
 The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cav 
 As on the ^olian harp, his fitful wings 
 Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean-strings. 
 With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff 
 Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen diff, 
 Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 
 Tfiat boat and ship shall never meet again ! 
 But 'tis not mine to tell their tale of grief, 
 Their constant peril, and their scant relief; 
 Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ; 
 Their manly courage, even when deem'd in vain; 
 The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 
 Known to his mother in the skeleton ; 
 The ills that lessen'd still their little store. 
 And starved even hunger till he wrung no more; 
 The varying frowns and favours of the deep, 
 That now almost engulphs, then leaves to creep 
 With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 
 The tide, that yields reluctant to the strong; 
 The incessant fever of that arid thirst 
 Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 
 Above their naked bones, and feels deliglit 
 In the cold drenching of the stormy night. 
 And from the outspread canvass gladly wrings 
 A drop to moisten life's all-gasping springs; 
 
 e; 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 313 
 
 The savage foe escaped, to seek again 
 
 More hospitable shelter from the uiain; 
 
 The ghastly spectres vviiieh were doom'd at last 
 
 To tell as true a tale of dangers past, 
 
 As ever the dark annals of tiie deep 
 
 Disclosed for man to dread or womaa weep. 
 
 Wc leave them to their fate, but not unknown 
 Nor unrcdrest ! Revenge may have her own : 
 Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 
 And injured navies urge their broken laws. 
 Pursue we on iiis track the mutineer, 
 Wliom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. 
 Wide o'er the wave — away ! away ! away ! 
 Once more his eyes sliall hail the welcome bay; 
 Once more the happy shores without a law 
 Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw; 
 Nature, and nature's goddess — Woman — woos 
 To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse; 
 Where all partake the earth without dispute, 
 And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit ; 
 
 Where none contest the fields, the woods, the streams; 
 
 The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams, 
 
 Inhabits or inhabited the shore, 
 
 Till Europe taught them better than before, 
 
 Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, 
 
 But left her vices also to their heirs. 
 
 Away with this! behold them as they were. 
 
 Do good with nature, or with nature err. 
 
 "Huzza! for Otaheite!" was the cry. 
 
 As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 
 
 The breeze springs up; the lately flapping sail 
 
 Extends its arch before the growing gale; 
 
 In swifter ripples stream aside the seas, 
 
 Which her bold bow flings ofivvith dashing ease. 
 
 Thus Argo plough'd the Euxine's virgin foam; 
 
 But those she wafted still look'd back to home — 
 
 These spurn their country with their rebel bark. 
 
 And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 
 
 And yet they seek to nestle with the dove, 
 
 And tame their fiery spirits down to love. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai, 
 
 When summer's sun went down the coral bay! 
 
 Come, let us to the islet's softest shade. 
 
 And hear the warbling birds! the damsels said: 
 
 The wood-dove from the forest-depth shall coo. 
 
 Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo: 
 
 We'll cull the flowers that grow above the dead, 
 
 For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head; 
 
 And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 
 
 The sweet moon glancing through the tooa-tree. 
 
 The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 
 
 Shall sadly please us as we lean below; 
 
 Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 
 
 Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, 
 
 Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. 
 
 How beautiful are tiiese ! how happy they, 
 
 Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives. 
 
 Steal to look down where nought but Ocean strives ! 
 
 Even he too loves at times tlie blue lagoon, 
 
 \nd smoothes his ruffled mane beneath the moon. 
 
 Yes — from the sepulchre we'll gather flowers, 
 Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers. 
 Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, 
 Then lay our limbs along the tender turf, 
 And, wet and sliining from the sportive toil, 
 Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil. 
 And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave. 
 And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. 
 But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woos us back, 
 
 The sound of mats is heard along oar track ; 
 
 Anon the torchlight-dance shall fling its sheen 
 
 In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green; 
 
 And we too will be there ; we too recall 
 
 The memory bright with man}* a festival 
 
 Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 
 
 For the first time were wafted in canoes. 
 
 Alas ! for them the flower of mankind bleeds ; 
 
 Alas! for them our fields are rank with Meeds : 
 
 Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown. 
 
 Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 
 
 But be it so : — they taught us how to wield 
 
 The club, and rain our arrows o'er the field; 
 
 Now let them reap the harvest of their art! 
 
 But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart. 
 
 Strike up the dance, the cava-bowl fill high. 
 
 Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 
 
 In summer-garments be our limbs array'd; 
 
 Around our waists the Tappa's white display'd; 
 
 Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like spring's, 
 
 And round our necks shall glance the Hooni-strjngs; 
 
 So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 
 
 Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below . 
 
 But now the dance is o'er — yet stay a while ; 
 Ah, pause! nor yet put out the social smile. 
 To-morrow for the Mooa we depart. 
 But not to-night — to-night is for the heart. 
 Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo. 
 Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo! 
 20* 
 
314 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 CANTO 1 
 
 How lovely arc your forms! Iiow every sense 
 Hows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense. 
 Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep, 
 Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep : 
 We too will seeLicoo; but — oh! my heart — 
 What do I say? to-morrow we depart! 
 
 Thus rose a song — the harmony of times 
 Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
 True, they had vices — such are nature's growth - 
 But only the barbarian's — we have both : 
 The sordor of civilization, mix'd 
 With all the savage which man's fall hath tix'd. 
 Who hath not seen dissimulation's reign. 
 The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain? 
 Who such would see, may from his lattice view 
 The old world more degraded than the new, — 
 Now new no more, save where Columbia rears 
 Twin giants, born by freedom to her spheres, 
 Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave. 
 Glares with his Titan-eye, and sees no slave. 
 
 Sucli was this ditty of tradition's days, 
 Wliich to the dead a lingering fame conveys 
 In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 
 Beyond the sound, whose charm is half divine; 
 Which leaves no record to the sceptic eye, 
 But yields young history all to harmony ; 
 A boy Achilles, with the Centaur's lyre 
 In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. 
 For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave. 
 Rung from tlie rock, or mingled with the wave, 
 Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 
 Or gathering mountain-echoes as they glide. 
 Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 
 Than all the columns conquest's minions rear; 
 Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 
 For sages' labours or the student's dream ; 
 Attracts, when history's volumes are a toil, — 
 The first, the freshest bud of feeling's soil. 
 Such was this rude rhyme — rhyme is of the rude 
 But such inspired the Norseman's solitude. 
 Who came and conquer'd; such, wherever rise 
 Lands which no foes destroy or civilize. 
 Exist; and what can our accomplish'd art 
 Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart? 
 
 And sweetly now those untaught melodies 
 Broke the luxurious silence of the skies. 
 The sweet siesta of a summer-day, 
 The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 
 When every flower was bloom, and air was balm. 
 And the first breath began to stir the palm, 
 The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 
 All gently to refresh the thirsty cave. 
 Where sat the songstress with the stranger boy. 
 Who taught her passion's desolating jo}', 
 Too powerful over every heart, but most 
 O'er those who know not how it may be lost; 
 O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire. 
 Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 
 
 With such devotion to their ecstasy. 
 That life knows no such rapture as to die: 
 And die they do; for earthly life has nought 
 -Mateh'd with that burst of nature, even in thought; 
 And all our dreams of better life above 
 But close in one eternal gush of love. 
 
 There sate the gentle savage of the wild, 
 In growth a woman, though in years a child. 
 As childhood dates within our colder clime. 
 Where nought is ripen'd rapidly save crime; 
 The infant of an infant-world, as pure 
 From nature — lovely, warm, and premature; 
 Dusky like uight, but niglit with all her stars ; 
 Or cavern sparkling witli its native spars; 
 With eyes that were a language and a spell, 
 A form like Aphrodite's in her shell. 
 With all her Loves around her on the deep, 
 Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep; 
 Yet full of life — for through her tropic cheek ^ 
 
 The blu.Ui would make its way, and all but speak; 
 The sun-born blood suflused her neck, and threw 
 O'er her clear niit-brown skin a lucid hue, 
 Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave, 
 Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 
 Such was this daughter of the Southern Seas, 
 Herself a billow in her energies, 
 To bear the bark of others' happiness, 
 Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less; 
 Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew 
 No joy like what it gave; her hopes ne'er drew 
 Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose 
 Sad proof reduces all things from their hues; 
 She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not, 
 Or what she knew was soon — too soon — forgot; 
 Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass 
 O'er lakes, to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, 
 Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from the hill, 
 Restore their surface, in itself so still. 
 Until the earthquake tear the Naiad's cave, 
 Root up the spring and trample on the wave. 
 And crush the living waters to a mass. 
 The amphibious desart of tl»e dank morass ! 
 And must their fate be hers? The eternal change 
 But grasps humanity with quicker range; 
 And they who fall, but fall as worlds will fall. 
 To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 
 
 And who is he? the blue-eyed northern child 
 Of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild ; 
 The fair-hair'd oflspring of the Hebrides, 
 Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas ; 
 Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wind, 
 The tempest-born in body and in mind, 
 His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam. 
 Had from that moment decm'd the deep his home, 
 The giant comrade of his pensive moods. 
 The sharer of his craggy solitudes, 
 The only Mentor of his youth, wiiere'er 
 His bark was borne; the sport of wave and air; 
 A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance, 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 315 
 
 Nursed by the legends of his land's romance; 
 
 Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear, 
 
 Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 
 
 Placed in the Arab's clime, he would have been 
 
 As hold a rover as the sands have seen, 
 
 And braved their thirst with as enduring lip, 
 
 As Ishriiael, wafted on his desart-ship; 
 
 Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud Cacique; 
 
 On Hellas' mountains, a rebellious Greek; 
 
 Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane; 
 
 Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 
 
 For the same soul that rends its path to sway, 
 
 If rear'd to such, can find no further prey 
 
 Beyond itself, and must retrace its way. 
 
 Plunging for pleasure into pain ; the same 
 
 Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame, 
 '. A humbler state and discipline of heart, 
 
 Had form'd his glorious namesake's counterpart: 
 , But grant his vices, grant them all his own, 
 i How small their theatre without a throne! 
 I 
 
 Thou smilest ; — these comparisons seem high 
 JTo those who scan all things with dazzled eye; 
 jLink'd with the unknown name of one whose doom 
 jHas nought to do with glory or with Rome, 
 jWith Chili, Hellas, or with Araby, — 
 JThou smilest? — Smile; 'tis better thus than sigh: 
 Yet such he might have been; he was a man, 
 iA soaring spirit ever in the van, 
 'A patriot hero or despotic chief, 
 [To form a nation's glory or its grief, 
 
 !Jorn under auspices which make us more 
 )r less than we delight to ponder o'er. 
 .Jut these are visions; say, what was he here? 
 i\ blooming boy, a truant mutineer. 
 J'lie fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 
 'The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 
 
 , By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters, — 
 . 'feuha, the sun-flower of the Island-daughters, 
 lighborn (a birth at which the herald smiles, 
 Vithout a scutcheon for these secret isles,) 
 )f a long race, the valiant and the free, 
 'he naked knights of savage chivalry, 
 Vhose grassy cairns ascend along the shore, 
 i nd thine, — I've seen, — Achilles! do no more. 
 lie, when tlic thunder-bearing strangers came 
 1 vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 
 opp'd with tall trees, wiiich, loftier than the palm, 
 cm'd rooted in the deep amidst its calm; 
 '!t, when the winds awaken'd shot forth wings 
 road as the cloud along the horizon flings, 
 lid sway'd the waves, like cities of the sea, 
 ciking tlic very billows look less free; — 
 le, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, 
 lot through the surf, like rein-deer through the snow, 
 vift-gliding o'er the breakers' whitening edge, 
 gilt as a Nereid in her ocean-sledge, 
 id gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk 
 liicli heaved from wave to wave its trampling bulk; 
 e anchor dropp'd, it lay along the deep, 
 
 Like a huge lion ia the sun asleep, 
 
 While round it svvarm'd the proas' flitting chain, 
 
 Like summer-bees that hum. around his mane. 
 
 The white man landed; — need the rest be told? 
 The New World strctch'd its dusk hand to the Old; 
 Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
 Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 
 Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires. 
 And kinder still their daughters* gentler fires. 
 Their union grew: the children of the storm 
 Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form ; 
 While these in turn admired tiie paler glow. 
 Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no snow. 
 The chase, the race, the liberty to roam. 
 The soil where every cottage show'd a home; 
 The sea-spread net, the lightly-launch'd canoe, 
 Which stemm'd the studded Archipelago, 
 O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ; 
 The healthy slumber, earn'd by sportive toils; 
 The palm, the loftiest Dryad of the woods. 
 Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods. 
 While eagles scarce build higher than the crest 
 Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast; 
 The cava-feast, the yam, the cocoa's root, 
 Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit; 
 The bread-tree, which, without the plough-share, yields 
 The unreaped harvest of uufurrowed fields, 
 And bakes its unadulterated loaves 
 Without a furnace in unpurchased groves. 
 And flings oft' famine from its fertile breast, 
 A priceless market for the gathering guest; — 
 These, witli the luxuries of seas and woods, 
 The airy joys of social solitudes. 
 Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympathies 
 Of those who were more happy, if less wise, 
 Did more than Europe's discipline had done, 
 And civilized Civilization's son I 
 
 Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 
 Neuha and Torquil were not the least fair; 
 Both children of the isles, though distant far; 
 Both born beneath a sea-presiding star ; 
 Both nourish'd amidst nature's native scenes. 
 Loved to the last whatever intervenes 
 Between us and our childhood's sympathy, 
 Which still reverts to what first caught the eye. 
 He who first met the Highland's swelling blue, 
 Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue, 
 Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, 
 And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
 Long have I roam'd through lands which are not mine, 
 Adored the Alp,and loved the Apennine, 
 Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
 Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep: 
 But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all 
 llieir nature held me in their thrilling thrall; 
 The infant-rapture still survived the boy. 
 And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy, 
 Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount. 
 And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. ' 
 
316 THE ISLAND. ,, 
 
 .-K 
 
 ^^^- 
 
 K^ 
 
 Forgive me, Homer's universal shade! 
 Forgive me, Phoebus ! that my fancy stray'd ; 
 The North and Nature taught me to adore 
 Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before. 
 
 The love which maketh all things fond and fair, 
 The youth which makes onerainbow of the air. 
 The dangers past, that make even man enjoy 
 The pause in which he ceases to destroy. 
 The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 
 Strike to their hearts, like lightning to the steel, 
 United the half savage and the whole, 
 The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 
 No more the thundering memory of tlic fight 
 Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight; 
 No more the irksome restlessness of rest 
 Disturbed him like the eagle in her nest, 
 Wiiose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 
 Darts for a victim over all the sky; 
 His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, 
 At once elysian and effeminate. 
 Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn; — 
 These wither when for auglit save blood they burn; 
 Yet, when their ashes in their nook are laid, 
 Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ] 
 Had Ctesar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 
 Rome had been free, the world had not been his. 
 And what have Caesar's deeds and Caesar's fame 
 Done for the earth ? We feel them in our shame ; 
 The gory sanction of his glory stains 
 The rust which tyrants cherish on our cliains. 
 Though glory, nature, reason, freedom, bid 
 Roused millions do what single Brutus did, — 
 Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song 
 From the tall bough where they have perch 'd so long, 
 Stil! are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls. 
 And take for falcons those ignoble fowls, 
 When but a word of freedom would dispel 
 Tiiese bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 
 
 Rapt in the fond forgetfulncss of life, 
 Neuha, the south-sea-girl, was all a wife, 
 With no distracting world to call her off 
 From love; with no society to scoff 
 At the new transient (lame ; no babbling crowd 
 Of coxcombry in admiration loud. 
 Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
 Her dutj% and her glory, and her joy ; 
 With faith and feelings naked as her form. 
 She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm. 
 Changing its hues with bright variety. 
 But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
 Howe'er its arch may swell, its colours move. 
 The cloud-compelling harbinger of Love. 
 
 Here, in this grotto of the wave- worn shore, 
 They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er; 
 Nor long the hours — they never paused o'er time, 
 Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime. 
 Which deals the daily pittance of our span, 
 And points and mocks with iron-laugh at man. 
 
 What deem'd they of the future or the past? 
 The present, like a tyrant, held them fast : 
 Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide. 
 Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide; 
 Their clock the sun, in his unbounded tower; 
 They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour; 
 The nightingale, their only vesper-bell. 
 Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell ; ^ 
 
 The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep. 
 As in the north he mellows o'er the deep; 
 But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left 
 The world for ever, earth of light bereft. 
 Plunged wilh red forehead down along the wave, 
 As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
 Then rose they, looking first along the skies, 
 And then for ligiit into each other's eyes. 
 Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun, 
 And asking if indeed the day were done? 
 
 And let not this seem strange; the devotee 
 Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 
 Around him days and worlds are heedless driven. 
 His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 
 Ls love less potent? No — his path is trod, 
 Alike uplifted gloriously to God; 
 Or link'd to all we know of heaven below, 
 The other better self, whose joy or woe 
 Is more than ours; the all-absorbing flame 
 Which, kindled by another, grows the same, 
 Wrapt in one blaze; the pure, yet funeral pile. 
 Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile. 
 How often we forget all time, when lone. 
 Admiring Nature's universal throne. 
 Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 
 Reply o{ hers to our intelligence ! 
 Live not the stars and mountains? Are the waves 
 Without a spirit? Arc tiie dropping caves 
 Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 
 No, no; — they woo and clasp us to their spheres. 
 Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 
 Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore. 
 Strip off this fond and false identity ! — 
 Who tliinks of self, when gazing on the sky? 
 And who, though gazing lower, ever thought, 
 In the young moments ere the heart is taught 
 Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own? 
 All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 
 
 Neuha arose, and Torquil: twilight's hour 
 Came sad and softly to their rocky bower. 
 Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars. 
 Echoed their dim light to the mustering stars. 
 Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm. 
 Sought out their cottage, built beneath tiic palm ; 
 Now smiling and now silent, as the scene; 
 Lovely as Love — the spirit! when serene 
 The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell 
 Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell *), 
 
 *) If the reader will apply to his ear the sea-shell on hischimr.ey p ' 
 he will be aware of what is alluded to. If the text should appeal- ob-c 
 
CANTO ir. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 317 
 
 As. far divided from bis parent deep, 
 The sea-born infant cries and will not sleep, 
 Raising bis Jiltle plaint in vain, to rave 
 For tbe broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
 The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
 The tropic-bird wlieel'd rockward to his nest. 
 And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
 Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake. 
 
 But through the palm and plantain, liark, a voice! 
 Not such as would have been a lover's choice. 
 In such an hour, to break the air so still ! 
 No dying night-breeze, harping o'er the hill, 
 Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree, 
 Those best and earliest lyres of harmony, 
 With eclio for their chorus; nor the alarm 
 Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm; 
 Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl. 
 Exhaling all his solitary soul, 
 The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite, 
 Who peals his dreary paean o'er the night; — 
 But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 
 As ever started through a sea-bird's bill ; 
 And then a pause, and then a hoarse "Hillo! 
 Torquil! my boy! what cheer? Ho, brother, hoi" 
 Who hails ?" cried Torquil, following with his eye 
 The sound. "Here's one," was all tlic brief reply. 
 
 But tlicre the herald of the self-same mouth 
 Came breathing o'er the aromatic south, 
 Sot like a bed of violets on the gale, 
 |But sucli as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale, 
 Borne from a sliort frail pipe, which yet had blown 
 "ts gentle odours over cither zone, 
 
 e will find in "Gebir" the same idea better expressed in two lines. The 
 ,oem I never read, but have heard tlie lines quoted by a more recondite 
 ender — ivho seems to be of a different opinion from the editor of the 
 juarterly Review, who qualified it, in his answer to the Critical Reviewer 
 f his Juvenal, as trash of the worst and most insane description. It is to 
 [r. Landor, the author of "Gebir," so qualified, and of some Latin 
 oems, which vie with Martial or Catulhis in obscenity, that the im- 
 laculate Mr. Southey addresses his declamation against impurity ! 
 tMr- Landor's lines above alluded to are — 
 
 "For I have oflen seen her with both hands 
 
 Shake a dry crocodile of equal height, 
 
 And listen to the shells within the scales, 
 
 And fancy there was life, and yet apply 
 
 The jagged Jaws wide open to the ear." 
 the "Excursion" of Wordsworth occurs the following exquisite 
 
 "l have seen 
 
 A curious child, applying to his car 
 
 The convolutions of a smooth-lipp'd shell, 
 
 To which, in silence hush'd, his very soul 
 
 Listen'd intensely, and his countenance soon 
 
 Brightcn'd with joy ; for murmuring from within 
 
 Were heard sonorous cadences! whereby, 
 
 To his belief, the monitor exprcss'd 
 
 Mysterious union wifji its native sea. 
 
 Even such a shell the universe itself 
 
 Is to the ear of faith ; and doth impart 
 
 Authentic tidings of invisible things: 
 
 Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; 
 
 And central peace subsisting at the heart 
 
 Of endless agitation."] 
 
 And, puff'd where'er winds rise or waters roll. 
 Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, 
 Opposed its vapour as the lightning flash'd. 
 And reek'd, 'midst mountain-billows unabash'd, 
 To ^olus a constant sacrifice, 
 Through every change of all tiic varying skies. 
 And n hat was he who bore it? ^ I may err. 
 But deem him sailor or philo.sopher. 
 Sublime tobacco ! which from east to west 
 Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's rest; 
 Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 
 His hours, and rivals opium and his brides; 
 Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand. 
 Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand; 
 Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, 
 When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; 
 Like other charmers, w ooiiig tiie caress 
 More dazzlingly when daring in full dress; 
 Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 
 Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar! 
 
 Through the approaching darkness of the wood 
 A human figure broke the solitude, 
 Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 
 A seaman in a savage masquerade; 
 Such as appears to rise out from the deep. 
 When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep. 
 And the rough Saturnalia of the tar 
 Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car; 
 And, pleased^ the God of Ocean sees his name 
 Revive once more, though but in mimic game 
 Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 
 Undreamt of in his native Cyclades. 
 Still the old god delights, from out the main, 
 To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. 
 Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim, 
 His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd dim, 
 His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait, 
 Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state; 
 But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
 Not over-tightly bound, nor nicely spread; 
 And, 'stead of trowsers (ah ! too early torn ! 
 For even the mildest woods will have their thorn), 
 A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
 Now served for inexpressibles and hat; 
 His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face. 
 Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
 His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth. 
 Which two worlds bless for civilizing both; 
 The musket swung behind liis shoulders broad. 
 And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode. 
 But brawny as the boar's; and, hung beneath. 
 His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath, 
 Or lost or worn away; his pistols were 
 Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
 (Let not this metaphor appear a scoff, 
 Though one miss'd fire, the other would go off) ; 
 These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
 As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust, 
 Completed his accoutrements, as Night 
 Survey'd him in his garb heterocli?c. 
 
318 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 CA^TO 
 
 "What cheer, Ben Bunting?" cried (when in full view 
 Our new acquaintance) Torquil. "Aught of new ?" 
 "Ey, ey," quoth Ben, "not new, but news enow; 
 A strange sail in the offing." — "Sail ! and how? 
 What! could you make her out? It cannot be; 
 I've seen no rag of canvass on the sea." 
 "Belike," said Ben, "you might not from the bay, 
 But from the bluft-head, where 1 watch'd to-day, 
 I saw her in tlie doldrums ; for the wind 
 Was light and baffling." — "When the sun declined 
 Where lay she? had she anchor'd?" — "No, but still 
 She bore down on us, till the wind grew still." 
 "Her flag?" — "I had no glass; but fore and aft. 
 Egad, she seem'd a wicked-looking craft." 
 "Arm'd?" — "I expect so; — sent on the look-out; — 
 "f is time, belike, to put our helm about." 
 
 "About ? — Whatever may have us now in chase, 
 
 We'll make no running fight, for that were base; 
 
 We will die at our quarters, like true men." 
 
 "Ey, ey ! for that, 'tis all the same to Ben." [han 
 
 "Does Christian know this?" — "Ay; he has piped 
 
 To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
 
 Of arms; and we have got some guns to bear. 
 
 And scaled them. You are wanted." — "That's but fa 
 
 And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
 
 To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
 
 MyNeuha! ah! and must my fate pursue 
 
 Not me alone, but one so sweet and true? 
 
 But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha! now 
 
 Unman me not; the hour will not allow 
 
 A tear; I am thine, whatever intervenes!" 
 
 "Right," quoth Ben, "that will do for the marines." 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 The fight was o'er; the flashing through the gloom. 
 Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb, 
 Had ceased; and sulphury vapours upward driven 
 Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven ; 
 The rattling roar which rung in every volley 
 Had left the echoes to their melancholy; 
 No more they shriek'd their horror, boom for boom : 
 The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their doom ; 
 The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed, or ta'en, 
 Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. 
 Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o'er 
 The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 
 No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth. 
 Once renegades to that which gave them birth; ^ 
 
 Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the wild. 
 As to a mother's bosom flies the child; 
 But vainly wolves and lions seek their den. 
 And still more vainly men escape from men. 
 
 Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes 
 Far over ocean in his fiercest moods. 
 When, scaling his enormous crag, the wave 
 Is hurl'd down headlong, like the foremost brave. 
 And falls back on the foaming crowd behind, 
 Which fight beneath the banners of the wind. 
 But now at rest, a little remnant drew 
 Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few; 
 But still their weapons in their hands, and still 
 With something of the pride of former will, 
 As men not all unused to meditate, 
 And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 
 Their present lot was what they had foreseen. 
 And dared as what was likely to have been ; 
 Yet still the lingering hope, which deem'd their lot 
 Not pardon'd, but unsought for or forgot. 
 
 Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 
 Might still be miss'd amidst the world of waves. 
 Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what they saw 
 And felt — the vengeance of their country's law. 
 Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise, 
 No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 
 Their better feelings, if such were, were thrown 
 Back on themselves, — their sins remain'd alone. 
 Proscribed even in their second country, they 
 Were lost; in vain the world before them lay; 
 All outlets seem'd secured. Their new allies 
 Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice; 
 But what avail'd the club and spear and arm 
 Of Hercules, aginst the sulphury charm. 
 The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
 The warrior ere his strength could be employ'd ? 
 Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave 
 No less of human bravery than the brave! 
 Their own scant numbers acted all the few 
 Against the many oft will dare and do; 
 But though the choice seems native to die free, 
 Even Greece can boast but oneThermopylee, 
 Till now, when she has forged her broken chain 
 Back to a sword, and dies and lives again ! 
 
 Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd. 
 Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd; 
 Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, 
 But still the hunter's blood was on their horn. 
 A little stream came tumbling from the height. 
 And straggling into ocean as it might. 
 Its bounding crystal frolick'd in the ray. 
 And gush'd from clilfto crag with saltless spray; 
 Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure 
 And fresh as innocence, and more secure. 
 
CANTO III. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 319 
 
 i Its silver torrent giittcr'd o'er the deep, 
 As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 
 While far below the vast and sullen swell 
 
 I Of ocean's alpinc-azure rose and fell. 
 
 i To this young spring they rush'd, — all feelings first 
 
 , Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst, — 
 
 . Drank as they do who drink their last, and threw 
 
 I Their arms aside to revel in its dew; 
 Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wasli'd the gory stains 
 From wounds whose only bandage might be chains ; 
 Then, when their drought was quench'd, look'd sadly 
 
 ; As wondering how so many still were found [round, 
 
 j Alive and fetterless ; — but silent all, 
 iEach sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
 (On him for language, which his lips denied, 
 As though their voices with their cause had died. 
 
 Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, 
 Stood Christian, with his arms across his cliest. 
 The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue, once spread 
 Along his cheek, was livid now as lead; 
 His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow, 
 Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. 
 Still as a statue, with his lips comprest 
 'To stifle even the breath within his breast. 
 Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute. 
 He stood ; and, save a slight beat of his foot. 
 Which deepen'd now and tlicn tlic sandy dint 
 Beneath his heel, his form sccm'd turn'd to Hint. 
 50me paces further Torquil lean'd his licad 
 Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, — 
 >fot mortally — his worst wound was within: 
 His brow was pale, ills blue eyes sunken in, 
 iVnd blood-drops, sprinkled o'er bis yellow hair, 
 phew'd tliat his faintness came not from despair, 
 iut nature's ebb. Beside him was another, 
 jlough as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 
 !^cn Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe, 
 md bind his wound — then calmly lit his pipe — 
 jL trophy which survived a hundred fights, 
 k beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand nights, 
 'he fourth and last of this deserted group 
 Valk'd up and down — at times would stand, then stoop 
 'o pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 
 'hen hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 
 'hen cast his eyes on his companions — then 
 lalf whistle half a tune, and pause again — 
 |.ndthen his former movements would redouble, 
 jVitli something between carelessness and trouble. 
 'Iiis is a long description, but applies 
 j'o scarce five minutes past before the eyes ; 
 kut yet what minutes ! Moments like to these 
 end men's lives into immortalities. 
 
 I 
 
 lE 
 
 |BIIcngth Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man, 
 
 ^o fluttered over all things like a fan, 
 
 {ore brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 
 
 nd die at once than wrestle with despair, 
 
 xclaim'd: "Goddamn!" Those syllables intense, — 
 
 lucleus of England's native eloquence, 
 
 's the Turk's "Allah !" or the Roman's more 
 
 Pagan "Proh Jupiter!" was wont of yore 
 
 To give their first impressions such a vent, 
 
 By way of echo to embarrassment. 
 
 Jack was embarrass'd — never hero more, 
 
 And as he knew not what to say, he swore: 
 
 Nor swore in vain; the long congenial sound 
 
 Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound; 
 
 He drew it from his mouth, and look'd full wise. 
 
 But merely added to the oath his eyes; 
 
 Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete — 
 
 A peroration I need not repeat. 
 
 But Christian, of a higher order, stood 
 Like an extinct volcano in his mood; 
 Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 
 Of passion reeking from his clouded face; 
 Till lifting up again his sombre eye. 
 It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by. 
 "And is it thus?" he cried, "unhappy boy 1 
 And thee too, thee — my madness must destroy." 
 He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood. 
 Yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood; 
 Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press. 
 And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 
 Enquired into his state; and when he heard 
 The wound was slighter than he deem'd or fear'd, 
 A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow. 
 As much as such a moment would allow. 
 "Yes," he exclaim'd, "we are taken in the toil. 
 But not a coward or a common spoil ; 
 Dearly they have bought us — dearly still may buy, — 
 And I must fall ; but have you strength to fly ? 
 "T would be some comfort still, could you survive; 
 Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 
 Oh! for a sole canoe! though but a shell, 
 To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell! 
 For me, my lot is what I sought; to be. 
 In life or death, the fearless and the free." 
 
 Even as he spoke, around the promontory 
 Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary, 
 A dark speck dotted ocean : on it flew 
 Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew ; 
 Onward it came — and, lo ! a second follow'd — 
 Now seen — now hid — where ocean's vale was hoUow'd; 
 And near, and nearer, till their dusky crew 
 Presented well-known aspects to the view. 
 Till on the surf their skimming paddles play, 
 Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray ; — 
 Now perching on the wave's high curl, and now 
 Dash'd downward in the thundering foam below. 
 Which flings it broad and boiling, sheet on sheet. 
 And slings its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet: 
 But, floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh 
 The barks, like small birds through a lowering sky. 
 Their art scem'd nature — such the skill to sweep 
 The wave of these born playmates of the deep. 
 
 And w ho the first that, springing on the strand, 
 Leap'd like a Nereid from her shell to land. 
 With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
 
320 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 Shining' with love, and hope, and constancy? 
 
 Neuha, - the fond, the faithful, tlie adored. 
 
 Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd; 
 
 And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer clasp'd, 
 
 As if to be assured 'twas him she grasp'd ; 
 
 Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and then, 
 
 To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
 
 She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
 
 Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair. 
 
 Her lover lived — nor foes nor fears could blight 
 
 That full-blown moment in its all delight: 
 
 Joy trickled in her tears, joy fill'd the sob 
 
 That rock'd her heart till almost heard to throb; 
 
 And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
 
 Of nature's child in nature's ecstasy. 
 
 ~ The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 
 Were not unmoved; who are, when hearts are greeting? 
 Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy 
 With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 
 Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays 
 In hopeless visions of our better days. 
 When all's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray. 
 "And but for me!" he said, and turn'd away ; 
 Then gazed upon the pair, as in his deu 
 A lion looks upon his cubs again; 
 And then relapsed into his sullen guise, 
 As heedless of his further destinies. 
 
 But brief their time for good or evil thouglit ; 
 The billows round the promontory brought 
 The plash of hostile oars. — Alas ! who made 
 That sound a dread? All around them seem'd array'd 
 Against them, save the bride of Toobonai: 
 She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay 
 Of the arm'd boats, which hurried to complete 
 The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 
 IJeckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 
 Embark'd their guests, and launch'd their light canoe 
 In one placed Christian and his comrades twain; 
 But she and Torquil must not part again. 
 She fix'd him in her own. — Away ! away ! 
 They clear the breakers, dart along the bay. 
 And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
 The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf-hollow'd lair, 
 They skim the blue tops of the billows; fast 
 They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased. 
 They gain upon them — now they lose again, — 
 Again make way and menace o'er the main; 
 And now the two canoes in chase divide, 
 And follow different courses o'er the tide, 
 To baflle the pursuit. — Away ! away ! 
 As life is on each paddle's flight to-day, 
 And more than life or lives to Neuha : Love 
 Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove — 
 And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
 Yet, yet a moment! — Fly, thou light ark, fly ! 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 White as a white sail on a dusky sea. 
 When half the horizon's clouded and half free, 
 Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky, 
 Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
 Her anchor parts; but still her snowy sail 
 Attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale: 
 Though every wave she climbs divides us more, 
 The heart still follows from the loneliest shore. 
 
 Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 
 A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray, 
 The haunt of birds, a desart to mankind. 
 Where the rough seal reposes from the wind, 
 And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern-dun. 
 Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun : 
 There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 
 The startled echo of the ocean-bird, 
 Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood, 
 The feather'd fishers of the solitude. 
 A narrow segment of the yellow sand 
 On one side forms the outline of a strand ; 
 Here the young turtle, crawling from his shell. 
 Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell; 
 
 Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day, 
 But hatch'd for ocean by the fostering ray ; 
 The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 
 Gave mariners a shelter and despair; 
 A spot to make the saved regret the deck 
 Which late went down, and envy the lost wreck. 
 Such was the stern asylum Neuha chose 
 To shield her lover from his following foes; 
 But all its secret was not told; she knew 
 In this a treasure hidden from the view. 
 
 Ere the canoes divided, near the spot, 
 The men that mann'd what held her Torquil's lot. 
 By her command removed, to strengthen more 
 The skiff which wafted Christian from the shore. 
 This he would have opposed: but with a smile 
 She pointed calmly to the craggy isle. 
 And bade him "speed and prosper." She would take 
 The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake. 
 They parted with this added aid; afar 
 The proa darted like a shooting star, 
 And gain'd on the pursuers, who now stccr'd 
 Kight on the rock which she and Torquil near'd. 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 321 
 
 They pull'd; her arm, though delicate, was free 
 
 And firm as ever grappled with the sea, 
 
 And pelded scarce to Torquil's manlier strength. 
 
 I The prow now almost lay within its length 
 Of the crag's steep, inexorable face, 
 With nought but soundless waters for its base; 
 
 , Within a hundred boats' length was the foe, 
 
 ) And now what refuge but their frail canoe? 
 This Torquil ask'd with half upbraiding eye, 
 
 j Which said — "Has Neuha brought me here to die? 
 Is this a place of safety, or a grave, 
 And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave?" 
 
 Tlicy rested on their paddles, and uprose 
 I Neuha, and, pointing to the approaching foes, 
 j Cried : "Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow 1" 
 ! Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 
 1 There was no time to pause — the foes were near — 
 i Chains in his eye and menace in his ear; 
 i With vigour they pull'd on, and as they came, 
 , Hail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 
 Headlong he leap'd — to him the swimmer's skill 
 Was native, and now all his hope from ill ; 
 I But how, or where? He dived, and rose no more; 
 \ The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore. 
 There was no landing on that precipice, 
 I Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 
 They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 
 But not a trace rebubbled from the main : 
 The wave roU'd on, no ripple on its face, 
 Since their first plunge, recall'd a single trace; 
 The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam, 
 jThat whitened o'er what seem'd their latest home, 
 AVhite as a sepulchre above the pair. 
 Who left no marble (mournful as an heir) 
 Tlie quiet proa, wavering o'er the tide, 
 iWas all that told of Torquil and his bride; 
 And but for this alone the whole might seem 
 The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream, 
 jlhcy paused and scarch'd in vain, then pull'd awaj', 
 lEven superstition now forbade their stay. 
 Borne said he had not plunged into the wave, 
 But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave ; 
 pthers, that something supernatural 
 ijlared in his figure, more than mortal tall ; 
 IfVhile all agreed, that in his cheek and eye 
 fhere was a dead hue of eternity. 
 ^till as their oars receded from the crag, 
 llouDd every weed a moment would they lag, 
 Expectant of some token of their prey; 
 jlut no — he had melted from them like the spray. 
 
 And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep, 
 'ollowing the Nereid ? Had they ceased to weep 
 'or ever? or, received in coral caves, 
 V^rung life and pity from the softening waves? 
 Md they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
 lid sound with mermen the fantastic shell? 
 
 id Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair 
 lowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air? 
 
 Or had they perish'd, and in silence slept 
 Beneath the gulph wherein they boldly leap'd ? 
 
 Young N^uha plunged into the deep, and he 
 Follow'd : her track beneath Iier native sea 
 Was as a native's of the element. 
 So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 
 Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 
 Which struck and flash'd like an amphibious steel. 
 Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 
 The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase, 
 Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas. 
 Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. 
 Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led ""^J ^ 
 
 The way — then upward soar'd — and, as she sprcadi'^^^Y^ 
 Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks, j/fi*- 
 
 Laugh'd, and the sound was answcr'd by the rocks. 
 They had gain'd a central realm of earth again. 
 But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 
 Around she pointed to a spacious cave, 
 Whose only portal was the keyless wave; 
 (A hollow archway by the sun unseen. 
 Save through the billows' glassy veil of green. 
 In some transparent ocean-holiday. 
 When all the finny people are at play;) 
 Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, 
 And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise ; 
 Led him to where the rock appear'd to jut 
 And form a something like a Triton's hut; 
 For all was darkness for a space, till day 
 Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray ; 
 As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 
 The dusty monuments from light recoil, 
 Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 
 The vault drew half her shadow from the scene. 
 
 Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 
 A pine-torch, strongly girded with gnatoo; 
 A plantain-leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
 Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
 This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 
 Of the same plantain-leaf a flint she took, 
 A few shrunk wither'd twigs, and from the blade 
 Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus array'd 
 The grot witii torchligiit. Wide it was and high. 
 And show'd a self-born Gothic canopy; 
 The arch uprear'd by nature's architect. 
 The architrave some earthquake might erect ; 
 The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurl'd, 
 When the poles crash'd and water was the world; 
 Or harden'd from some earth-absorbing fire. 
 While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyre; 
 The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave. 
 Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her cave. 
 There, with a little tinge of phantasy. 
 Fantastic faces moped and mow'd on high, 
 And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 
 The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
 Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 
 And built herself a chapel of the seas, 
 21 
 
322 THE ISLAND. 
 
 C A NTO 
 
 And Neulia took her Torquil by the hand, 
 And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
 And led him into each recess, and show'd 
 T!ie secret places of their new abode. 
 Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
 Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared; 
 The mat for rest; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
 And sandal-oil to fence against the dew ; 
 For food the eocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
 Born of the fruit; for board the plantain spread 
 With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore 
 A banquet in the flesh it cover'd o'er; 
 The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
 The ripe banana from the mellow hill; 
 A pine-torch-pilc to keep undying light, 
 And siie herself, as beautiful as night, 
 To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, 
 And make their subterranean world serene. 
 She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
 Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
 And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
 For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
 Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe. 
 Laden with all the golden fruits that grew; 
 Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
 Willi all could cheer or deck their sparry bower; 
 And now she spread her little store with smiles. 
 The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 
 
 She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press'd 
 Her shelter'd love to her impassion'd breast; 
 And, suited to her soft caresses, told 
 An olden tale of love, — for love is old, 
 Old as eternity, but not outworn. 
 With each new being born or to be born: 
 How a young chief, a thousand moons ago, 
 Diving for turtle in the depths below. 
 Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean-prey, 
 Into the cave which round and o'er them lay; 
 How, in some desperate feud of after-time. 
 He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime, 
 A foe beloved, and oflspring of a foe. 
 Saved by his tribe but for a captive's woe; 
 How, when the storm of war was still'd, he led 
 His island-clan to where the waters spread 
 Their deep green shadow o'er the rocky door, 
 Then dived — it secm'd as if to rise no more: 
 His wondering mates, amazed within their bark, 
 Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark, 
 Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock. 
 Then paused upon their paddles from the shock ; 
 When, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw 
 A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe ; 
 And their companion, glorious by her side. 
 Proud and exulting in his mermaid-bride; 
 And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore 
 With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore; 
 How they had gladly lived and calmly died, — 
 And why not also Torquil and his bride? 
 Not mine to tell the rapturous caress 
 
 Which follow'd wildly in. that wild recess 
 
 This tale; enough that all within that cave 
 
 Was love, though buried strong as in the grave 
 
 Where Abelard, througii twenty years of death. 
 
 When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 
 
 Their nuptial vault, his arms outstrctch'd, and press' 
 
 The kindling ashes to his kindled breast. 
 
 The waves without sang round their couch, their roat 
 
 As much unheeded as if life were o'er: 
 
 Witiiin, their hearts made all their harmony. 
 
 Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 
 
 And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
 Which left them exiles of the hollow rock, 
 Where were they? O'er the sea for life they plied. 
 To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. 
 Another course had been their choice — but where ? 
 The wave, which bore them still, their foes would bea 
 Who, disappointed of their former chase. 
 In search of Christian now renew 'd their race. 
 Eager with anger, their strong arms made way. 
 Like vultures baffled of their previous prey. 
 They gain'd upon them, all whose safety lay 
 In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay ; 
 No further chance or ciioice remain'd; and riglit 
 For the first further rock which met their sight 
 They steer'd, to take their latest view of land, 
 And yield as victims, or die sword in hand; 
 Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, who 
 Would still have battled for that scanty crew; 
 But Christian bade them seek their shore again, 
 Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain; 
 For what were simple bow and savage spear 
 Against the arms which must be wielded here? 
 
 They landed on a wild but narrow scene. 
 Where few but Nature's footsteps yet had been; 
 Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye. 
 Stern and sustain'd, of man's extremity. 
 When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 
 To cheer resistance against death or chains, — 
 They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood 
 Who dyed Thermopylaa witii holy blood. 
 But, ah ! how ditl'erent! 'tis the cause makes all, 
 Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 
 O'er them no fame, eternal and intense. 
 Blazed through the clouds of death and beckon'd 
 No grateful country, smiling through her tears, 
 Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 
 No nation's eyes would on tlieir tomb be bent. 
 No heroes envy them their monument; 
 However boldly their warm blood was spilt. 
 Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 
 And this they knew and felt, at least the one. 
 The leader of the band he had undone; 
 Who, born perchance for better things, had set 
 His life upon a cast which linger'd yet: 
 But now the die was to be thrown, and all 
 The chances were in favour of his fall : 
 And such a fall! But still he faced the shock 
 
 hoi 
 
CANTO IV 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 323 
 
 Obdurate as a portion of the rock 
 
 Wliereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, 
 
 Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 
 
 The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm the crew 
 To act whatever duty bade them do; 
 Careless of danger, as the onward wind 
 Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind: 
 And yet perhaps they rather wish'd to go 
 Against a nation's than a native foe, 
 And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 
 Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 
 They hail'd him to surrender — no reply ; 
 Their arms were poised, and glitter'd in the sky. 
 They hail'd again — no answer; yet once more 
 They offer'd quarter louder than before. 
 The echoes only, from the rock's rebound, 
 ^Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 
 Then flash'd the flint, and blazed the volleying flame, 
 And the smoke rose between them and tiieir aim, 
 While the rock rattled with the bullets' knell 
 Which peal'd in vain, and flattcn'd as they fell; 
 Then flew the only answer to be given 
 By those who had lost all hope in earth or heaven. 
 \fter the first fierce peal, as they puH'tJnighsr, 
 riiey heard the voice of Christian shout, "Now, fire!" 
 Vnd ere the word upon the echo died. 
 Two fell; the rest assail'd the rock's rough side, 
 \nd, furious at the madness of their foes, 
 .)isdain'd all further efl'orts, save to close. 
 3ut steep the crag, and all without a path, 
 3ach step opposed a bastion to their wrath, 
 iVhile, placed 'midst clefts the least accessible, 
 iVhich Christian's eye was train'd to mark full well, 
 "he three maintain'd a strife which must not yield, 
 III spots where eagles might have chosen to build, 
 pheir every shot told ; while the assailant fell, 
 j)ash'd on the shingles like the limpet shell ; 
 5at still enough survived, and mounted still, 
 fcattering their numbers here and there, until 
 lurrounded and commanded, though not nigh 
 jDOugh for seizure, near enough to die, 
 'he desperate trio held aloof their fate 
 lUt by a thread, like sharks who have gorged the bait; 
 et to the very last they battled well, 
 nd not a groan inform'd their foes who fell, 
 hristian died last — twice wounded ; and once more 
 Xercy was ofl'er'd when they saw his gore ; 
 00 late for life, but not too late to die, 
 iHth though a hostile hand to close his eye. 
 j< limb was broken, and he droop'd along 
 he crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 
 he sound revived him, or appcar'd to wake 
 ^me passion which a weakly gesture spake; 
 L" beckon'd to the foremost who drew nigh, 
 ut, as they near'd, he rear'd his weapon high — 
 is last ball had been aim'd, but from his breast 
 e tore the topmost button from his vest *), 
 
 ) In Thibault's account of Frederic the Second of Prussia, there u a 
 ligolw relation of a young FreDcfaiuaD, who with his mistress appearcti 
 
 Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and smiled 
 
 As his foe fell ; then, like a serpent, coil'd 
 
 His wounded, weary form, to where the steep 
 
 Look'd desperate as himself along the deep; 
 
 Cast one glance back, and clcneh'd his hand, and shook 
 
 His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook ; 
 
 Then plunged : the rock below received like glass 
 
 His body crush'd into one gory mass, 
 
 With scarce a shred to tell of human form. 
 
 Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm; 
 
 A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood and weeds, 
 
 Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds ; 
 
 Some splinters of his weapons (to the last. 
 
 As long as hand could hold, he held them fast) 
 
 Yet glitter'd, but at distance — hurl'd away 
 
 To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. 
 
 The rest was nothing — save a life mis-spent. 
 
 And soul — but who shall answer where it went? 
 
 'Tis ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and they 
 
 Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way, 
 
 Unless these bullies of eternal pains 
 
 Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains. 
 
 The deed was over! All were gone or ta'en, 
 The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. 
 Chain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant crew, 
 They stood with honour, were the wretched few 
 Survivors of the skirmish on the isle; 
 But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 
 Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering, 
 While o'er them flapp'd the sea-birds' dewy wing. 
 Now wheeling nearer from the neighbouring surge, 
 And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge: 
 But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 
 Eternal with unsympathetic flow; 
 Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on, 
 And sprung the flying-fish against the sun. 
 Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height. 
 To gather moisture for another flight. 
 
 'Twas morn; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 
 Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, 
 And watch if aught approach'd the amphibious lair 
 Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air: 
 It flapp'd, it fill'd, and to the growing gale - 
 Bent its broad arch : her breath began to fail 
 With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, 
 While yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie: 
 But no! it came not; fast and far away 
 The shadow lessen'd as it clear'd the bay. 
 She gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her eyes. 
 To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 
 
 to be of some rank. He enlisted and deserted at Schwcidnitz ; and aftir 
 a desperate resistance was retaken, having killed an officer, who at 
 tempted to seize hira after he was wounded, by the discharge of his 
 musket loaded with a button of his uniform. Some circumstances on hit 
 court-martial raised a great interest amongst his judges , who wished to 
 discover his real situation in life, which he offered to disclose, but to the 
 king only, to whom he requested permission to write. This was refused, 
 and Frederic was filled with the greatest indignation, from baffled curiosity 
 or some other motive, when he understood that his request had beeti denied. 
 
324 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 CANTO I 
 
 On the horizon verged the distant deck, 
 
 Diminish'd, dwindled to a very speck — 
 
 Then vanish'd. AH was ocean, all was joy! 
 
 Down plunged she through tlie cave to rouse her boy; 
 
 Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and all 
 
 That happy love could augur or recall; 
 
 Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 
 
 His bounding Nereid over the broad sea ; 
 
 Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 
 
 Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 
 
 Drifting along the tide, without an oar, 
 
 That eve the strangers chased them from tlie shore; 
 
 But when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 
 
 Rcgain'd, and urged to where they found it now : 
 
 Nor ever did more love and joy embark, 
 
 Than now was wafted in that slender ark. 
 
 Again their own shore rises on the view, 
 No more polluted with a hostile hue; 
 
 No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 
 
 A floating dungeon : — all was hope and home I 
 
 A thousand proas darted o'er the bay. 
 
 With sounding shells, and heralded their way ; 
 
 The Chiefs came down, around the people pour'd. 
 
 And welcomed Torquil as a son restored; 
 
 The women throng'd, embracing and embraced 
 
 By Neuha, asking where they had been chased. 
 
 And how escaped? The tale was told; and then 
 
 One acclamation rent the sky again ; 
 
 And from that hour a new tradition gave 
 
 Their sanctuary the name of "Neuha's Cave." 
 
 A hundred fires, far flickering from the height. 
 
 Blazed o'er the general revel of the night. 
 
 The feast in honour of the guest, return'd 
 
 To peace and pleasure, perilously earn'd ; 
 
 A night succeeded by such happy days 
 
 As only the yet infant world displays. 
 
325 
 
 MANFRED, 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM. 
 
 There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
 Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 
 
 DRAiVIATIS PERSONtE. 
 
 Manfred. 
 
 Chamois Hunter. 
 
 Abbot of St. Maurice. 
 
 Manuel. 
 
 Herman. 
 
 Witch of the Alps. 
 Arimanes. 
 
 ;^ 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 The Destinies. 
 
 Spirits. , 
 
 The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher 
 Alps; partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly iu 
 the Mountains. 
 
 A C T I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 t.NPKED alone. — Scene, a Gothic Gallery. — Time, Midnight 
 
 Manfred. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
 ift will not burn so long as I must watch ; 
 I My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
 I But a continuance of enduring thought, 
 j Which then I can resist not: in my heart 
 There is a vigil, and these eyes but close / 
 To look within ; and yet I live, and bear ,/ 
 ;Thc aspect aud the form of breathing men. 
 iBut grief should be the instructor of the wise: •( 
 iSorrow is knowledge: they who know the most 
 jMast mourn the deepest j>'er the fatal truth; 
 |The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. 
 Philosophy and science, and the springs 
 ;0f wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
 !I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
 jA power to make these subject to itself — 
 {But they avail not: I have done men good. 
 And I have met with good even among men — 
 But this avail'd not: I have had my foes. 
 And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 
 jBut this avail'd not: — Good, or evil, life, 
 jPowers, passions, all I see in other beings, 
 iHave been to me as rain unto the sands, 
 jSince that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
 
 And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 
 
 Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or w ishes, 
 
 Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 
 
 Now to my task. — Mysterious Agency ! 
 
 Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe! 
 
 Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
 
 Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
 
 In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
 
 Of mountains inaccessible are haunts. 
 
 And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things — 
 
 1 call upon ye by the written charm. 
 
 Which gives me power upon you — Rise ! appear! 
 
 [A pause. 
 
 They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
 
 Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
 
 Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
 
 Who is undying, — Rise! appear! — Appear! [a pause. 
 
 If it be so. — Spirits of earth and air, 
 
 Ye shall not thus elude me; by a power, 
 
 Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
 
 Which had its birth-place in a star condemn'd. 
 
 The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
 
 A wandering hell in the eternal space; 
 
 By the strong curse which is upon my soul. 
 
 The thought which is within me and around me, 
 
 I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 
 
 [A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery; it U 
 stationary; and a voice is heard singing. 
 
326 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 k\ 
 
 t' 
 
 First Spirit. 
 Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, -. 
 
 From iny mansion in tlie cloud, ^ 
 Which tlic breath of twilight builds, 
 
 And the summer's sun-set gilds 
 With the azure and vermilion, 
 
 Which is mix'd for my pavilion : 
 Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
 
 On a star-beam I have ridden; 
 To thine adjuration bow'd, 
 
 Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! 
 
 Voice of the Second Spirit. 
 Mont-Blanc is the monarch of mountains, 
 
 They crowned him long ago 
 On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds. 
 
 With a diadem of snow. 
 Around his waist are forests braced, 
 
 The avalanche in his hand; 
 But ere it fall, that thundering ball 
 
 Must pause for my command. 
 The glacier's cold and restless mass 
 
 Moves onward day by day; 
 But I am he who bids it pass, 
 
 Or with its ice delay. 
 I am the Spirit of the place, 
 
 Could make the mountain bow 
 And quiver to his cavern'd base — 
 
 And what with me wouldst Thou? 
 
 Voice of the Tliird Spirit. 
 In the blue depth of the waters, 
 
 Where the wave hath no strife, 
 Where the wind is a stranger, v 
 
 And the sea-snake hath life, 
 Where the mermaid is decking 
 
 Her green hair with shells; 
 Like the storm on the surface 
 
 Came the sound of thy spells ; 
 O'er my calm hall of coral 
 
 The deep echo roll'd — 
 To the Spirit of Ocean 
 
 Thy wishes unfold! 
 
 Fourth Spirit. 
 Where the slumbering earthquake 
 
 Lies pillow'd on fire, 
 And the lakes of bitumen 
 
 Rise boilingly higher; 
 Where the roots of the Andes 
 
 Strike deep in the earth, 
 As their summits to heaven 
 
 Shoot soaringly forth; 
 I have quitted my birth-place, 
 
 Thy bidding to bide — 
 Thy spell hath subdued me, 
 
 Thy will be my guide! 
 
 ,■* 4^ 
 
 V *^ 
 
 \iA 
 
 Fifth Spirit. 
 I'm the rider of the wind, 
 The stirrer of the storm; 
 
 The hurricane I left behind 
 
 Is yet with lightning warm; 
 To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 
 
 I swept upon the blast: 
 The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 
 
 'Twill sink ere night be past. 
 
 Sixth Spirit. 
 
 My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
 Why doth thy magic torture me with light? 
 
 s^^ 
 
 
 4 
 
 '^' 
 
 Seventh Spirit, 
 
 The star which rules thy destiny, 
 
 Was ruled, ere earth began, by me: 
 
 It was a world as fresh and fair 
 
 As e'er revolved round sun in air ; 
 
 Its course was free and regular, 
 
 Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
 
 The hour arrived — and it became 
 
 A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
 
 A pathless comet, and a curse. 
 
 The menace of the universe; 
 
 Still rolling oi^mth innate force. 
 
 Without lB^^^Bu4hout a course, 
 
 A bright defomnT^^i^high, 
 
 The monster of the upper sky ! 
 
 And thou ! beneath its influence born — 
 
 Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 
 
 Forced by a power (which is not thine, 
 
 And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
 
 For this brief moment to descend, 
 
 Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
 
 And parley with a thing like tJiee — 
 
 What wouldst thou, child of clay ! with me ? 
 
 The Seven Spirits. 
 
 Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star, 
 
 Are at thy beck and bidding, child of clay ! 
 Before thee, at thy quest, their spirits arc — 
 / What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals — say? 
 / Man/. Forggtiiilaess 
 
 First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why? 
 ' Manf. Of that which is within me; read it there — 
 Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 
 
 Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possess 
 Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
 O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
 Which shall control the elements, whereof 
 We are the dominators, each and all, 
 These shall be thine. 
 
 Manf. Oblivion, self-obUvifin — 
 Can ye not wrfng from out the hidden realms 
 Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 
 
 Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill; 
 But — thou mayst die. 
 
 Manf. Will death bestow it on me? , 
 
 Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget; 
 We are eternal ; and to us the past 
 Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? \\v{- 
 
 Manf. Ye mock me — butthepower which broughtjs 
 
ACT I. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 327 
 
 Hatli made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will ! 
 The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 
 The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
 Pervading, and far-darting as your own. 
 And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay ! 
 Answer, or I will tcacli ye what I am. 
 
 Spirit. We answer as weanswer'd; our reply 
 (s even in thine own words. 
 
 Man/. Why say ye so ? 
 
 Spirit. If, as thou sayst, thine essence be as ours, 
 We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
 Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 
 
 Man/. I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain; 
 STe cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 
 
 Spirit. Say; 
 What we possess we offer; it is thine: ,. ^ 
 
 Jethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — -^ 
 
 kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days — 
 
 Man/. Accursed! what have I to do with days? 
 Phey are too long already. Hence — begone! [service; 
 
 Spirit. Yet pause: being here, our will would do thee 
 icthink thee, is there then no other gift 
 iVhich we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 
 
 Man/. No, none: yet stay — one moment, ere we part — 
 would behold ye face to face. I hear 
 four voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
 \.s music on the waters ; and I see 
 hie steady aspect of a clear large star, 
 iJut nothing more. Approach me as je are, 
 j)r one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 
 I Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements 
 |)f which we are the mind and principle: 
 ^ut choose a form — in that we will appear. 
 ' Man/, I have no choice; there is no form on earth 
 jlideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
 Vho is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
 .s unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! 
 
 Seventh Spirit, (Appearing in the shape of a beautiful female 
 
 figure.) Behold ! i,^ 
 
 Manf. Oh God! if it be thus, and t/iou 
 .rt not a madness and a mockery, 
 yet might be most happy. — I will clasp thee, 
 
 nd we again will be — [The figure vanishes. 
 
 [y heart is crush'd ! [Manfred fails sensele3s. 
 
 (A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.) 
 
 When the moon is on the wave, ^ 
 
 And the glow-worm in tlic grass, 
 
 And the meteor on the grave, 
 
 And the wisp on the morass ; 
 
 When the falling stars are shooting. 
 
 And the answer'd owls are hooting, 
 
 And the silent leaves are still 
 
 In the shadow of the hill, 
 
 Shall my soul be upon thine, 
 
 With a power and with a sign 
 
 Though thy slumber may be deep. 
 
 Yet thy spirit shall not sleep; 
 
 There are shades which will not vanish, 
 
 Tlrere are thoughts thou canst not banish ; 
 
 By a power to thee unknown, 
 Thou canst never be alone; 
 Thou art wrapt as with a sliroud, 
 Tliou art gather'd in a cloud; 
 And for ever shalt thou dwell 
 In the spirit of this spell. 
 
 Though thou seest me not pass by. 
 Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
 As a thing that, though unseen. 
 Must be near thee, and hath been; 
 And when in that secret dread 
 Thou hast turn'd around thy head. 
 Thou shalt marvel I am not 
 As thy shadow on the spot, 
 And the power which thou dost feel 
 Shall be what thou must conceal. 
 
 And a magic voice and verse 
 
 Hath baptized thee with a curse; 
 
 And a spirit of the air 
 
 Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
 
 In the wind there is a voice 
 
 Shall forbid thee to rejoice; 
 
 And to thee shall Night deny 
 
 All the quiet of her sky; 
 
 And the day shall have a sun. 
 
 Which shall make thee wish it done. 
 
 From thy false tears I did distil 
 An essence which hath strength to kill; 
 From thy own heart I then did wring 
 The black blood in its blackest spring ; 
 From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake. 
 For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 
 From thy own lip I drew the charm 
 Which gave all these their chiefest hatin ; 
 In proving every poison known, 
 I found the .strongest was thine own. 
 
 By thy cold breast and serpent-smile, 
 
 By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile. 
 
 By that most seeming virtuous eye, 
 
 By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 
 
 By the perfection of thine art, 
 
 Which pass'd for human thine own heart ; 
 
 By thy delight in others' pain. 
 
 And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 
 
 I call upon thee! and compel 
 
 Thyself to be thy proper hell! 
 
 And on thy head T pour the vial 
 
 Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 
 
 Nor to slumber, nor to die, 
 
 Shall be in thy destiny; 
 
 Though thy death shall still seem near 
 
 To thy wish, but as a fear; 
 
 Lo! the spell now works around thee. 
 
 And the clanklcss chain hath bound thee ; 
 
 O'er thy heart and brain together 
 
 Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 
 
328 
 
 M4NFRED. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Mountain of the Jiingfrau. Time, Morning. 
 Manfred aloue upon the Cliffs. 
 
 Manf. The spirits I have raised abandon mc — 
 The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
 The remedy I reck'd of tortured me; 
 I lean no more on super-human aid, 
 It hath no power upon the past, and for 
 The future, till the past be gulfd in darkness, 
 It is not of my search. — My mother Earth ! 
 And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, 
 Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye. 
 And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 
 That openest over all, and unto all 
 Art a delight — thou shinest not on my heart. 
 And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
 I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
 Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
 In dizziness of distance; when a leap, 
 A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
 My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
 To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause? 
 I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge; 
 I see the peril — yet do not recede; 
 And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
 There is a power upon me which withholds 
 And makes it my fatality to live; 
 If it be life to wear within myself 
 This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
 My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
 To justify my deeds unto myself — 
 The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
 
 Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, [An eagle passes. 
 Whose happy flight is highest into heaven. 
 Well mayst thou swoop so near me — I should be 
 Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
 Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine 
 Yet pierces downward, onward, or above 
 With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
 How beautiful is all this visible world! 
 How glorious in its action and itself! 
 But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we. 
 Half dust, half deity, alike unlit 
 To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 
 A conflict of its elements, and brcatiie 
 The breath of degradation and of pride. 
 Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
 Till our mortality predominates. 
 And men are — what they name not to themselves. 
 And trust not to each other. Hark! the note, 
 
 [The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard. 
 
 The natural music of the mountain-reed — 
 
 For here the patriarchal days are not 
 
 A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
 
 Mix'd with the sweet hells of the sauntering herd; 
 
 My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
 
 The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
 
 A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
 
 A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
 
 With the blest tone which made me I 
 
 Enter from below a Chamois Huntrr. 
 
 C Hunter. Even so, 
 This way the chamois leapt: her nimble feet 
 Have baffled me; my gains to-day will scarce 
 Repay my break-neck travail. — What is here? 
 Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
 A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
 Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
 Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
 Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this distance. — 
 I will approach him nearer. 
 
 Manf. (Not perceiving the other.) To be thuS — 
 
 Giay-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
 
 Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
 
 A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
 
 Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 
 
 And to be thus, eternally but thus. 
 
 Having been otherwise! Now ftirrow'd o'er 
 
 With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years; 
 
 And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 
 
 Which I outlive! — Ye toppling crags of ice ! 
 
 Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
 
 In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me ! 
 
 1 hear ye momently above, beneath, 
 
 Crash with a frequent conflict: but ye pass, 
 
 And only fall on things that still would live; 
 
 On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
 
 And hamlet of the harmless villager 
 
 C. Hunt. The mists begin to rise from up the valley 
 I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
 To lose at once his way and life together. 
 
 Manf. The mists boil up around the glaciers; clou 
 Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
 Like foam from the roused ocean of deep hell, 
 Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
 Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 
 
 C. Hunt. I must approach him cautiously; if near, 
 A sudden step will startle him, and he 
 Seems tottering already. 
 J Manf. Momitains have fallen, 
 'Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
 f\ Rocking their Alpine brethren; tilling up 
 
 The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters. 
 Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
 Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
 Their fountains find another channel — thus, 
 Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
 Why stood I not beneath it? 
 
 C. Hunt. Friend ! have a care. 
 Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
 Of him who made you, stand not on that brink! 
 
 Manf. (Not hearing him.) Such would havc been for v. a 
 . fitting tomb. 
 My bones had then been quiet in their depth ; 
 They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
 /Tor the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall b - 
 M In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens! 
 Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
 Ye were not meant for me — ■ Earth ! take these atom.'i 
 
 (A« Manfrbu is in act to spring from the cliff, the Ch/'i* 
 Hu.NTBfi seizes and retains him Mitb a sudden gra'p 
 
r 11. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 329 
 
 C. Hunt. Hold, madman! — though aweary of thy life, 
 
 lin not our pure vales with thy guilty blood. 
 
 ay with me — I will not quit my hold. 
 
 Man/, I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not — 
 
 n all feebleness — the mountains whirl 
 
 nning around me — I grow blind. — What art thou? 
 
 7. Hunt. I'll answer that anon. — Away with me — 
 
 J clouds grow thicker — there — now lean on me — 
 
 .06 your foot here — here, take this staff, and cling 
 
 A moment to that slirub — now give me your hand, 
 
 And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
 
 The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour — 
 
 Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footiifg, 
 
 And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
 
 Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely done — 
 
 You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 
 
 (A3 tliey descend the rocks with difficulty, the scene closes.) 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. 
 Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 
 
 Hunt. No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet go 
 ' mind and body are alike unfit [forth ; 
 
 rust each other, for some hours, at least; 
 I en thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
 'whither? 
 jj fan/. It imports not: I do know 
 l|route full well, and need no further guidance. 
 ^.Hunt. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high li- 
 ]jj)|of the many chiefs, whose casllcd crags [neage — 
 <|k o'er the lower vallej's — which of these 
 ![' call thee Lord? I only know their portals; 
 ijway of life leads me but rarely down 
 , <iiask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
 jj>using with the vassals ; but the paths, 
 iijch step from out our mountains to their doors, 
 lJ3w from childhood — which of these is thine? 
 \an/ No matter. 
 
 Hu7it. Well, Sir, pardon me the question, 
 be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine; 
 of an ancient vintage; many a day 
 IS thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
 t do thus for thine — Come, pledge me fairly. 
 an/. Away, away ! there's blood upon the brim! 
 it then never — never sink in the earth ? [from thee. 
 Hunt. What dost thou mean? thy senses wander 
 an/. Isay 'tis blood-my blood ! the pure warm stream 
 jch ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
 « we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
 loved each other as we should not love, 
 this was shed: but still it rises up, 
 aring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 
 re thou art not — and I shall never be. [dcning sin, 
 Hunt. Man of strange words, and some half-mad- 
 2h makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
 dread and sufi'erancc be, there's comfort yet — 
 iid of holy men, and heavenly patience — [made 
 ^ i[tn/. Patience, and patience! Hence — that word was 
 1^ * trutes of burthen, not for birds of prey ; 
 
 fcii 
 
 Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — 
 I am not of thine order. 
 
 C.Hunt. Thanks to Heaven! 
 I would not be of thine for the free fame 
 Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill. 
 It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 
 
 Man/. Do I not bear it? — Look on rae — I live. 
 
 C. Hunt, This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 
 
 Man/. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 
 Many long years, but they are nothing now 
 To those which I must number: ages — ages — , 
 Space and eternity — and consciousness, 
 With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked ! 
 
 C. Hunt. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
 Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far. 
 
 Man/. Thinkst thou existence doth depend on time ? 
 It doth : but actions are our epochs: mine 
 Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
 Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore. 
 Innumerable atoms; and one desert. 
 Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 
 But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks. 
 Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 
 
 C. Hunt. Alas! he's mad — but yetlmustnot leave him. 
 
 Man/ I would I were — for then the things I sec 
 Would be but a distemper'd dream. 
 
 C.Hunt. What is it 
 That thou dost see, or think thou lookst upon? 
 
 Man/ Myself and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 
 Thy humble virtues, hospitable home. 
 And spirit patient, pious, proud and free; 
 Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; 
 Thy days of health, and nights of .sleep ; thy toils, 
 By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes 
 Of cheerful old age and quiet grave. 
 With cross and garland over its green turf. 
 And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph : 
 This do I see — and then I look within — ^ 
 It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already ! [mine ? 
 
 C. Hunt. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for 
 
 Man/ No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor cx- 
 My lot with living being: I caif bear — [change 
 
 21* 
 
330 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 ACl\ 
 
 Howcyer wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
 
 In life what others could not brook to dream, 
 
 But perish in their slumber. 
 
 C. Hunt. Ana with this — 
 This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
 Canst thou be black with evil ? — say not so, 
 Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 
 Upon his enemies? 
 
 Man/. Oh ! no, no, no ! 
 My injuries came down on those who loved me — 
 On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
 An enemy, save in my just defence — 
 But my embrace was fatal. 
 
 C.Hunt. Heaven give thee rest! 
 And penitence to restore thee to thyself; 
 My prayers shall be for thee. 
 
 Manf. I need them not, 
 But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
 'Tis time— farewell ! — Here's gold, and thanks for thee 
 No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — 
 I know my path — the mountain-peril 's past: — 
 And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! [Exit Manfredi 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 K lo'wer Valley in the Alps. — A Cataract. 
 Enter Manfred. 
 
 It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
 And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
 O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular. 
 And fling its lines of foaming light along. 
 And to and fro, like the pale courser' 
 The Giant-steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
 As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 
 But mine now drink this sight of loveliness; 
 I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 
 And with the Spirit of the place divide 
 The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 
 
 long, j 
 
 r's tail, j 
 Death, ^J 
 
 y<jj 
 
 (Manfred takes some of the water into the palm of his 
 hand, and flings it in the air, muttering the adju- 
 ration. After a pause, the Witch of the Alps rises 
 l)eneath the arch of the sunbeam of the torrent.) 
 
 Manf. Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light, 
 And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
 The charms of earth's least-mortal daughters grow 
 To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
 Of purer elements; while the hues of j'outh — 
 Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
 Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 
 Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 
 Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow. 
 The blush of earth embracing with her heaven, — 
 Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
 The beauties of tiie sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
 Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow. 
 Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul. 
 Which of itself shows immortality, 
 I read that thou wilt pardon to a son 
 Of earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
 At times to commune wi^ them — if that he 
 
 Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 
 And gaze on thee a moment. 
 
 Witch. Son of earth! 
 I know thee and the powers which give thee power ; 
 I know thee, for a man of many thoughts, 
 And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
 Fatal and fated in thy suflerings. 
 I have expected this — what wouldst thou with me? 
 
 Manf. To look upon thy beauty — nothing furtlu 
 The face of the earth hath maddcn'd me, and I j 
 
 Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
 To the abodes of those who govern her — 
 But they can nothing aid mc. I have sought 
 From them what they could not bestow, and now 
 I search no further. 
 
 Witch. What could be the quest 
 Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
 The rulers of the invisible ? 
 
 Manf. A boon ; 
 But why should I repeat it? 'twere in vain. 
 
 Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it. 
 
 Manf. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the sani; 
 ,My pang shall find a voicci'^rom my youth upward 
 'My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 
 Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes; 
 The thirst of their ambition was not mine. 
 The aim of their existence was not mine; 
 ^y jPJ^jWy griefs, my passions and my powers. 
 Made me a stranger; though I wore the form, 
 I had no sympathy with breathing (Icsh, >^ 
 Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 
 
 Was there but one who but of her anon. 
 
 I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, 
 I held but slight communion; but instead. 
 My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe 
 The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, 
 Where the birds dare not build^nor insect's wing 
 Flit o'er the herblcss granite; Or to plunge 
 Into the torrent, and to roll along 
 On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 
 Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
 In these my early strength exulted; or 
 ' To follow through the night the moving moon. 
 The stars and their development; or catch 
 The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim; 
 Or to look, list'ning, on the scattered leaves. 
 While autumn-winds were at their evening-song. ^ 
 These were my pastimes, and to be alone; A 
 
 For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 
 Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, f/ 
 
 I felt myself degraded back to them. 
 And was all clay again. And then I dived. 
 In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 
 Searching its cause in its eflect ; and drew 
 From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd-up diK 
 Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 
 The nights of years in sciences untaught. 
 Save iii the old time; and with time and toil, 
 And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
 As in itself hath power upon the air, 
 And spirits that do compass air and earth, 
 
 
iCT II. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 331 
 
 ipace, and the peopled infinite, I made 
 
 line eyes familiar witi^eternity, 
 
 ucli as, before me, did the Magi, and 
 
 i[e who from out their fountain-dwellings raised 
 
 ilros and Antcros, at Gadara, 
 
 's I do thee; — and with my knowledge grew 
 
 jhe thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 
 
 |if this most bright intelligence, until 
 
 ■ Witch. Proceed. 
 
 ■ Man/. Oh ! I bat thus prolong'd my words, 
 casting these idle attributes, because 
 is I approach tlie core of my heart's grief — 
 utto my task. I have not named to thee 
 ather or mother, mistress, friend, or being, 
 j/ith whom I wore tlie chain of human ties; 
 j I bad such, they seem'd not such to me — 
 
 [et there was one 
 
 I Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. 
 
 Man/. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 
 jCr hair, her features, all, to tiie very tone 
 jven of her voice, they said were like to mine; 
 iut soften'd all, and temper 'd iiito beauty; 
 lie had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
 ne quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
 b comprehend the Universe: nor these 
 tone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 
 iity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not; 
 bd tenderness — but that I had for her, 
 jumihty — and that I never had. 
 ier faults were mine — her virtues were her own 7^ 
 loved her, and destroy 'd her! ^ y 
 
 i Witch. With thy hand? [heart ^ 
 
 \Manf. Not with my hand, but heart — which broke her 
 igazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
 lOod, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed - 
 jiaw — and could not staunch it. 
 Witch. And for this — 
 being of the race thou dost despise, 
 le order which thine own would rise above, 
 ingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
 le gifts of our great knowledge, and shrinkst back 
 ) recreant mortality - Away ! 
 
 Manf. Daugliter of Air ! I tell thee, since that hour — 
 it words are breath — look on me in my sleep, 
 watch my watchings — Come and sit by me ! 
 y solitude is solitude no more, 
 It peopled with the Furies; — I have gnash'd 
 y teeth in darkness till returning morn, 
 len cursed myself till sunset; — I have pray'd 
 r madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. 
 ave aflronted death — but in the war 
 elements the waters shrunk from me, 
 id fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 
 an all-pitiless demon held me back, 
 ok by a single hair, which would not break, 
 phantasy, imagination, all 
 e affluence of my soul — which one day was 
 ;.; .proesus in creation — I plunged deep, 
 : \i, like an ebbing Wave, it dash'd me back 
 ' J'othegulf of my unfathom'd thought. 
 ^ Hunged amidst mankind — Forgclfulness 
 
 I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, 
 And that I have to learn — my sciences, 
 My long pursued and super-human art, 
 Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 
 And live — and live for ever. 
 
 Witch. It may be 
 That I can aid thee, 
 
 Manf. To do this thy power 
 Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
 Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
 With any torture — so it be the last. 
 
 Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou 
 Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
 My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. / 
 
 Manf. I will not swear. — Obey ! and whom? the spirits t/ 
 Whose presence I command, and be the slave \ 
 Of those who served me — Never ! 
 
 Witch. Is this all? 
 Hast thou no gentler answer? — Yet bethink thee, 
 And pause ere thou rejectest. 
 
 Manf. I have said it. 
 
 Witch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! 
 
 Manf. Retire ! [n.e ^^'itch iiisuppears. 
 
 Manf. (alone.) Wc arc the fools of time and terror: days 
 Steal on us and steal from us; yet wc live. 
 Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
 In all the days of this detested yoke — 
 This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 
 Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, 
 Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
 fn all the days of past and future, for 
 In life there is no present, we can number 
 How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
 Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
 As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
 Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
 Still in my science — I can call the dead, , 
 
 And ask them what it is we dread to be: 
 The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
 And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
 The buried Prophet answer'd to the Hag 
 Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
 From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping sfilrii 
 An answer and his destiny — he slew 
 That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 
 And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in aid 
 The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
 The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
 The indignant shadow to depose her wrath. 
 Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
 In words of dubious import, but fulfiU'd. 
 If I had never lived, that which I love 
 Had still been living; had I never loved, 
 That which I love would still be beautiful — 
 Happy and giving happiness. What is she ? 
 What is she now? — a sufferer for my sins — 
 A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
 Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
 Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare: 
 Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
 On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
 
332 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 
 
 But I can act even what T most ablior, 
 
 And cimmpion human fears. — The niglit approaches. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The SnmmiC of the Jungfraa-Mountain. 
 Enter Fibst Destiny. 
 
 The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright; 
 
 And here on snows, where never human foot 
 
 Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 
 
 And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 
 
 The glassy ocean of the mountain-ice. 
 
 We skim its rugged breakers, which f»ut on 
 
 The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam. 
 
 Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's image; 
 
 And this most steep fantastic pinnacle. 
 
 The fretwork of some earthquake — where the clouds 
 
 Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
 
 Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils; 
 
 Here do I wait my sisters on our way 
 
 To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
 
 Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not. 
 
 A voice without, singing. 
 
 The captive Usurper, 
 
 Hurl'd down from the throne. 
 Lay buried in torpor. 
 
 Forgotten and lone; 
 I broke througii his slumbers, 
 
 I shiver'd his chain, 
 I leagued him with numbers — 
 
 He's Tyrant again ! 
 With the blood of a million he'll answer my care, 
 With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. 
 
 Second Voice, without. 
 
 The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast. 
 
 But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast; 
 
 There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. 
 
 And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck; 
 
 Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair. 
 
 And he was a subject well worthy my care; 
 
 A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
 
 But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me ! 
 
 First Destiny, answering. 
 The city lies sleeping; 
 
 The morn, to deplore it. 
 May dawn on it weeping: 
 
 Sullenly, slowly. 
 The black plague flew o'er it — 
 
 Thousands lie lowly; 
 Tens of thousands shall perish — 
 
 The living .shall fly from 
 The sick they should <;herish ; 
 
 But nothing can vanquish 
 The touch that they die from. 
 
 Sorrow and anguish, 
 And evil and dread, 
 
 Envelope a nation — 
 
 The blest are the dead. 
 
 Who see not the sight • 
 
 Of their own desolation. — 
 
 This work of a night, 
 This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — • 
 For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing! 
 
 Enter the Second and Third Destwiks. 
 The Three. 
 
 Our hands contain the hearts of men. 
 
 Our footsteps are their graves; 
 We only give to take again 
 The spirits of our slaves! 
 First Dest. Welcome! — Where's Nemesis? 
 Second Dest. At some great work; 
 But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
 Tliird Dest. Behold she cometh. 
 
 Enter Nemesis. 
 
 First Dest. Say, where hast thou been? 
 My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 
 
 Nem. I was detain'd rq)airing scatter'd thrones, 
 Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
 Avenging men upon their enemies. 
 And making them repent their own revenge; 
 Goading the wise to madness; from the dull 
 Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
 Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 
 And mortals dared to ponder for themselves. 
 To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
 Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
 We have outstaid the hour — mount we our clouds! 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 i 
 
 
 The Hall of Arimanes. — Arimanes on his Throne, a Globe of ^ 
 surrounded by the Spirits. j 
 
 Hymn of the Spirits. 
 
 Hail to our Master! — Prince of Earth and Air! — 
 
 Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand- 
 The sceptre of the elements, which tear 
 
 Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
 He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea; 
 
 He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder; 
 He gazeth — from liis glance the sunbeams (lee; 
 
 He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asun^ 
 Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise; 
 
 His shadow is tlic pestilence; his path 
 The comets herald through the crackling skies; ' 
 
 And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
 To him war offers daily sacrifice; 
 
 To him death pays his tribute; life is his, 
 With all its infinite of agonies — 
 
 And his the spirit of whatever is! 
 
 Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 
 
 First Dest. Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
 His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
 His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty! 
 
 Sec. Dest. Glory to Arimanes! we who bow 
 The necks of men, bow down before his throne ! 
 
ACT II 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 333 
 
 Third Dest. Glory to Arimanes! — we await liis nod ! 
 
 Kent. Sovereign of sovereigns ! we are thine. 
 And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, 
 And most things wholly so; still to increase 
 Our power, increasing thine, demands our care. 
 And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
 Have been fultill'd to the utmost. 
 
 Enter Manfued. 
 
 A Spirit. What is here? 
 A mortal! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
 Bow down and worship! 
 
 Second Spirit. I do know the man — 
 A Magian of great power, and fearful skill! 
 
 Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave! — What, 
 knowst thou not 
 Thine and our sovereign? — Tremble, and obey ! [clay. 
 
 All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned 
 Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 
 
 Manf. I know it; 
 And yet ye see I kneel not. 
 
 Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. [earth, 
 
 Man/. 'Tis taught already; — many a night on the 
 On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face, 
 And strew'd my head with ashes; I have known 
 The fulness of humiliation, for 
 
 I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt y 
 
 To my own desolation. — -. \/ 
 
 Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 
 Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
 What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
 The terror of his glory — Crouch ! I say. 
 
 Manf. Bid him bow down to that which is above himj 
 The overruling Infinite — the Maker : 
 
 Who made him not for worship — let him kneel. 
 And we will kneel together. 
 
 The Spirits. Crush the worm ! 
 Tear him in pieces ! 
 
 First Dest. Hence! Avaunt! he's mine. 
 
 Prince of the Powers invisible ! this man 
 
 Is of no common order, as his port 
 
 And presence here denote : his suiferings 
 
 Have been of an immortal nature, like 
 
 Our own ; his knowledge and his powers and will. 
 
 As far as is compatible with clay. 
 
 Which clogs the etherial essence, have been such 
 
 As clay hath seldom borne; his aspirations 
 
 Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth. 
 
 And they have only taught him what we know — 
 
 That knowledge is not happiness, and science / 
 
 [But an exchange of ignorance for that ^ 
 
 Which is another kind of ignorance. 
 
 This is not all — the passions, attributes 
 
 Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being, 
 
 Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt, 
 
 Have pierced liis heart ; and in their consequence 
 
 Made him a thing, which I, who pity not. 
 
 Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
 
 And thine, it may be — be it so, or not. 
 
 No other Spirit in this region hath 
 
 A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 
 £3r 
 
 Nem. What doth he here then? 
 
 First Dest. Let him answer that. [power 
 
 Manf. Ye know what I have known; and without 
 I could not be amongst ye : but there are 
 Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
 Of such to answer unto what I seek. 
 
 Nem. What wouldst thou? 
 
 Manf. Thou canst not reply to me. 
 Call up the dead — my question is for them. 
 
 Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
 The wishes of this mortal? 
 
 Arim. Yea. 
 
 Nem. Whom wouldst thou 
 Uncharnel? 
 
 Manf. One without a tomb — call up 
 Astarte. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 Shadow^or Spirit! 
 
 Whatever thou art. 
 Which still doth inherit 
 
 The whole or a part 
 Of the form of thy birth, 
 
 Of the mould of thy clay, 
 Which return'd to the earth — 
 
 Re-appear to tJie day ! 
 Bear what thou borest, 
 
 The heart and the form, 
 And the aspect thou worest 
 
 Redeem from the worm. 
 Appear! — Appear! — Appear! 
 Who sent thee there requires thee here! 
 
 (The Phantom of Astarte rises and stands in the midst.) 
 
 Man. Can this be death ? there's bloom upon her cheek ? 
 But now I see it is no living hue, 
 But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
 Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
 It is the same! Oh, God! that I should dread 
 To look upon the same — Astarte! — No, 
 I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
 Forgive me or condemn me. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 By the power which liath broken 
 
 The grave which inthrall'd thee, 
 Speak to him who hath spoken. 
 Or those who have call'd thee! 
 Manf. She is silent, 
 And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 
 
 Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of Air ! 
 It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 
 Arim. Spirit — obey this sceptre ! 
 A'em. Silent still! 
 She is not of our order, but belongs 
 To the other Powers. Mortal! thy quest is vain. 
 And we are baffled also. 
 
 Blanf Hear me, hear me — 
 .Astarte! my beloved! speak to me: 
 I have so much endured — so much endure — 
 Look on me! the grave hath not changed thee more 
 Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
 Too much, as I loved thee : wc were not made 
 
334 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 y 
 
 y 
 
 To torture thus each other, though it were 
 
 The deadliest sin to love as we hare Joved. 
 
 Say that thou loatliest me not — that I do bear 
 
 This punisliment for both — that thou wilt be 
 
 One of the bless'd — and that I shall die; 
 
 For hitlicrto all hateful things conspire 
 
 To bind me in existence — in a life 
 
 Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
 
 A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
 
 I know not what I ask, nor what I seek: 
 
 1 feel but what thou art — and what I am; 
 
 And I would hear yet once before I perish 
 
 The voice which was my music — Speak to me! 
 
 For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 
 
 Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs, 
 
 And woke the raountain-wolvcs, and made the caves 
 
 Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name, 
 
 Which answer'd me — many things ^swer'd me — 
 
 Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
 
 Yet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars 
 
 And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
 
 Speak to me I I have wander'd o'er the earth 
 
 And never found thy likeness — Speak to me! 
 
 Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
 
 I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
 
 Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — but say — 
 
 I reck not what • — but let me hear thee once - 
 
 Tills once — once more! 
 
 Phantom of Astarte. Manfred! 
 
 Manf. Say on, say on — 
 I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 
 , Pliant. Manfred! To-morrow ends thine earthly ills 
 Far^\vell ! 
 [ymanf. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 
 
 Phant. Farewell! 
 
 Manf. Say, shall we meet again? 
 
 Phant. Farewell! 
 
 Manf One word for mercy! Say, thou lovest me 
 
 Phant. Manfred! [The Spirit of Astarte disap^eai 
 
 Nem. She's gone, and will not be recall'd; 
 Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 
 
 A Spirit. He is convulsed. — This is to be a mortal 
 And seek the things beyond mortality. [mak< 
 
 i Another Spirit. Yet , see , he mastereth himself ai 
 His torture tributary to his will. 
 Had he been one of us, he would have made 
 An awful spirit. 
 
 Nem. Hast thou further question 
 Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers? 
 
 Manf None. 
 
 Nem. Then for a time farewell. 
 
 Manf We meet then! Where? On the earth?- 
 Even as thou wilt; and for the grace accorded 
 I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! [Ejtit m* 
 
 (Scene closes.) 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 
 Manfrbd and Herman. 
 
 Manf What is the hour? 
 
 Herm. It wants but one till sunset, 
 And promises a lovely twilight. 
 
 Manf. Say, 
 Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
 As I directed ? 
 
 Herm. All, my lord, are ready; 
 Here is the key and casket. 
 
 Manf. It is well: 
 Thou mayst retire. [Exit Herman. 
 
 Manf. (alone.) Tiiere is a calm upon me — 
 Inexplicable stillness! which till now 
 Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
 If that I did not know philosophy 
 To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
 The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
 From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
 The golden secret, the sought "Kalon," found, 
 And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
 
 But it is well to have known it, though but once : 
 It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense. 
 And I within my tablets would note down 
 That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 
 
 Re-enter Herman. 
 
 Herm. My lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice crave s 
 To greet your presence. , 
 
 Enter the Abbot of St. Maubicb. 
 
 Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred! I 
 
 Manf. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these \vall.s| 
 
 Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those 
 
 Who dwell within them. 
 
 Abbot. Would it were so. Count! — jf| 
 
 But I would fain confer with thee alone. 
 
 Manf. Herman, retire. What would my reverend gt 
 Abbot. Thus, -without prelude: — Age and zeal, n^ 
 
 And good intent, must plead my privilege; [offit 
 
 Our near, though not acquainted, neighbourhood 
 
 May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 
 
 And of unholy nature, are abroad. 
 
 And busy with thy name; a noble name 
 
ACT rii. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 335 
 
 y 
 
 For centuries; may he who bears it now 
 Transmit it unimpair'd ! 
 
 Manf. Proceed, — I listen. 
 
 Abbot. 'Tis said tliou boldest converse with the things 
 Which are forbidden to the search of man; 
 That with the dwellers of the dark abodes. 
 The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
 Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
 Thou communest. I know that with mankind. 
 Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
 Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
 Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 
 
 Manf. And what are they wlio do avouch these things ? 
 
 Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
 Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
 With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 
 
 Man/. Take it. 
 
 Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 
 I would not pry into thy secret soul; 
 But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
 For penitence and pity: reconcile thee 
 With the true church, and through the church to Heaven, 
 
 Manf. I hear thee. This is my reply : whatc'cr 
 I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
 Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal /' 
 To be my mediator. Have 1 sinn'd xj 
 
 Against your ordinances? prove and punish ! 
 
 Abbot. My son! I did not speak of punishment, 
 But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
 The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
 Our institutions and our strong belief 
 Have given me power to smooth the path from sin 
 To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
 I leave to Heaven — "Vengeance is mine alone !" 
 So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
 His servant echoes back the awful word. , 
 
 Manf. Old man ! there is no power in holy men. 
 Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
 Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 
 Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. 
 The innate tortures of that deep despair, ' 
 
 Which is remorse without the fear of hell, \ 
 
 But all in all sufficient to itself j 
 
 Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise i 
 
 From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense • 
 
 Of its own sins, wrong, sufferance, and revenge 
 Upon itself; there is no future pang - > 
 
 Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd i 
 
 He deals on his own soul. 
 
 Abbot. All this is well ; 
 Fortius will pass away, and be succeeded 
 By an auspicious hope, which sliall look up 
 With calm assurance to that blessed place, 
 Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
 Their earthly errors, so they be atoned: 
 And the commencement of atonement is 
 Tiie sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
 And all our church can teach thee shall be taught; 
 And all we can absolve thee, shall be pardon'd. 
 
 Manf. When Rome's sixth Emperor was near his last, 
 The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
 
 To shun the torments of a public death 
 From senates, once his slaves, a certain soldier. 
 With show of loyal pity, would have staunch'd 
 The gushing throat with his officious robe; 
 The dying Roman thrust him back and said — 
 Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
 "It is too late — is this fidelity ?" 
 
 Abbot. And what of this? 
 
 Manf. I answer with the Roman — 
 "It is too late !" 
 
 Abbot. It never can be so. 
 To reconcile thyself with thy own soul. 
 And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no hope? 
 'Tis strange — even those who do despair above, 
 Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth, 
 To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men. 
 
 Manf. Ay — father ! I have had those earthly visions 
 And noble aspirations in my youth, 
 To make my own the mind of other men. 
 The enlightener of nations; and to rise 
 I knew not whither — it might be to fall; 
 But fall, even as the mountain-cataract. 
 Which having leapt from its more dazzling height. 
 Even in the foaming strength of its abyss 
 (Which casts up misty columns that become 
 Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies) 
 Lies low but mighty still. — But this is past, 
 My thoughts mistook themselves. 
 
 Abbot. And wherefore so? 
 
 Manf. I could not tame my natare down ; for he 
 Must serve who fain would sway — and soothe — and sue — 
 And watch all time — and pry into all place — 
 And be a living lie — who would become 
 A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 
 The mass are; I disdain'd to mingle with 
 A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
 The lion is alone, and so am I. 
 
 Abbot. And why not live and act with other men ? 
 
 Manf. Because my nature was averse from life; 
 And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
 But find a desolation : — like the wind. 
 The red-hot breath of Ihe most lone Simoom, 
 Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
 The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 
 And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
 And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
 But being met is deadly; such hath been 
 The course of my existence; but there came 
 Things in my path which are no more. 
 
 Abbot. Alas! 
 I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
 From me and from my calling; yet so young, 
 I still would — 
 
 Manf. Look on me ! there is an order 
 Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
 Old in their youth and die ere middle age. 
 Without the violence of warlike death ; 
 Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
 Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
 Some of disease — and some insanity — 
 And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts; 
 
336 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 For this last is a malady which slays 
 More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
 Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
 Look upon me! for even of all these things 
 Have I partaken; and of all these tilings. 
 One were enough ; then wonder not that I 
 Am what I am, but that I ever was. 
 Or having been, that I am still on earth. 
 
 Abbot. Yet, hear me still ^- 
 
 Manf. Old man ! I do respect 
 Thine order, and revere thine years ; 1 deem 
 Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
 Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself, 
 Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
 All further colloquy — and so — farewell. [Exit Manfred. 
 
 Abbot, This should have been a noble creature: he 
 Hath all the energy which would have made 
 A goodly frame of glorious elements, 
 Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is. 
 It is an awful chaos — liglit and darkness — 
 And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, 
 Mix'd and contending without end or order, 
 All dormant or destructive : he will perish, 
 And yet he must not; I will try once more, 
 For such are worth redemption; and my duty 
 Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
 I'll follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 
 
 [Exit Abbot. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Another chamber. 
 
 Manfred and Hkrman. 
 
 Herman. My Lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset; 
 He sinks behind the mountain. 
 
 Manf. Doth he so? 
 I will look on him. [Manfred advances to the window of the hall. 
 Glorious Orb! the idol 
 Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
 Of undiseased mankind, the giant-sons 
 Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
 More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
 The erring spirits who can ne'er return — 
 Most glorious Orb! that wert a worship, ere 
 The mystery of thy making was reveal'd! 
 Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
 Which gladden'd, on their mountain-tops, tlic hearts 
 Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
 Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 
 And representative of the Unknown — 
 Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star ! 
 Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth 
 Endurable, and temperest the hues 
 And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
 Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
 And those Avho dwell in them ! for near or far, 
 Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
 Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
 And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well! 
 I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
 Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
 
 My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one 
 To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
 Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
 
 I follow. [Exit Manfre 
 
 ACT 11 
 t MandrtA 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Tlie Mountains — The Castle of Manfred at some distance 
 before a Tower. — Time, Twilight. 
 
 A Terrac 
 
 Herman, Manuel, and other Uepcudants of Manfred. j 
 
 Herm. 'Tis strange enough; night after night, for years 
 He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, I 
 
 Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
 So have we all been oft-times; but from it. 
 Or its contents, it were impossible 
 To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
 His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
 One chamber where none enter; I would give 
 The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
 To pore upon its mysteries. 
 
 Manuel. 'Twere dangerous; 
 Content thyself with what thou knowst already. 
 
 Herm. Ah ! Manuel ! tiiou art elderly and wise. 
 And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the castle 
 How many years is't? 
 
 Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
 I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 
 
 Herm. There be more sons in like predicament. 
 But wherein do they differ ? 
 
 Manuel, I speak not 
 Of features or of form, but mind and habits : 
 Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free — 
 A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not 
 With books and solitude, nor made the night 
 A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
 Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks 
 And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
 From men and their delights. 
 
 Herm. Beshrew the hour, ' ■-' 
 But those were jocund times! I would that such 
 Would visit the old walls again; they look 
 As if they had forgotten them. 
 
 Manuel. These walls 
 Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
 Some strange things in them, Herman. 
 
 Herm. Come, be friendly; 
 Relate me some to while away our watch: 
 I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
 Which happened hereabouts, by this same tower. 
 
 Manuel. That was a niglit indeed ; I do remember 
 'Twas twilight as it may be now, and such 
 Another evening; — yon'red cloud, which rests 
 On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested tlien, — 
 So like that it might be the same; tlie wind 
 Was faint and gusty, and the mountain-snows 
 Began to glitter with the climbing moon; 
 Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
 How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
 The sole companion of his wanderings 
 And watchings — her, wliom of all earthly things 
 That lived, the only thing he secm'd to love, — 
 
 
lAqr 111. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 337 
 
 As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 
 
 The lady Astarte, bis — Hush ! who comes here? 
 
 Enter the Abbot. 
 
 [ Abbot. Where is your master ? 
 
 [ Herm. Yonder, in the tower. 
 
 i Abbot. I must speak with him. 
 
 t Manuel. 'Tis impossible, 
 
 tie is most private, and must not be thus 
 
 j ntruded on. 
 
 I Abbot. Upon myself I take 
 
 riie forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
 
 i3ut I must see him. 
 
 i' Herm. Thou hast seen him once 
 
 jiThis eve already. 
 
 j Abbot, Herman ! I command thee, 
 
 jvnock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 
 
 j Herm. We dare not. 
 
 Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 
 )f my own purpose. 
 
 Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 
 pray you pause. 
 
 Abbot. Why so? 
 
 Manuel. But step this way, 
 
 lid I will tell you further. [Excnnt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Interior of the Tower. 
 Manfred alone. 
 
 Manf. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
 f the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful !^ 
 linger yet with Nature, for the night 
 ;atli been to me a more familiar face 
 lian that of man ; and in her starry sliade 
 f dim and solitary loveliness, 1 
 
 Icarn'd the language of another world, 
 do remember me, that in my youth, 
 7hen I was wandering, — upon such a night 
 jstood within tlie Coliseum's wall, 
 iLidst the chief relics of almighty Rome; 
 he trees which grew along the broken arches 
 i'^aved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
 lone through the rents of ruin; from afar 
 he watchdog bayed beyond the Tiber; and 
 ore near from out the Cccsars' palace came 
 'je owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
 f distant sentinels the fitful song 
 ^gun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 )me cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
 jpear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
 itliin a bowshot — where the Cajsars dwelt, 
 id dwell the tuneless birds of night amidst 
 grove which springs through levell'd battlements, 
 id twines its roots with the imperial hearths, — 
 y usurps the laurel's place of growth; — 
 it the gladiator's bloody Circus stands, 
 iK»hIe wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
 liilo Ciesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, 
 ovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 
 id thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 
 V 
 
 Ail this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
 
 Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
 
 Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up. 
 
 As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries; 
 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
 
 And making that which was not, till the place 
 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 
 With silent worship of the great of old! — 
 
 The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 
 
 Our spirits from their urns. — 'Twas such a night! 
 
 'Tis strange that I recall itatthis time; 
 
 But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
 
 Even at the moment when they should array 
 
 Themselves in pensive order. 
 
 Enter the Abbot. 
 
 Abbot. My good Lord ! 
 I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
 But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
 By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
 Recoils on me; its good in the efiect 
 May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
 Could 1 touch that, with words or prayers, I should 
 Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
 But is not yet all lost. 
 
 Manf. Thou knowst me not ; 
 My days are ndmber'd, and my deeds recorded : 
 Retire, oi 'twill be dangerous — Away ! 
 
 Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me? 
 
 Manf. Not I; 
 1 simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
 And would [)resorve thee. 
 
 Abbot. What dost thou mean? 
 
 Manf. Look there! 
 What dost thou see? 
 
 Abbot. Nothing. 
 
 Manf. Look there, I say, 
 And steadfastly; — now tell mo what thou seest? [not — 
 
 Abbot. That which should shake me, — but I fear it 
 I see a dusk and awful figure rise 
 Like an infernal god from out the earth ; 
 His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
 Robed as with angry clouds; he stands between 
 Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. [but 
 
 Manf. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — 
 His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
 I say to thee — Retire ! 
 
 Abbot. And I reply — 
 Never — till I have battled with this fiend — 
 What doth he here? 
 
 Manf. Why — ay — what doth he here? 
 I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 
 
 Abbot. Alas! lost mortal! what with guests like these 
 Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake. 
 Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him? 
 Ah! he unveils his aspect; on his brow 
 The thunder-scars are graven; from his eye 
 Clares forth the immortality of hell — 
 Avaunt! 
 
 Manf. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 
 
 Spirit. Come! 
 
 22 
 
338 
 
 MANFKED. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Abbot. What art thou, unknown being? answer! — 
 speak! 
 I Spirit. Tji e genius of this mortal. — Come ! 'tis time. 
 Manf. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
 The power wliicli summons me. Who sent thee here? 
 Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come! come! 
 Manf. I have commanded 
 Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
 1 And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence! 
 I Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come — Away! I say. 
 Manf. I knew, and know my liour is come, but not 
 To render up my soul to such as thee: 
 Away ! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 
 
 Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren. — Rise ! 
 
 [Other iipiriU rise up. 
 
 Abbot. Avaunt! ye evil ones! — Avaunt! I say, — 
 Ye have no power where piety hath power, 
 And I do charge ye in the name — 
 
 Spirit. Old man! 
 We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order; 
 Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
 rt were in vain ; this man is forfeited. 
 Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 
 
 Manf. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
 Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye; 
 Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
 To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
 To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take 
 Shall beta'en limb by limb. 
 
 Spirit. Reluctant mortal! 
 Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
 The world invisible, and make himself 
 Almost our equal? — Can it be that thou 
 Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
 Which made thee wretched ! 
 
 Manf. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 
 My life is in its last hour — that T know, 
 Nor would redeem a moment of that hour; 
 I do not combat against death, but thee 
 \nd thy surrounding angels; my past power 
 Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, 
 But by superior science — penance — daring — 
 And length of watching — strength of mind — and skill 
 
 In knowledge of our fathers — wiien the earth 
 Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
 And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
 Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
 Spurn back, and scorn ye! — 
 
 Spirit. But thy many crimes 
 Have made thee — 
 
 Manf. What are they to such as thee? 
 Must.crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 
 And greater criminals? — Back to thy hell! 
 Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel; 
 Thou never shalt possess me, that I know: 
 What I have done is done ; I bear within 
 A torture which could nothing gain from thine: 
 The mind which is immortal makes itself 
 NRequitai forTfs"good or evil thoughts — 
 Is its own origin of ill and end — 
 And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
 When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
 No colour from the fleeting things without; 
 But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
 Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
 Tliou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst nottempti 
 I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
 But was my own destroyer, and will be 
 My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends! 
 The hand of death is on me — but not yours! 
 
 [Tiie Demons disapf 
 
 Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art — tliy lips are whit^ 
 And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
 The accents rattle. — Give thy prayers to Heaven — ■« 
 Fray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 
 
 Manf 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not; 
 But all things swim around me, and the earth 
 Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — | 
 Give me thy hand. 
 
 Abbot. Cold — cold — even to tlie heart — 
 But yet one prayer — alas ! how fares it w ith thee 1 - 
 
 Manf. Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die. 
 
 [Maiil'rcd cxpSi 
 
 Abbot. He's gone— his soul hath ta'cn its earthlji 
 Whither? I dread to think — but lie is gone. t'^'S^ 
 

 339 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 m 
 
 Dux inquieti tnrbidus Adriae. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of 
 
 lie most remarkable events in the annuls of tlie most 
 
 ingular government, city, and people of modern history. 
 
 ^occurred in the year 1355. Every thing about Venice 
 
 j;, or was, extraordinary — her aspect is like a dream, 
 
 mbd her history is like a romance. The story of this Doge 
 
 B to be found in all her Chronicles, and particularly de- 
 
 jiled in the "Lives of the Doges," by Marin Sanuto, 
 
 jhlcli is given in the Appendix. It is simply and clearly 
 
 Blated, and is, perhaps, more dramatic in itself than any 
 
 ^nenes which can be founded upon the subject. 
 
 'M Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents 
 
 lid of courage. I find him commander in chief of the 
 
 ■ jnd-forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat the King 
 
 [■ Hungary and his army of80,000men, killing 8000 men 
 
 ' jid keeping the besieged at the same time in check, an 
 
 liploit to which I know none similar in history, except 
 
 jat ofCdBsar at Alesia and ofPrince Eugene at Belgrade. 
 
 jc was afterwards commander of the fleet in the same 
 
 pr. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador at 
 
 ' icnoa and Rome, at wliicli last he received the news of 
 
 selection to the Dukedom; his absence being a proof 
 
 at he sought is by no intrigue, since he was apprized of 
 
 s predecessor's death and his own succession at the 
 
 me moment. But he appears to have been of an un- 
 
 vernable temper. A story is told by Sanuto, of his 
 
 ving, many years before, when podesta and captain at 
 
 eviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who was somewhat 
 
 dy in bringing the Host. For this honest Sanuto 
 
 laddies him with a judgment ," as Thwackum did 
 
 iuare; but he does not tell us whether he was punished 
 
 rebuked hy the Senate for this outrage at the time of 
 
 commission. He seems, indeed, to have been after- 
 
 rds at peace with the church, for we find him ambas- 
 
 ' lor at Rome , and invested with the fief of Val di Ma- 
 
 0, in the March ofTreviso, and with tlie title of Count, 
 
 ' Lorenzo, Count-Bishop of Ceneda. For these facts 
 
 ' authorities are, Sanuto, Vettor Sandi, Andrea Na- 
 
 Tcro, and the account of the siege of Zara, first pub- 
 
 I icd by the indefatigable Abate Morelli, in his "Mo- 
 
 1 aienti Veneziani di varia letteratura," printed in 1796, 
 
 ' of which I have looked over in the original language. 
 
 ' P moderns, Daru,Sismondi, andLaugier, nearly agree 
 
 * h the ancient chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the 
 
 vvhile 
 
 conspiracy to his Jealousy ; but I find this nowhere as- 
 serted by the national historians. Vettor Sandi , indeed, 
 
 says, that "Aitri scrissero che dalla gelosa suspizion 
 
 di esso Doge siasi fatto (Michel Steno) staccar con vio- 
 lenza," etc. etc. ; but this appears to have been by no means 
 the general opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto or by 
 Navagero; and Sandi himself adds a moment after, that 
 "per altre Vencziane memorie traspiri, che non il solo 
 desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alia congiura, ma an<^he 
 la innata abituale ambizion sua , per cui anelava a farsi 
 principe indipendente." The first motive appears to have 
 been excited by the gross affront of the words written by 
 Michel Steno on the ducal chair, and by the light and 
 inadequate sentence of the Forty on the offender , who 
 was one of their "tre Capi." The attentions of Steno him- 
 self appear to have been directed towards one of her 
 damsels, and not to the "Dogaressa" herself, against 
 whose fame not the slightest insinuation appears, vvhile 
 she is praised for her beauty, and remarked for hery 
 Neither do I find it asserted (unless the hint of San 
 an assertion) that the Doge was actuated by jealou 
 his wife; but rather by respect for her, and for his 
 own honour, warranted by his past services and present 
 dignity. 
 
 I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in 
 English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of Italy. His 
 account is false and flippant, full of stale jests about old 
 men and young wives, and wondering at so great an 
 effect from so slight a cause. How so acute and severe an 
 observer of mankind as the author of Zeluco could won- 
 der at this is inconceivable. He knew that a basin of 
 water spilt on Mrs. Masham's gown deprived the Duke 
 of Malborough of his command, and led to the inglorious 
 peace of Utrecht — that Louis XIV was plunged into the 
 most desolating wars, because his minister was nettled at 
 his finding fault with a window, and wished to give him 
 another occupation — that Helen lost Troy — that Lu- 
 cretia expelled theTarquins from Rome — and that Cava 
 brought the Moors to Spain — that an insulted husband 
 led the Gauls to Clusium , and thence to Rome — that a 
 single verse of Frederic II. of Prussia on the Abbe de 
 Bernis, and a jest on Madame de Pompadour, led to the 
 battle of Rosbach — that the elopement of Dearbhorgil 
 with Mac Murchad conducted the English to the slavery 
 
340 
 
 PREFACE TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 of Ireland — that a personal pique between Maria An- 
 toinette and the Duke of Orleans precipitated the first 
 expulsion of the Bourbons — and, not to multiply in- 
 stances, tiiat Commodus, Domitian, and Caligula fell 
 ' victims, not to their public tyranny, but to private ven- 
 geance — and that an order to make Cromwell disembark 
 from the ship in which he would have sailed to America, 
 destroyed both King and Commonwealth. After these 
 instances, on the least reflection, it is indeed extraor- 
 dinary in Dr. Moore to seem surprised that a man, used 
 to command, who had served and swayed in the most im- 
 portant offices, should fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an 
 unpunished affront, the grossest that can be offered to a 
 man, be he prince or peasant. The age of Faliero is little 
 to the purpose, unless to favour it. 
 
 The young man's wrath is like straw ou fire, 
 But like red hot steel is the old man's ire. 
 
 Young men soon give and soon forget affronts. 
 Old age is slow at both. 
 
 Laugier's reflections are more philosopliical: — "Talc 
 fu il fine ignominioso di un' uomo, che la sua nasciti, la 
 sua eta, il suo carattere dovevano tencr lontano dalle 
 passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi talcnti per 
 lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua 
 capacity sperimentata ne' governi e ncllc ambasciate, gli 
 avevano acquistato la stima e la fiducia de' cittadini, cd 
 avevano uniti i sulfragj per collocarlo alia testa dclla 
 republica. Innalzato ad un grado che terminava glorio- 
 samenta la sua vita, il risentimento di un' ingiuria leg- 
 giera insinuo nel suo cuore tal veleno che basto a cor- 
 rompere le antiche sue qualita, e a condurlo al termine 
 dei scellerati; serio esempio, che prova non esservieta, 
 in cui la prudenza umaiia sia sicura, e che neW uomo 
 restano sempre passioni capaci a disonorarlo, quando non 
 invigili sopra se stesso." Laugier, Italian translation, vol. 
 iv. p. 30. 
 
 Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero begged 
 his life? I have searched the chroniclers, and find nothing 
 of the kind; it is true that he avowed all. He was con- 
 ducted to the place of torture, but there is no mention 
 made of any application for mercy on his part; and the 
 very circumstance of their having taken him to the rack 
 seems to argue any thing but his having siiown a want 
 of firmness, which would doubtless liave been also men- 
 tioned by those minute historians who by no means fa- 
 vour him: such, indeed, would be contrary to his cha- 
 racter as a soldier, to the age in which he lived, and at 
 which he died, as it is to the truth of history. I know no 
 justification at any distance of time for calumniating an 
 historical character; surely truth belongs tO the dead 
 and to the unfortunate, and they who have died upon a 
 scaffold have generally had faults enough of their own, 
 without attributing to them that which the very incurring 
 of the perils which conducted them to their violent death 
 renders, of all others, the most improbable. The black 
 veil which is painted over the place of Marino Faliero 
 amongst the doges, and the Giant's Staircase, where he 
 was crowned, and discrowned, and decapitated, struck 
 forcibly upon my imagination, as did his fiery character 
 
 and strange story. I went in 1819, in search of his tomi 
 more than once, to the church SanGiovanni e San Paolcl 
 and as I was standing before the monument of anotiit! 
 family, a priest came up to me and said, "I can show yo 
 finer monuments than that." I told him that I was i 
 search of that of the Faliero family, and particularly ( 
 the Doge Marino's. "Oh," said he, "I will show it you;i 
 and conducting me to the outside, pointed out a Sarc(j 
 phagus in the wall, with an illegible inscription. He sai 
 that it had been in a convent adjoining, but was remove 
 after the French came, and placed in its present situatioi 
 that he had seen the tomb opened at its removal; the; 
 were still some bones remaining, but no positive vestij 
 of the decapitation. The equestrian statue of which 
 have made mention in the third act as before tliat chuic 
 is not, however, of a Faliero, but of some other no 
 obsolete warrior, although of a later date. There we 
 two other Doges of this family prior to Marino ; Ordelaf 
 who fell in battle at Zara, in 1117, (where his descenda 
 afterwards conquered the Huns) and Vital Faliero, wl 
 reigned in 1082. The family, originally from Fano, w 
 of the most illustrious in blood and wealth in the city 
 once the most wealthy and still t!ie most ancient famili 
 in Europe. The length I have gone into onthissubje 
 will show the interest I have taken in it. Whether I ha 
 succeeded or not in the tragedy, I have at least trani 
 ferred into our language an historical fact worthy 
 commemoration. 
 
 It is now four years that I have meditated this won 
 and before I had sufficiently examined tiie records, I w 
 rather disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy 
 Faliero. But percerving no foundation for this in histi 
 rical truth, and aware that jealousy is an exhaustj 
 passion in the drama, I have given it a more historic 
 form. I was, besides, well advised by the late ]Mattlii 
 Lewis on tiiat point, in talking with him of my intentie 
 at Venice, in 1817. "If you make him jealous," said ! 
 "recollect that you have to contend with establish 
 writers, to say nothing of Shakspeare, and an exhausi 
 subject; — stick to the old fiery Doge's natural charr 
 tcr, which will bear you out, if properly drawn ; ;t 
 make your plot as regular as you can." Sir Willi; 
 Drummund gave me nearly the same counsel. How 
 I have followed these instructions, or whether they li 
 availed me, is not for me to decide. I have had no vi 
 to the stage; in its present state il is, perhaps, not a V( 
 exalted object of ambition; besides, I have been ( 
 mucii behind the scenes to have thought it so at a 
 time. And I cannot conceive any man of irritable feeii 
 putting himself at the mercies of an audience; — 1 
 sneering reader, and the loud critic, and the tart revit 
 are scattered and distant calamities; but the trampli 
 of an intelligent or of an ignorant audience on a pi 
 duction which, be it good or bad, has been a mental 
 hour to the writer, is a palpableand immediate grievan 
 heightened by a man's doubt of their competency 
 judge, and his certainty of his own imprudence in ele 
 ing them his judges. Were I capable of writing a pi 
 which could be deemed stage-worthy, success woi 
 give me no pleasure, and failure great pain. It is for t 
 reason that, even during the time of being one of i 
 
ACT I. 
 
 aiARINO FALTERO. 
 
 841 
 
 committee of one of the theatres, I never made the 
 attempt, and never will. *) But surely there is dramatic 
 power somewhere, — where Joanna BailJie, andMiIlman, 
 and Jolm Wilson exist. The "City of the Plague" and 
 
 i •) Wliile I was in the snb commiwee of Drory Lane Theatre, I can 
 vonch for my colleagues, and I hope for myself , that we did our best to 
 ( bring back the legitimate drania. 1 tried what I could to get "Be Mont 
 i fort" revived, but in vain, and equally in vain !a favour of Sotheby's 
 f "Ivan," which was thought an acting play ; and 1 endeavoured also to 
 \ wake Mr. Coleridge to write a tragedy. Those who are not in the secret 
 I will hardly believe that the "'School for Scandal" is the play which has 
 brought leact money, averaging the number of times it has been acted 
 ■ since its production ; so Manager Dibdin assured me. Of what has oc- 
 I cnrred since Maturin's "Bertram," I am not awaie; so that I may be tra- 
 I ducine, through ignorance, some excellent new writers, if so, I beg their 
 \ pardon. I have been absent from England nearly five years, and, till last 
 1 year, I never read an Engli-h newspaper since my dcpaiture, and am now 
 oaly aware of theatrical matters through the medium of the Parisian 
 I English Gazette of Galignani, and only for the last twelve months. Let 
 I me then deprecate all offence to tragic or comic writers, to whom I wish 
 I well, and of whom I know nothing. The long complaints of the actual 
 ( state of the drama arise, however, from no fault of the performers. I can 
 j conceive nothing better than Kemhle, Cooke, and Keaii, in their very 
 'different manners, or than Elliston In gentleman's comedy, and in some 
 part? of tr.".gedy. Miss O' Neill I never saw, having made and kept a de- 
 lenninatiOn to see nothing which should divide or disturb my recollection 
 ofSiddons. Siddons and Kemble were toe ideal of tragic action ; I never 
 saw any thing at all re'enibliug them, even in person; for this reason, 
 we shall never see again Coriolanus or Macbeth. When Kean is blamed 
 for want of dignity, we should remember that it is a grace and not an art, 
 and not to be attained by study. In all not suPERnatural parts he >s per- 
 fect; even hi* very defects belong, or seem to belong, to the parts them- 
 selves, and appear truer to nature. But of Kemble we may say, with re- 
 ference to his acting, what the Cardinal de lletz said of the Mar.|Ui- of 
 'Moiitro.ip, "that he was the only man he ever saw who remindc'l him of 
 iiMOLi of Plutarch." 
 
 the "Fall of Jerusalem" are full of the best "materiel" 
 for tragedy that has been seen since Horace Walpole, 
 except passages of Ethwald and De Montfort. It is tlie 
 fashion to underrate Horace Walpole; firstly, bccau^ie 
 he was a nobleman, and secondly, because he was a 
 gentleman; but, to say nothing of the composition of 
 his incomparable letters, and of the Castle of Otranto, 
 he is the "Ultimus Romanorum," the author of the 
 Mysterious Mother, a tragedy of the highest order, and 
 not a puling love-play. He is the father of the first ro- 
 mance, and of the last tragedy in our language, and 
 surely worthy of a higher place than any living writer, 
 be he who he may. 
 
 In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I forgot 
 to mention that the desire of preserving, though still too 
 remote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregularity, 
 which is the reproach of the English theatrical compo- 
 sitions, permits, has induced me to represent the con- 
 spiracy as already formed, and the Doge acceding to it, 
 whereas, in fact, it was of his own preparation and that 
 of Israel Bertuccio. The other cliaracters (except that 
 of the duchess), incidents, and almost the time, which 
 was wonderfully short for such a design in real life, 
 are strictly historical, except that all the consultations 
 took place in the palace. Had I followed this, the unity 
 would have been better preserved; but I wished to 
 produce the Doge in the full assembly of the conspi- 
 rators, instead of monotonously placing him always in 
 dialogue with the same individuals. For the real facts, 
 I refer to the extracts given in the Appendix in Italian, 
 with a translation. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Marino Faliero, Do^e of Venice. 
 jtiERTUCcio Faliero, Nephew of the Doge. 
 LiONi, a Patrician and Senator. 
 JUenintende, Chief of the Council of Tern 
 'VIiCHEL Steno, one of the three Capi of the Forty. 
 ^RAEL Bertuccio, Chief of the Arsenal, 
 
 'hiup Calendaro, 
 
 >-lGOLINO, 
 
 Bertram, 
 
 '■iif/nor of the Night, 
 '■"irst Citizen. 
 <('iond Citizen. 
 
 Conspirators. 
 
 Tliird Citizen, 
 
 VlNCENZO, \ 
 
 PiETRO, > Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace. 
 
 Battista, ) 
 
 Secretary of the Council of Ten. 
 
 Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, The Council of Ten, 
 Tlie Giunta, etc. etc. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. 
 MaRIaNNA, her Friend. 
 
 Female Attendants. 
 
 Scene, Venice — in the year 1355. 
 
 ACT 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 An Antechamber in the Ducal Palace. 
 PiF.TRo speaks, in entering , to Battisti. 
 
 l^irtro. Is not tlie messenger return'd ? 
 Battista. Not yet; 
 
 I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
 But still the Signory is deep in council 
 And long debate on Stcno's accusation. 
 
 Pietro. Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 
 
 Batt. How bears he 
 I The.se moments of suspense? 
 
342 
 
 MARINO FALIERO 
 
 ACT 1 
 
 Pietro. With struggling patience. 
 Placed at the ducal table, covcr'd o'er 
 With all the apparel of the state, petitions, 
 Despatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports. 
 He sits as rapt in duty; but whene'er 
 He hears the jarring of a distant door, 
 Or aught that intimates a coming step. 
 Or murmur of a voice, his quick, eye wanders, 
 And he will start up from his chair, then pause, 
 And seat himself again, and fix his gaze 
 Upon some edict; but I have observed 
 For the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf. 
 
 Batt. 'Tis said he is much moved; and doubtless 'twas 
 Foul scorn in Steno to ofl'end so grossly. 
 
 Pietro. Ay, if a poor man : Steno's a patrician, 
 Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 
 
 Batt. Then you think 
 He will not be judged hardly. 
 
 Pietro. "Twere enough 
 He be judged justly; but 'tis not for us 
 To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 
 
 Batt. And here it comes. — What news, Vincenzo? 
 
 Enter ViNCKXKj. 
 
 Vine. 'Tis 
 Decided; but as yet his doom's unknown: 
 I saw the president in act to seal 
 The parchment which will bear the Forty's judgment 
 Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 The Dncal Chamber. 
 
 Masino Faliero, Doge; an«i liis nephew, Bertuccio Faliero. 
 
 Bertuccio Faliero. It cannot be but they will do you 
 
 Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori did, [justice. 
 
 Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
 To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 
 
 B. Fal. His peers will scarce protect him; such an act 
 Would bring contempt on all authority. 
 
 Doffc. Know you not Venice? know you not the Forty? 
 But we shall see anon. 
 
 Bertuccio Faliero (addressing Vincenzo, then entering). 
 How now — what tidings? 
 
 Vine. I am charged to tell his highness that the court 
 Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 
 As the due forms of judgment are gone through, 
 The sentence will be sent up to the Doge; 
 In the mean time the Forty doth salute 
 The prince of the Republic, and entreat 
 His acceptation of their duty. 
 
 Doge. Yes — 
 They are wond'rous dutiful, and ever humble. 
 Sentence is past, you say ? 
 
 Vine. It is, your highness : 
 The president was sealing it, when I 
 Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 
 In forwarding the intimation due. 
 Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
 But the complainant, both in one united. 
 
 B. Fal. Are you aware, from aught you have perceived. 
 Of their decision? 
 
 Vine. No, my lord; you know 
 The secret customs of the courts in Venice. [guess, 
 
 B. Fal. True; but there still is something given to 
 Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would catch at; 
 A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
 More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
 The Forty are but men — most worthy men, 
 And wise, and just, and cautious— this I grant — 
 And secret as the grave to which they doom 
 The guilty; but with all this, in their aspects — 
 At least in some, the juniors of the number — 
 A searching eye, an ej e like yours, Vincenzo, 
 Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 
 
 Vine. My lord, I came away upon the moment. 
 And had no leisure to take note of that 
 Which pass'd among the judges, even in seeming; 
 ^ly station near the accused too, Michel Steno, 
 Made me — 
 
 Doge (uhvuptiy.) And how look'd Ac' deliver that. 
 
 Vme. Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign'd 
 To the decree, whate'er it were; — but lo! 
 It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 
 
 Enter the Secretary of the Forty. 
 
 Sec. The liigh tribunal of the Forty sends 
 Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
 Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests 
 His highness to peruse and to approve 
 The sentence past on Michel Steno, born 
 Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 
 Contain'd, together with its penalty, 
 Within the rescript which I now present. 
 
 Doge. Retire and wait without. — Take thou this 
 
 [Exeunt .Secretary and Viureoie. 
 
 The misty letters vanish from my eyes ; 
 1 cannot fix them. 
 
 B. Fal. Patience, my dear uncle : 
 Why do you tremble thus? — nay, doubt not, all 
 Will be as could be wish'd. 
 
 Doge. Say on. 
 
 B. Fal. (reading.) "Decreed P 
 
 "In council, without one dissenting voice, 
 "That Michel Steno, by his own confessiori, 
 "Guilty on tiie last night of Carnival 
 "Of having graven on the ducal throne 
 "The following words " 
 
 Doge. Wouldst thou repeat them? 
 Wouldst tlwu repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 
 Harp on the deep dishonour of our house, 
 Dishonour'd in its chief — that chief the prince 
 Of Venice, first of cities? — To the sentence. 
 
 B. Fal. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey — 
 (Reads) "That Michel Steno be detain'd a month 
 "In close arrest." 
 
 Doge. Proceed. 
 
 B.Fal. My lord, 'tis finish'd. ['Tis false —| 
 
 Doge. How, say you? — finish'd! Do I dream? — 
 
 Give me the paper — (Snatches the paper and read.o) "TiS de-| 
 
 creed in council, > 
 
 That Michel Steno" Nephew, thine arm! 
 
 B. Fal. Nay, 
 
 [papar: 
 
id I. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 343 
 
 !!heer up, be calm ; this transport is uiicali'd for — 
 
 jct me seek some assistance. 
 Doffe. Stop, sir — Stir not — 
 
 ris past. 
 B. Fal. I cannot but agree with you, 
 
 'he sentence is too slight for the ofl'ence — 
 
 t is not lionourable in tiie Forty 
 
 'o affix so slight a penalty to that 
 
 V\\\c\\ was a foul aflront to you, and even 
 
 o them, as being your subjects ; but 'tis not 
 
 et without remedy : you can appeal 
 
 o them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
 
 H\o, seeing that true justice is withheld, 
 
 r\\\ now take up the cause they once declined, 
 
 nd do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
 
 liink you not thus, good uncle? why do you stand 
 
 ) fiv'd ? You heed me not: — I pray you, hear me ! 
 
 Doge (dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offering to trample npou 
 it, exclaims, as he is withheld by his nephew,) 
 
 Ih, that the Saracen were in Saint Mark's! 
 Iins would I do him homage. 
 B. Fal. For the sake 
 THeaven and all its Saints, my lord — 
 Doge. Away! 
 
 1, that the Genoese were in the port! 
 1, that the Huns wiiom I o'erthrew at Zara 
 frc ranged around the palace! 
 B. Fal. 'Tis not well 
 Venice' Duke to say so. 
 Doge. Venice' Duke! 
 ho now is Duke in Venice? let me see him, 
 i9t he may do me right. 
 ^,Fal. If you forget 
 llu* office, and its dignity and duty, 
 member that of man, and curb this passion. 
 
 i(f iJuke of Venice 
 
 {Jtoge (inteirupting him). There is no such thing — 
 9 a word — nay, worse — a wortliless by-word : 
 fe most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless wretch, 
 ho begs ills bread, if 'tis refused by one, 
 ly win it from another kinder heart ; 
 1 1 he, who is denied his right by those 
 ' iiose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
 an the rejected beggar — he's a slave — 
 - d tiiat am I, and thou, and all our house, 
 I L'li from this hour; the meanest artisan 
 ^jill point the finger, and the haughty noble 
 fliy spit upon us : — where is our redress? 
 ". Fal. The law, my prince — 
 ^oge (interrupting him). You scc what it has done: 
 ijik'd no remedy but from the law — 
 I )Hght no vengeance but redress by law — 
 I ill'd no judges but those named by law — 
 P sovereign, I appeal'd unto my subjects, 
 'i 5 very subjects who had made me sovereign, 
 -All gave me thus a double right to be so. 
 lb rights of place and choice, of birth and service, 
 I- aours and years, these scars, these hoary hairs, 
 1 ! travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, 
 1 ; blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
 V re weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest stain. 
 
 The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
 Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting! 
 And this is to be borne? 
 
 B. Fal. I say not that: — 
 In case your fresh appeal should be rejected, 
 We will find other means to make all even. 
 
 Doge. Appeal again ! art tliou my brother's^on? 
 A scion of the house of Faliero? 
 The nephew of a Doge? and of that blood 
 Which hath already given three dukes to Venice? 
 But thou sayst well — we must be humble now. 
 
 B. Fal. My princely uncle ! you are too much moved : — 
 I grant it was a gross ofl'ence ; and grossly 
 Left without fitting punishment; but still 
 This fury doth exceed the provocation, 
 Or any provocation: if we are wrong'd. 
 We will ask justice; if it be denied, 
 We'll take it; but may do all this in calmness — 
 Deep vengeance is the daughter of deep silence. 
 I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 
 I love our house, I honour you, its chief, 
 The guardian of my youth, and its instructor — 
 But though I understand your grief, and enter 
 In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 
 To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 
 O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 
 
 Doge. I tell thee — must I tell thee — what thy father 
 Would have required no words to comprehend : 
 Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
 Of torture from the touch? hast thou no soul — 
 No pride — no passion — no deep sense of honour? 
 
 B. Fal. 'Tis the first time that honour has been doubted, 
 And were the last, from any other sceptic. 
 
 Doge. You know the full oflence of this born villain. 
 This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, 
 Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel. 
 And on the honour of— Oh, God! — my wife, 
 The nearest, dearest part of all men's honour, 
 Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
 Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul comments, 
 And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 
 While sneering nobles, in more polish'd guise, 
 Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
 Which made me look like them — a courteous wittol, 
 Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonour. 
 
 B. Fal. But still it was a lie — you knew it false, 
 And so did all men. 
 
 Doge. Nephew, the high Roman 
 Said "Ctesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
 And put her from him. 
 
 B. Fal. True — but in those days — 
 
 Doge. What is it that a Roman would not sttflfer. 
 That a Venetian prince must bear? Old Dandolo 
 Refused the diadem of all the Caisars, 
 And wore the ducal cap I trample on, 
 Because 'tis now degraded. 
 
 B. Fal. 'Tis even so. 
 
 Doge. It is — it is : — I did not visit on 
 The innocent creature, thus most vilely slandcr'd, 
 Because she took an old man for her lord. 
 For that he had been long her father's friend 
 
344 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 And patron of her house, as if tliere were 
 No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
 And beardless faces ; — 1 did not for this 
 Visit the villain's infamy on her, 
 But craved my country's justice on his head, 
 The justice due unto the humblest being 
 Who hatjj a wife whose faith is sweet to him, 
 Who hath a home whose he'arth is dear to him. 
 Who hath a name whose honour's all to him. 
 When these are tainted by the accursing breath 
 Of calumny and scorn. 
 
 B. Fal. And what redress 
 Did you expect as his lit punishment? 
 
 Doge. Death! Was I not the sovereign of the state — 
 Insulted on his very throne, and made 
 A mockery to the men who should obey me? 
 Was I not injured as a husband? scorn'd 
 As man? reviled, degraded, as a prince? 
 Was not oflence like his a complication 
 Of insult and of treason? — and he lives! 
 Had he, instead of on the Doge's throne, 
 Stamp'd the same brand upon a peasant's stool. 
 His blood had gilt the threshold; for the carle 
 Had stabb'd him on the instant. 
 
 B. Fal. Do not doubt it, 
 He shall not live till sunset — leave to me 
 The means, and calm yourself. 
 
 Doge. Hold, nephew ! this 
 Would have sufficed but yesterday: at present 
 1 have no further wrath against this man. 
 
 B. Fal. What mean you? is not the offence redoubled 
 By this most rank — I will not say — acquittal, 
 For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
 Of the offence, and leaving it unpunish'd ? 
 
 Doge. It is redoubled, but not now by him : 
 The Forty hath decreed a mouth's arrest — 
 We must obey the Forty. 
 
 B.Fal. Obey them! 
 Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign ? 
 
 Doge. Why, yes; — boy, you perceive it then at last: 
 Whether as fellow-citizen who sues 
 For justice, or as sovereign who commands it, 
 They have defrauded me of both my rights 
 (For here the sovereign is a citizen) ; 
 But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
 Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 
 
 B. Fal. Not twelve hours longer, had you left to me 
 The mode and means: if you had calmly heard me, 
 I never meant this miscreant should escape, 
 But wish'd you to repress such gusts of passion. 
 That we more surely might devise together 
 His taking off. 
 
 Doge. No, nephew, he must live ; 
 At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
 Were nothing at this hour; in th'oldeu time 
 Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim, 
 Great expiations had a hecatomb. 
 
 B. Fal. Your wishes are my law; and yet I fain 
 Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
 The honour of our house must ever be 
 
 Doge. Fear not ; you shall have time and place of prtlof ; 
 
 But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
 I am ashamed of my own anger now; 
 I pray you, pardon me. 
 
 B. Fal. Why that's my uncle ! 
 The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
 Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself ! 
 I wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
 All prudence in your fury, at these years. 
 Although the cause — 
 
 Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 
 Forget it not: — When you lie down to rest. 
 Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 
 The morn returns, so let it stand between 
 The sun and you, as an ill-omen'd cloud 
 Upon a summer -day of festival: 
 So will it stand to me; — but speak not, stir not, 
 Leave all to me; — we shall have much to do. 
 And you shall have a part. — But now retire, 
 'Tis fit I were alone. [I depa 
 
 B. Fal. (Taking up and placing the ducal bonnet on tlie tabic), f 
 
 I pray you to resume what you have spurn'd. 
 
 Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
 
 And now I take my leave, imploring you 
 
 In all things to rely upon my duty 
 
 As doth become your near and faithful kinsman, 
 
 And not less loyal citizen and subject. 
 
 [Kxit Bertuccio Fall 
 
 Doge (solus). Adieu, my worthy nephew. — Holl 
 
 bauble ! (Taking up the ducal 
 
 Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 
 
 Without investing the insulted brow 
 
 With the all-swaying majesty of kings; 
 
 Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy. 
 
 Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Puts i 
 
 How my brain aches beneath thee ! and my temples 
 
 Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
 
 Could I not turn thee to a diadem? 
 
 Could I not sliatter the Briarean sceptre 
 
 Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 
 
 Making the people nothing, and the prince 
 
 A pageant? In my life I have achieved 
 
 Tasks not less difficult — achieved for them. 
 
 Who thus repay me! — Can I not requite them? 
 
 Oh, for one year ! Oh, but for even a day 
 
 Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
 
 My soul as serves the generous steed his lord ! 
 
 I would have dash'd amongst them, asking few 
 
 In aid to overthrow these svvoln patricians; 
 
 But now I must look round for other hands 
 
 To serve this hoary head; — but it shall plan 
 
 In such a sort as will not leave the task 
 
 Herculean, though as yet 'tis but a chaos 
 
 Of darkly-brooding thoughts; my fancy is 
 
 In her first work, more nearly to the light 
 
 Holding the sleeping images of things, 
 
 For the selection of the pausing judgment. — 
 
 The troops are few in — 
 
 Enter Vincenzo. 
 
 There is one without 
 
 Craves audience of your highness. 
 
 
ACT I. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 345 
 
 Doge. I'm unwell — 
 I can see no one, not even a patrician — 
 Let liim refer his business to the council. 
 
 Vin. My lord, I will deliver your reply; 
 It cannot much import — he's a plebeian, 
 The master of a galley, I believe. 
 
 Duge. How ! did you say the patron of a galley ? 
 That is — I mean — a servant of the state : 
 Admit him, he may be on public service. [Exit Vincenzo. 
 Doge (so[ns). This patron may be sounded; I will try 
 I know the people to be discontented; [him. 
 
 They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day. 
 When Genoa conquer'd: they have further cause, 
 Since they are nothing in the state, and in 
 The city worse than nothing — mere machines, 
 To serve tiic nobles' most patrician pleasure. 
 The troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised. 
 And murmur deeply — any hope of change 
 ?"VViil draw them forward: they shall pay themselves 
 Witii plunder: — but the priests — 1 doubt the priest- 
 Will not be with us; tiiey have hated me [hood 
 since that rash hour, when, madden'd with the drone, 
 L smote the tardy bishop at Trcviso, 
 Quickening his holy march : yet, ne'crtheless, 
 jPhey may be won , at least their chief at Rome, 
 j5y some well-timed concessions; but, above 
 ivil tilings, I must be speedy; at my hour 
 ;)f twiligiit little light of life remains, 
 "vould I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 
 I had lived too long, and willingly would sleep 
 I'fext moment with my sires; and, wanting this, 
 'jetter that sixty of my fourscore years 
 ■iad been already where — how soon, I care not — 
 ' Oie whole must be extinguish'd ; — better that 
 >rhcy ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 
 iChe thing these arch-oppressors fain would make me. 
 ictme consider — of efficient troops 
 There are three thousand posted at — 
 
 Enter Vikcenzo and Israel Behtiiccio. 
 
 Vine. May it please 
 four highness, the same patron whom I spake of 
 s here to crave your patience. 
 
 Doge. Leave the chamber, 
 
 nnecnZO. — [Exit Vincenzo. 
 
 ir, you may advance — what would you? 
 
 Bertuccio. Redress. 
 
 Doge. Of whom? 
 
 Bert. OfGodandoftheDoge. 
 
 Doge. Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
 )f least respect and interest in Venice. 
 Tou must address the council. 
 
 Bert. 'Twcre in vain; 
 'orhe who injured me is one of them. [there? 
 
 Doge. There's blood upon thy face — how came it 
 
 Bert. 'Tis mine, and not the first I've shed for Venice, 
 'ut the first shed by a Venetian hand: 
 I noble smote me. 
 
 Doge. Dotli lie live? 
 
 Bert. Not long — 
 tut for the hope I had and have, that you. 
 
 My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
 Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
 Permit not to protect himself; if not — 
 I say no more. 
 
 Doge. But something you would do — 
 Is it not so? 
 
 Bert. I am a man, my lord. 
 
 Doge. Why, so is he who smote you. 
 
 Bert. He is call'd so; 
 Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice: 
 But since he hath forgotten that I am one, 
 And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn — 
 'Tis said the worm will. 
 
 Doge. Say — his name and lineage ? 
 
 Bert. Barbaro. 
 
 Doge. What was the cause? or the pretext ? 
 
 Bert. 1 am the chief of the arsenal, employ'd 
 At present in repairing certain galleys 
 But rouglily used by the Genoese last year. 
 This morning comes the noble Barbaro 
 Full of reproof, because our artisans 
 Had left some frivolous order of his house. 
 To execute the state's decree; I dared 
 To justify the men — he raised his hand, — 
 Behold my blood ! the first time it e'er flow'd 
 Dishonourably, 
 
 Doge. Have you long time served ? 
 
 Bert, So long as to remember Zara's siege, 
 And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns there, 
 Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. 
 
 Doge. How ! are we comrades ? — the state's ducal 
 robes 
 Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 
 Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome; 
 So that I recognised you not. Who placed you ? 
 
 Bert. The late Doge; keeping still my old command 
 As patron of a galley : my new office 
 Was given as the reward of certain scars 
 (So was your predecessor pleased to say) ; 
 I little thought his bounty would conduct me 
 To his successor as a helpless plaintiff, 
 At least, in such a cause. 
 
 Doge. Are you much hurt? 
 
 Bert. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 
 
 Doge. Speak out ; fear nothing : being stung at heart, 
 What would you do to be revenged on this man? 
 
 Bert. That which I dare not name, and yet will do. 
 
 Doge. Then wherefore came you here? 
 
 Bert. I come for justice. 
 Because ray general is Doge, and will not 
 See his old soldier trampled on. Had any, 
 Save Faliero, fill'd the ducal throne, 
 This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 
 
 Doge. You come to me for justice — unto me! 
 The Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it; 
 I cannot even obtain it — 'twas denied 
 To me most solemnly an hour ago. 
 
 Bert. How says your highness? 
 
 Doge Stcno is condcmn'd 
 To a month's confinement. 
 
 Bert. What! the same who dared 
 
 22* 
 
346 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 ACT 
 
 To stain the ducal throne with those foul words, 
 That have cried shame to every ear in Venice? 
 
 Doge. Ay, doubtless they have echo'd o'er thearsenal, 
 Keeping due time with every hammer's clink, 
 As a good jest to jolly artisans; 
 Or making chorus to the creaking oar. 
 In the vile tune of every galley-slave, 
 Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
 He was not a shamed dotard, like the Doge. 
 
 Bert. Is it possible? a month's imprisonment! 
 No more for Steno ? 
 
 Doye. You have heard the offence, 
 And now you know his punishment; and then 
 You ask redress o(me! Go to the Forty, 
 Wlio pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno; 
 They'll do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 
 
 Bert. Ah ! dared I speak my feelings ! 
 
 Doge. Give them breath. 
 Mine have no further outrage to endure. 
 
 Bert. Then, in a word, it rests but on your word 
 To punish and avenge — I will not say 
 3Ii/ petty wrong, for what is a mere blow, 
 However vile, to such a thing as I am ? — 
 But the base insult done your state and person. 
 
 Doge, You overrate my power, which is a pageant. 
 This cap is not the monarch's crown; these robes 
 Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags; 
 Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 
 But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
 Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 
 
 Bert, Wouldst thou be king? 
 
 Doge. Yes — of a happy people. 
 
 Bert. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice? 
 
 Doge. Ay, 
 If that the people shared that sovereignty. 
 So that nor they nor I were further slaves 
 To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hydra, 
 The poisonous heads of whose envenom'd body 
 Have breathed a pestilence upon us all. 
 
 Bert. Yet, thou wast born and still hast lived patrician. 
 
 Doge. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
 Hath made me Doge to be insulted : but 
 I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
 Of Venice and her people, not the senate; 
 Their good and my own honour were my guerdon. 
 I have fought and bled; commanded, ay, and conquer'd; 
 Have made and marr'd peace oft in embassies, 
 As it might chance to be our country's 'vantage; 
 Have traver.iied land and sea in constant duty, 
 Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
 My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear spires, 
 Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
 It was reward enough for me to view 
 Once more; but not for any knot of men, 
 Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
 But would you know why I have done all this? 
 Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
 Hath ripp'd her bosom ? Had the bird a voice, 
 She'd tell thee 'twas for all her little ones. 
 
 Bert. And yet they made thee duke. 
 
 Doge. Tliei/ made me so ; 
 
 I" sought it not, the flattering fetters met me 
 
 Returning from my Roman embassy. 
 
 And never having hitherto refused 
 
 Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not, 
 
 At these late years, decline what was the highest 
 
 Of all in seeming, but of all most base ; 
 
 In what we have to do and to endure: 
 
 Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject. 
 
 When I can neither right myself nor thee. 
 
 Bert. You shall do both, if you possess the will ; 
 And many thousands more not less oppress'd, 
 Who wait but for a signal will you give it? 
 
 Doge. You speak in riddles. 
 
 Bert. Which shall soon be read. 
 At peril of my life, if you disdain not 
 To lend a patient ear. 
 
 Doge. Say on. 
 
 Bert. Not thou. 
 Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
 Contemn'd and trampled on, but the whole people 
 Groan with tiie strong conception of their wrongs : 
 The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
 Are discontenied for their long arrears; 
 The native mariners and civic troops 
 Feel with their friends; for who is he amongst them 
 Whose bretlircn, parents, children, wives, or sisters. 
 Have not partook oppression, or pollution, 
 From the patricians? And the hopeless war 
 Against the Genoese, which is still maintain'd 
 With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
 From their hard earnings, has inflamed them further: 
 Even now — but, I forget that, speaking thus. 
 Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! [ck-a 
 
 Doge. And, suffering what thou hast done, fearst iii 
 Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
 By those for whom thou hast bled. 
 
 Bert. No, I will speak 
 At every hazard; and if Venice' Doge 
 Should turn delator, be the shame on him, 
 And sorrow too; for he will lose far more 
 Than I. 
 
 Doge. From me fear nothing; out with it. [sec 
 
 Bert. Know, then, that there are met and sworn: 
 A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true; 
 Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long 
 Grieved over that of Venice, and have right 
 To do so; having served her in all climes. 
 And, having rescued her from foreign foes, 
 Would do the same from those within her walls. 
 They are not numerous, nor yet too few 
 For their great purpose; they have arms, and means, 
 And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient couragt 
 
 Doge. For what then do they pause? 
 
 Bert. An hour to strike. 
 
 Doge (aside). Saint Mark's shall strike that hour! 
 
 Bert. I now have placed 
 My life, my honour, all my earthly hopes 
 Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
 That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause, 
 Will generate one vengeance: siiould it be so, 
 Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 
 
KCT I. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 347 
 
 Do(/e. How many are yc ? 
 ; Bert. I'll not answer tliat 
 jrill I am answer'd. 
 
 Doffe. How, Sir! do you menace? 
 j Bert. No; I affirm. I have betray'd myself; 
 ISut there's no torture in the mystic wells 
 iVhich undermine your palace, nor in those 
 l^ot less appalling cells, the "leaden roofs," 
 jfo force a single name from me of others, 
 irhe Pozzi and the Piombi were in vain; 
 |rhey might wring blood from me, but treachery never, 
 llnd I would pass the fearful "Bridge of Sighs," 
 oyous that mine must be the last that e'er 
 jVouId eclio o'er the Stygian wave which flows 
 |{etween the murderers and the murder'd, washing 
 riie prison and the palace- walls: there are 
 i'hose who would live to think on't, and avenge me. 
 
 Dor/e. If such your power and purpose, why come here 
 'o sue for justice, being in the course 
 'o do yourself due right? 
 [ Bert, Because the man 
 (Vho claims protection from authority, 
 {bowing his confidence and his submission 
 I'o that authority, can hardly be 
 uspectcd of combining to destroy it. • 
 ilad I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
 L moody brow and mutter'd threats had made me 
 i. mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition ; 
 •lUt loud complaint, however angrily 
 jt shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd, 
 i; |nd less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
 
 ,'liad another reason, 
 3 1 Doffe. What was that? 
 
 jI I Bert. Some rumours that the Doge was greatly moved 
 »y the reference of the Avogadori 
 f Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
 [ad reach'd me. I had served you, honour'd you, 
 nd felt that you were dangerously insulted, 
 eing of an order of such spirits, as 
 lequite tenfold both good and evil: 'twas 
 [[y wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
 j, jow you know all; and that I speak the truth, 
 u j[y peril be the proof. 
 ' Doge. You have deeply ventured ; 
 ut all must do so who would greatly win : 
 ihus far I'll answer you — your secret's safe. 
 I ; Bert. And is this all? 
 Doge. Unless with all entrusted, 
 /liat would you have me answer? 
 I Bert. 1 would have you 
 ,. rust him who leaves iiis life in trust with you. 
 
 Doge. But I must know your plan, your names, and 
 lie last may then be doubled, and the former [numbers ; 
 [atured and strengtiien'd. 
 Bitrt. We'r ■ onougli already; 
 ou are the sole ally we covet now. 
 Doye, But bring mc to the knowledge of your chiefs. 
 Bert. That shall be done upon your formal pledge 
 keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 
 
 Doge. When? where? 
 
 Bert. This night I'll bring to your apartment 
 Two of the principals; a greater number 
 Were hazardous. 
 
 Doge. Stay, I must think of this. 
 What if I were to trust myself amongst j'ou, 
 And leave the palace? 
 
 Bert. You must come alone. 
 
 Doge. With but my nephew. 
 
 Bert. Not were he your son. [arms, 
 
 Doge. Wretch! darest thou name my son ? He died in 
 At Sapienza, for this faithless state. 
 Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes! 
 Or that he were alive ere I be ashes! 
 I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. [est, 
 
 Bert. Not one of all those strangers whom thou doubt- 
 But will regard thee with a filial feeling. 
 So that thou keepst a father's faith with them. 
 
 Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place of meeting? 
 
 Bert. At midnight I will be alone and mask'd 
 Where'er your highness pleases to direct me, 
 To wait your coming, and conduct you where 
 You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
 Upon our project. 
 
 Doge. At what hour arises 
 The moon? 
 
 Bert. Late, but the atmosphere is thick and dusky; 
 'Tis a sirocco. 
 
 Doge. At the midnight-hour, then. 
 Near to the church where sleep my sires; the same. 
 Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul; 
 A gondola, with one oar only, will 
 Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 
 Be there. 
 
 Bert. I will not fail. 
 
 Doge. And now retire — 
 
 Bert. In the full hope your highness will not falter 
 In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. 
 
 [Exit Bertoccio. 
 
 Doge (solus). At midnight, by the church Saints John and 
 Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair — [Paul, 
 
 To what ? to hold a council iu the dark 
 With common ruffians leagued to ruin states ! 
 And will not my great sires leap from the vault. 
 Where lie two Doges who preceded me, 
 And pluck me down amongst them? Would they could ! 
 For I should rest in honour with the honour'd. 
 Alas! I must not think of them, but those 
 Who have made me thus unworthy of a name, 
 Noble and brave as aught of consular 
 On Roman marbles; but I will redeem it 
 Back to its antique lustre in our annals. 
 By sweet revenge on all that's base in Venice, 
 And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
 To all the growing calumnies of time, 
 Whicli never spare the fame of him who fails, 
 But try the Caesar, or the Catiline, 
 By the true touchstone of desert — success. 
 
 I 
 
348 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 ACT 
 
 
 '^' 
 
 >> 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 ^ 
 
 An Apartment in the Ducal Palace. 
 Anciolina (wife of the Doge) and Mabianna. 
 
 Anffiolhia. What was the Dog;o's answer? 
 
 Marianna. That he was 
 That moment summon'd to a conference; 
 But 'tis by this time ended. I perceived 
 Not long ago the senators embarking; 
 And the Jast gondola may now be seen 
 Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 
 The glittering waters. 
 
 Ang, Would he were return'd ! 
 He has been much disquieted of late; 
 And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit, 
 Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 
 Which seems to be more nourisli'd by a soul 
 So quick and restless that it would consume 
 Less hardy clay — Time has but little power 
 On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
 To other spirits of his order, who, 
 In the tirst burst of passion, pour away 
 Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in him 
 An aspect of eternity : his thoughts, 
 His feelings, passions, good or evil, all 
 Have nothing of old age; and his bold brow 
 Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years, 
 Not their decrepitude; and he of late 
 Has been more agitated than his wont. 
 Would he were come! for I alone have power 
 Upon his troubled spirit. 
 
 Mar. It is true. 
 His highness has of late been greatly moved 
 By the afiront of Steno, and with cause; 
 But the offender doubtless even now 
 Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 
 Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
 To female virtue, and to noble blood. 
 
 Any. 'Twas a gross insult; but I heed it not 
 For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself. 
 But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
 Which it has made upon Falicro's soul. 
 The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
 To all save me: I tremble when I think 
 To what it may conduct. 
 
 Mar. Assuredly 
 The Doge can not suspect you? [scrawl'd his lie, 
 
 Ang. Suspect me! Why Steno dared not: when he 
 Grovelling by stealth in the moon's glimmering light, 
 His own still conscience smote him for the act. 
 And every shadow on the walls frown'd shame 
 Upon his coward calumny. 
 
 Mar. 'Twcrefit 
 He should be pvinish'd grievously. 
 
 Ang. He is so. 
 
 Mar. What! is the sentence past? is he condcmn'd 
 
 Ang. I know not that, but he has been detected. 
 
 Mar. Anddeem you this enough for such foul scoi 
 
 Ang. I would not be a judge in my own cause, 
 Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
 May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno; 
 But if his insults sink no deeper in 
 The minds of the inquisitors than tlicy 
 Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
 Be left to his own shamelcssness or shame. 
 
 Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue. 
 
 Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim? 
 Or if it must depend upon men's words? 
 Tiie dying Roman said, "'twas but a name:" 
 It were indeed no more, if human breath 
 Could make Or mar it. 
 
 Mar. Yet fu!l many a dame, 
 Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
 Of such a slander; and less rigid ladies. 
 Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
 And all-inexorable in their cry 
 For justice. 
 
 Ang. This but proves it is the name 
 And not the quality they prize: the first 
 Have found it a hard task to hold their honour. 
 If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 
 And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 
 As they would look out for an ornament 
 Of which they feel the want, but not because 
 They think it so; they live in others' thouglits. 
 And would seem honest as they must seem fair. 
 
 Mar. You have strange thoughts for a patrician da 
 
 Ang. And yet they were my father's; with his nam 
 The sole inheritance he left. 
 
 Mar, You want none; 
 Wife to a prince, the chief of the republic. [br 
 
 Ang. I should have sought none though a peasa 
 But feel not less the love and gratitude 
 Due to my father, who bestow 'd my hand 
 Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend, 
 The Count Yal di Marino, now our Doge. 
 
 Mar. And with that hand did he bestow your heart 
 
 Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 
 
 Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in your yearS; 
 And, let me add, disparity of tempers, 
 Miglit make the world doubt whether such an union 
 Could make you wisely, permanently happy. [h«n 
 
 Ang. The world will think with worldlings ; but Ij 
 Has still been in my duties, which are many. 
 But never difficult. 
 
 Mar. And do you love him ? 
 
 Ang. I love all noble qualities which merit , 
 
 Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me R 
 
ACT n. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 349 
 
 To single out what we should love in others, 
 And to subdue all tendency to lend 
 Tlie best and purest feeling's of our nature 
 To baser passions. He bestow 'd my hand 
 Upon Faliero : he bad known bim noble, 
 Brave, generous; rich in all the qualities 
 Of soldier, citizen, and friend; in all 
 Such have I found bim as my father said. 
 His faults arc tliose that dwell in the high bosoms 
 Of men who have commanded; too much pride, 
 irif And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by 
 The uses of patricians,and a life 
 Spent in the storms of state and war; and also 
 From the quick sense of honour, which becomes 
 A duty to a certain sign, a vice 
 When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 
 And then he has been rash from his youth upwards, 
 Yet tompcr'd by redeeming nobleness 
 In such sort, that the wariest of republics 
 Has lavish'd all its chief employs upon him. 
 From his first fight to his last embassy. 
 From whicli on his return the dukedom met him. 
 
 Mar. But, previous to this marriage, had your heart 
 Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth. 
 Such as in years had been more meet to match 
 Beauty like yours? or since have you ne'er seen 
 One, who, if your fair hand were still to give. 
 Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter? 
 
 Ang. I answer'd your first question when I said 
 I married. 
 
 Mar. And the second? 
 
 Any. Needs no answer. 
 
 Mar. I pray your pardon, if I have offended. 
 
 Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise: I knew not 
 That wedded bosoms could permit tiiemselvcs 
 To ponder upon what tiiey now might choose, 
 Or aught, save their past choice. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis their past choice 
 That far too often makes them deem they would 
 jj[i|Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 
 
 Ang. It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. 
 
 Mar. Here comes the Doge — shall I retire? 
 
 Ang. It may 
 gjBe better you should quit me; he seems wrapt 
 ij^i!a thought. — How pensively he takes his way! 
 
 [Exit Marianna. 
 Enter the Does and Pietro. 
 
 Doge (musing). There is a certain Philip Calendaro 
 Vow in the Arsenal, who holds command 
 ^jil i)f eighty men, and has great influence 
 iJesides on all the spirits of his comrades; 
 Phis man, I hear, is bold and popular, 
 sodden and daring, and yet secret : 'twould 
 ie well that he were won : I needs must hope 
 ly jriiat Israel Bcrtuccio has secured him, 
 lut fain would be — 
 
 Pietro. My lord, pray pardon me 
 •"or breaking in upon your meditation; 
 The Senator Bertuecio, your kinsman, 
 'liarged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
 I'o fix an hour when he may speak with you. 
 
 Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment let me see — 
 Say in the second hour of night. [Exii Pietro. 
 
 Ang. My lord! 
 
 Doge. My dearest child, forgive me — why delaj' 
 So long approaching me? — I saw you not. 
 
 Ang. You were absorb'd in thought, and he who now 
 Has parted from you might have words of weight 
 To bear you from the senate. 
 
 Doge. From the senate? 
 
 Ang. I would not interrupt him in his duty 
 And theirs. 
 
 Doge. The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 
 'Tis we who owe all service to the senate. 
 
 Ang. I thought the Duke had held command in Venice. 
 
 Doge. Heshall. — But letthat pass. — Wewillbejocund. 
 How fares it with you? have you been abroad? 
 The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
 Favours the gondolier's light skimming oar; 
 Or have you held a levee of your friends? 
 Or has your music made you solitary? 
 Say — is there aught that you would will within 
 The little sway now left the Duke? or aught 
 Of fitting splendour, or of honest pleasure. 
 Social or lonely, that would glad your heart. 
 To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
 On an old man oft moved with many cares? 
 Speak, and 'tis done. 
 
 Ang. You're ever kind to me — 
 1 have nothing to desire, or to request. 
 Except to see you oftencr and calmer. 
 
 Doge. Calmer? 
 
 Ang. Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 
 Do you still keep apart, and walk alone. 
 And let such strong emotions stamp your brow. 
 As, not betraying their full import, yet 
 Disclose too much? 
 
 Doge. Disclose too much ! — of what? 
 What is there to disclose? 
 
 Ang. A heart so ill 
 At ease. 
 
 Doge. 'Tis nothing, child. — But in the state 
 You know what daily cares oppress all those 
 Who govern this precarious commonwealth; 
 Now suffering from the Genoese without, 
 And malcontents within — 'tis this which makes me 
 More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 
 
 Ang. Yet this existed long before, and never 
 Till in these Jate days did I see you thus. 
 Forgive me: there is something at your heart 
 More than the mere discharge of public duties. 
 Which long use and a talent like to yours 
 Have render'd light, nay, a necessity, 
 To keep your mind from stagnating. 'Tis not 
 In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 
 You, who have stood all storms and never sunk, 
 And climb'd up to the pinnacle of power 
 And never fainted by the way, and stand 
 Upon it, and can look down steadily 
 Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
 Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port. 
 Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's, 
 
350 
 
 MARINO FALIERO., 
 
 ACT I) 
 
 You are not to be wrought on, but would fall. 
 As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow : 
 Your feelings now are of a different kind; 
 Something has stung your pride, not patriotism, 
 
 Doffe. Pride! Angiolina? Alas! none is left me. 
 
 Any. Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels, 
 And of all sins most easily besets 
 Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature: 
 The vile are only vain; the great are proud. 
 
 Doge. I had the pride of honour, of your honour, 
 Deep at my heart — But let us ehange the theme. 
 
 Any. All no! — As Ihavetver shared your kindness 
 In all things else, let me not be shut out 
 From your distress : were it of publie import, 
 You know I never sought, would never seek 
 To win a word from you; but feeling now 
 Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
 To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
 When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
 Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed. 
 And I would soothe you back to what you were. 
 
 Doyc. To what I was! — Have you heard Steno's 
 
 Any. No. [sentence? 
 
 Doye. A month's arrest. 
 
 Any. Is it not enough ? 
 
 Doye. Enough ! — Yes, for a drunken galley-slave, 
 Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master; 
 liut not for a deliberate, false, cool villain. 
 Who stains a lady's and a prince's honour 
 Even on the throne of his authority. 
 
 Any. There seems to me enough in the convictiOQ 
 Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood: 
 All other punisiiment were light unto 
 His loss of honour. 
 
 Doye. Such men have no honour; 
 They have but their vile lives — and these are spared. 
 
 Any. You would not have him die for this offence ? 
 
 Doye. Not now: — being still alive, I'd have him live 
 Long as he can; he has ceased to merit death; 
 The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges, 
 And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 
 
 Any. Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller 
 Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon. 
 Ne'er from tliat moment could this breast have known 
 A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 
 
 Doye. Does not the law of Heaven say blood for blood? 
 And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it. 
 Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows. 
 That make such deadly to the sense of man? 
 Do not the laws of man say blood for honour? 
 And less than honour, for a little gold ? 
 Say not the laws of nations blood for treason ? 
 Is 't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison 
 For their once healthful current? is it nothing 
 To have stain'd your name and mine — the noblest names ? 
 Is 't nothing to have brouglit into contempt 
 A prince before his people? to have fail'd 
 In the respect accorded by mankind 
 To youth in woman, and old age in man? 
 To virtue in your sex, and dignity 
 In ours? — But let them look to it who have saved him. 
 
 Any. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 
 
 Doye. Doth Heaven forgive her own? Is Satan save< 
 From wrath eternal? 
 
 Any. Do not speak thus wildly — 
 Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 
 
 Doye. Amen ! May Heaven forgive them. 
 
 Any. And will you? 
 
 Doye. Yes, when they are in Heaven ! -^^ 
 
 Any. And not till then ? 
 
 Doye, What matters my forgiveness ? an old man's, 
 Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what matters the 
 My pardon more than my resentment ? both 
 Being weak and worthless ? I have lived too long. — 
 But let us change the argument. — My child! 
 My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 
 The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 
 Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend. 
 That he was linking thee to shame! — Alas ! 
 Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst thou 
 But had a different husband, any husband 
 In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand. 
 This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 
 So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure. 
 To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 
 
 Any. I am too well avenged, for you still love me, 
 And trust, and honour me; and all men know 
 That you ate just, and I am true: what more 
 Could 1 require, or ){;u command? 
 
 Doye. 'Tis well, 
 And may be better ; but whate'er betide, 
 lie thou at least kind to my memory. 
 
 Any, Why speak you thus? 
 
 Doye. It is no matter why; 
 But I would still, whatever others think, 
 Have your respect both now and in my grave. 
 
 Any. Why should you doubt it ? has it ever fail'd ? : 
 
 Doye. Come hither, child; I would a word with yo* 
 Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
 Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
 Which bind the good more firmly: when, opprest 
 With his last malady, he will'd our union. 
 It was not to repay me, long repaid 
 Before by his great loyalt}' in friendship; 
 His object was to place your orphan beauty 
 In honourable safety from the perils 
 Which, in this scorpion-nest of vice, assail 
 A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 
 Think with him, but would not oppose the thought 
 Which soothed his death-bed. 
 
 Any. I have not forgotten 
 The nobleness with which you bade me speak, 
 If my young heart held any preference 
 Which would have made me happier; nor your offer ^ 
 To make my dowry equal to the rank 
 Of anght in Venice, and forego all claim 
 My father's last injunction gave you. 
 
 Doye. Thus, 
 'T was not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
 Nor the false edge of aged appetite. 
 Which made me covetous of girlish beauty. 
 And a yoimg bride: for in my fieriest youth 
 
ACT 11. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 351 
 
 I sway'd such passions; nor was this my age 
 
 Infected with tliat leprosy of lust 
 
 Wliich taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
 
 Making them ransack to the very last 
 
 Tlie dregs of pleasure for their vanisii'd joys ; 
 
 Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
 
 Too lielpless to refuse a state that's honest. 
 
 Too feeling not to know herself a wretcli. 
 
 Our wedlock was not of this sort; you had 
 
 Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer 
 
 Your father's choice. 
 
 Ang. I did so; I would do so 
 In face of earth and heaven; for I have never 
 Repented for my sake; sometimes for yours. 
 In pondering o'er your late disquietudes.- 
 
 Dope. I knew my heart would never treat you harshly; 
 I knew my days could not disturb you long; 
 And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 
 His worthy daughter, free to choose again, 
 Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
 Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
 jBy passing these probationary years 
 [Inheriting a prince's name and riciies , 
 Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
 An old man for some summers, against all 
 That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
 Have urged against her right; — my best friend's child 
 Would choose more fitly in respect of years, 
 And not less truly in a faithful heart. 
 
 Anff. My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes. 
 Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 
 iFor doing all its duties, and replying 
 With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 
 \mbitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams; and should 
 The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 
 I Doffe. I do believe you ; and I know you true: 
 J l?or love, romantic love, which in my youth 
 'i. knew to be illusion, and ne'er s*aw 
 IJasting, but often fatal, it had been 
 jiJo lure for me, in my most passionate days, 
 |nd could not be so now, did such exist. 
 iJut suci» respect, and mildly paid regard 
 liS a true feeling for 3 our welfare, and 
 A free compliance with all honest wishes; 
 |l kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 
 i^ot siiown, but shadowing o'er such little failings 
 \s youth is apt in, so as not to check 
 |(ashly, but win you from them ere you knew 
 tfou had been won, but thought the changeyour choice; 
 |i pride not in your beauty, but your conduct, — 
 ■ !v trust in you — a patriarchal love, 
 
 .nd not a doting homage — friendship, faith — 
 r ucli estimation in your eyes as these 
 
 light claim, I hoped for. 
 
 Anff. And have ever had. 
 
 Dope. I think so. For the difference in our years, 
 
 ou knew it, choosing mc, and chose : I trusted 
 
 ot to my qualities, nor would have faith 
 
 1 such, nor outward ornaments, of nature, 
 
 Vevc I still in my five-and-twentieth spring: 
 
 trusted to the blood of Loredano 
 
 Pure in your veins; I trusted to the soul 
 
 God gave you — to the truths your father taught you — 
 
 To your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — 
 
 To your own faith and honour, for my own. [trust, 
 
 Anff. You have done well. — I thank you for that 
 Which I have never for one moment ceased 
 To honour you the more for. 
 
 Doge. Where is honour. 
 Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock 
 Of faith connubial; where it is not — where 
 Light thouglits are lurking, or the vanities 
 Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 
 Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
 'Twere hopeless for humanity to dream 
 Of honesty in such infected blood, 
 Although 'twere wed to him it covets most: 
 An incarnation of the poet's god 
 In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 
 The demi-dcity, Alcides, in 
 His majesty of superhuman manhood, 
 Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not; 
 It is consistency which forms and proves it: 
 Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
 The once fall'n woman must for ever fall ; 
 For vice must have variety, while virtue 
 Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 
 Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 
 
 Ang. And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others, 
 (I pray you pardon me;) but wherefore yield you 
 To the most fierce of fatal passi(ms, and 
 Disquiet your great thouglits with restless hate 
 Of such a thing as Steno? 
 
 Doge. You mistake me. 
 It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 
 Had it been so, he should - - but let that pass. 
 
 Anff. What is 't you feel so deeply, then, even now? 
 
 Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
 At once insulted in her lord and law s. 
 
 Any, Alas ! why will you thus consider it? [back 
 
 Doge. I have thought on 't till — but let me lead you 
 To what I urged ; all these things being noted, 
 I wedded you; the world then did me justice 
 Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
 They did me right, while yours was all to praise : 
 You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 
 From me and mine; and, born of those who made 
 Princes at home, and swept kings from their thrones 
 On foreign shores, in all things you appcar'd 
 Worthy to be our first of native dames. 
 
 Ang. To what does this conduct ? 
 
 Doge. To thus much — that 
 A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — 
 A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing, 
 Even in the midst of our great festival, 
 I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
 How to demean himself in ducal ciiambers; 
 A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
 The blighting venom of his sweltering heart, 
 And this shall spread itself in general poison; 
 And woman's innocence, man's iionour, pass 
 Into a by-w ord; and the doubly felon 
 
352 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 (Who first insulted virgin modesty 
 By a gross affront to your attendant damsels, 
 Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) 
 Requite himself for his most just expulsion, 
 By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort, 
 And be absolved by his upright compeers. 
 
 Ang. But he has been coridemn'd into captivity. 
 
 Dofje. For such as him a dungeon were acquittal; 
 And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
 Within a palace. But I've done with him; 
 The rest must be with you. 
 
 Ang. With me, my lord? 
 
 Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel ; I 
 Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
 My life cannot be long; and fain would have you 
 Regard the injunctions you will find within 
 This scroll. (Giving her a paper) — Fear uot; they are for 
 
 your advantage: 
 Read them hereafter, attiie fitting hour. 
 
 Ang. My lord, in life, and after life, you shall 
 Be honour'd still by me : but may your days 
 Be many yet — and happier than the present.' 
 This passion will give way, and you will be 
 Serene, and what you should be — what you were. 
 
 Doge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing; 
 But never more — oh ! never, never more. 
 O'er the few days or hours which yet await 
 The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 
 Sweet quiet shed her sunset ! Never more 
 Those summer-shadows rising from the past 
 Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life. 
 Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 
 Shall soothe me to my moment of long rest. 
 I had but little more to task, or hope, 
 Save the regards due to the blood and sweat. 
 And the soul's labour througli which I had toil'd 
 To make my country honour'd. As her servant — 
 Her servant, though her chief — I would have gone 
 Down to my fathers with a name serene 
 And pure as theirs; but this has been denied me. — 
 Would I had died at Zara! 
 
 Ang. There you saved 
 The state; then live to save her still. A day 
 Another day like that would be the best 
 Reproof to them and sole revenge for you. 
 
 Doge. But one such day occurs within an age; 
 My life is little less than one, and 'tis 
 Enougli for Fortune to have granted once. 
 That which scarce one more favour'd citizen 
 May win in many states and years. But why 
 Thus speak I? Venice has forgot that day — 
 Then why should I remember it ? — Farewell, 
 Sweet Angiolina! I must to my cabinet ; 
 There's mUch for me to do — and the hour hastens. 
 
 Ang. Remember what you were. 
 
 Doge. It were in vain ! 
 Joy's recollection is no longer joy. 
 While sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 
 
 Ang. At least, whate'er may urge, let mc implore 
 That you will take some little pause of rest : 
 Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid, 
 
 That it had been relief to have awaked you, 
 
 Had I not hoped that nature would o'erpower 
 
 At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers tlius 
 
 An hour of rest will give you to your toils 
 
 With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. 
 
 Doge. I cannot — 
 I must not, if I could; for never was 
 Such reason to be watchful: yet a few — — 
 
 Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights. 
 And I shall slumber well — but where? — no matter. 
 Adieu, my Angiolina. 
 
 Ang. Let me be 
 An instant — yet an instant your companion; 
 I cannot bear to leave you thus. 
 
 Doge. Come then, 
 My gentle child — forgive me; thou wert made 
 For better fortunes than to share in mine, 
 Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale 
 Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow. 
 When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
 Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 
 Within — above — around, that in this city 
 Will make the cemeteries populous 
 As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 
 When I am nothing, let that which I was 
 Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
 A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 
 Which would uot have thee mourn it, but remember; - 
 Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. [Exe 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 A retired spot near the Arsenal. 
 
 Israel Bertucciu and Philip Calgndaro. 
 
 Calendaro. How sped you, Israel, in your late con 
 
 Bert. Why, well. [plain 
 
 Cal. Is't possible! will he be punish'd? 
 
 Bert. Yes. 
 
 Cal. With what? a mulct or an arrest ? 
 
 Bert. With death ! — 
 
 Cal. Now you rave, or must intend revenge, | 
 
 Such as I counsell'd you, with your own hand. i 
 
 Bert. Yes; and for one sole draught of hate forego 
 The great redress we meditate for Venice, 
 And change a life of hope for one of exile; 
 Leaving one scorpion crush'd, and thousands stinging i 
 My friends, my family, my countrymen ! j 
 
 No, Calendaro; these same drops of blood. 
 Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 
 For tiieir requital — But not only his; j 
 
 We will not strike for private wrongs alone: ' 
 
 Such are for selfish passions and rash men, 
 But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 
 
 Cal. You have more patience than I care to boast. 
 Had I been present when you bore this insult, 
 I must have slain him, or expired myself 
 In the vain efl"ort to repress my wrath. [marr't 
 
 Bert. Thank Heaven, you were not — all had else bee 
 As 'tis, our cause looks prosperous still. 
 
 Cal. You saw 
 The Doge — what answer gave he ? 
 
ACT II. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 353 
 
 Bert. That there was 
 No punishment for such as Barbaro. 
 ^ ! Cal. I told you so before, and that 'twas idle 
 To think of justice from such hands. 
 \ Bart. At least, 
 
 [t lull'd suspicion, showing confidence. 
 Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
 Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
 A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 
 
 Cal. But wherefore not address you to the Council? 
 The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
 Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him ! 
 jl Bert. You shall know that hereafter. 
 j! Cal. Why not now? 
 
 I Bert. Be patient but till midnight. Get your musters, 
 knd bid our friends prepare their companies : — 
 Retail in readiness to strike the blow. 
 Perhaps in a few hours ; we liave long waited 
 ; {For a fit time — that hour is on the dial, 
 'it may be of to-morrow's sun: delay 
 iSeyond may breed us double danger. See 
 That all be punctual at our place of meeting, 
 Vnd arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
 liVho will remain among the troops to wait 
 The signal. 
 
 Cal. These brave words have breathed new life 
 into my veins; I am sick of these protracted 
 - ind hesitating councils: day on day 
 &. Drawl'd on, and added but another link 
 ' ro our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
 inflicted on our brethren or ourselves, 
 ■ jielping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
 ^ uet us but deal upon them, and I care not 
 'or the result, which must be death or freedom! 
 m weary to the heart of finding neither. 
 « I Bert. We will be free in life or death ! the grave 
 js chainless. Have you all the musters ready ? 
 Ind are the sixteen companies completed 
 vo sixty? 
 
 Cal. All save two, in which there are 
 ?wenty-five wanting to make up the number. 
 Bert. No matter ; we can do without. Whose are they? 
 : Cal. Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of whom 
 I kppear less forward in the cause than we are. 
 
 Bert. Your fiery nature makes you deem all those 
 Vho arc not restless, cold : but there exists 
 ' i)ft in concentred spirits not less daring 
 'ban in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them. 
 
 Cal. I do no doubt the elder ; but in Bertram 
 'here is a hesitating softness, fatal 
 "o enterprise like ours : I've seen that man 
 Veep like an infant o'er the misery 
 >f others, heedless of his own, though greater; 
 nd in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
 urn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's. 
 Bert. The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, 
 nd feci for what their duty bids them do. 
 have known Bertram long ! there doth not breathe 
 . soul more full of honour. 
 Cal. It may be so : 
 apprehend less treachery than weakness; 
 
 Yet, as he has no mistress, and no wife 
 
 To work upon his milkiness of spirit, _r 
 
 He may go through the ordeal; it is well -j^ 
 
 He is an orphan, friendless .save in us: 
 
 A woman or a child had made him less 
 
 Than either in resolve. 
 
 Bert. Such ties are not 
 For those who are call'd to the high destinies 
 Which purify corrupted commonwealths ; 
 We must forget all feelings save the one — 
 We must resign all passions save our purpose — 
 We must behold no object save our country — 
 And only look on death as beautiful. 
 So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven, 
 And draw down freedom on her evermore. 
 
 Cal. But, if we fail — 
 
 Bert. They never fail who die 
 In a great cause: the block may soak their gore; 
 Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs 
 Be strung to city-gates and castle-walls — 
 But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years 
 Elapse, and others share as dark a doom, 
 They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts 
 Which o'crpower all others, and conduct 
 The world at last to freedom. What were we, 
 If Brutus had not lived ? He died in giving 
 Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson — 
 A name which is a virtue, and a soul 
 Which multiplies itself througliout all time. 
 When wicked men wax mighty, and a state 
 Turns scrvile:he and his higli friend were styled 
 "The last of Romans!" Let us be the first 
 Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 
 
 Cal. Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
 Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 
 On banks redecm'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 
 To own a thousand despots in his place. 
 Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
 A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms masters! 
 The first at least was man, and used his sword 
 As sceptre: these unmanly creeping things 
 Command our swords, and rule us with a word 
 As with a spell. 
 
 Bert. It shall be broken soon. 
 You say that all things are in readiness; 
 To-day I have not been the usual round, 
 And why thou knowest; but thy vigilance 
 Will better have supplied my care: these orders 
 In recent council, to redouble now 
 Our efforts to repair the galleys, have 
 Lent a fair colour to the introduction 
 Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
 As new artificers for their equipment, 
 Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
 The hoped-for fleet. — Are all supplied with arms ? 
 
 Cal, All who were deem'd trustworthy; there are some 
 Whom it were well to keep in ignorance 
 Till it be time to strike, and then supply them ; 
 When in the heat and hurry of the hour 
 They have no opportunity to pause, 
 But needs must on with those who will surround them. 
 
 23 
 
354 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 ACT 
 
 5tr<. You have said well.— Have you rcmark'd all such? 
 
 Cal. I've noted most; and caused the other chiefs 
 To use like caution in their companies. 
 As far as I have seen, we are enough 
 To make the enterprise secure, if 'tis 
 Commenced to-morrow; but till 'tis begun, 
 Each iiour is pregnant witli a thousand perils. 
 
 Bert. Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted hour, 
 Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
 And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
 Within the arsenal, and hold all ready, 
 Expectant of the signal we will fix on. 
 
 Cal. We will not fail. 
 
 Bert. Let all the rest be there; 
 I have a stranger to present to them. 
 
 Cal. A stranger! doth he know the secret? 
 
 Bert. Yes. 
 
 Cal. And have you dared to peril your friends' lives 
 On a rash confidence in one we know not? 
 
 Bert. I have risk'd no man's life except my own — 
 Of that be certain : he is one who may 
 Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
 His aid; and, if reluctant, he no less 
 Is in our power; he comes alone with me. 
 And cannot 'scape us; but he will not swerve. 
 
 Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know him: 
 Is he one of our order? 
 
 Bert. Ay, in spirit, 
 Although a child of greatness; he is one 
 Who would become a tiiione, or overthrow one — 
 One who has done great deeds, and seen great changes; 
 No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny; 
 Valiant in war, and sage in council; noble 
 In nature, although haughty ; quick, yet wary : 
 Yet for all this, so full of certain passions. 
 That if once stirr'd and baiflcd, as he has been 
 
 Upon the tenderest points, there is no Fury 
 
 In Grecian story like to that which wrings 
 
 His vitals with htr burning hands, till he 
 
 Grows capable of all things for revenge; 
 
 And add too, that his mind is liberal; 
 
 He sees and feels the people are oppress'd. 
 
 And shares their sufferings. Take him all in all, 
 
 We have need of such, and such have need of us. " 
 
 Cal. And what part would you have him take with i 
 
 Bert. It may be, that of Chief. 
 
 Cal. What! and resign 
 Your own command as leader? 
 
 Bert. Even so. 
 My object is to make your cause end well. 
 And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
 Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me out 
 To act in trust as your commander, till 
 Some worthier should appear : if I have found such 
 As you yourselves shall own more worthy, think you 
 That I would hesitate from selfishness, 
 And, covetous of brief authority, 
 Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts, 
 Rather than yield to one above me in 
 All leading qualities ? No, Calendaro, 
 Know your friend better; but you all shall judge. — 
 Away ! and let us meet at the fix'd hour. 
 Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 
 
 Cal. Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you ever 
 Trusty and brave, with head and iieart to plan 
 What I have still been prompt to execute. 
 For my own part, I seek no other Chief; 
 What the rest will decide I know not, but 
 T am with vou, as I have ever been, 
 In all our undertakings. Now farewell, 
 Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. [Ejc< 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 Scene, the space between tlie Canal and the Church of San Giovanni e 
 
 San Paolo. An equestrian Statue before it. — A Gondola lies in tlie Canal 
 
 at 30uie distance. 
 
 Enter he DoCE alone, dia^iiiscd. 
 
 Doge. I am before the hour, tlie liour whose voice, 
 Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
 These palaces with ominous tottering, 
 And rock their marbles to the corner-stone. 
 Waking the sleepers from some hideous dream 
 Of indistinct but awful augury 
 
 Of thnt which will befall them. Yes, proud city ! [thee 
 Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which makes 
 A lazar-house of tyranny ; the task 
 
 Is forced upon me, 1 have sought it not ; 
 
 And therefore was I punish'd, seeing this 
 
 Patrician pestilence spread on and on, 
 
 Until at length it smote me in my slumbers 
 
 And I am tainted, and must wash away 
 
 T!:e plague-spots in the healing wave. Tall fane! 
 
 Where .sleep my fathers, whose dim statues shadow 
 
 The floor which doth divide us from the dead, 
 
 Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood, 
 
 Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold 
 
 In one shrunk heap what once made many heroes, 
 
 When what is now a handful shook the earth — 
 
 Fane of the tutelar Saints who guard our house! 
 
 V ault, \vhcre two Doges rest — my sires ! who died P 
 
 The one of toil, the otiier in the field. 
 
ACT ni. 
 
 MARINO FALTERO. 
 
 355 
 
 With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
 
 And sages, whose great labours, wounds, and state 
 
 I have iniicrited, — let the graves gape, 
 
 Till ail thine aisles be peopled with the dead, 
 
 And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me! 
 
 I call tliem up, and them and thee to witness 
 
 Wliat it hath been which put me to this task — 
 
 Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of glories, 
 
 Tlieir mighty name dishonour'd all in me, 
 
 Not by mc, but by the ungrateful nobles 
 
 We fought to make our equals, not our lords: — 
 
 And chiefly thou, Ordelafo tlic brave, 
 
 Who perisli'd in the field, where I since conquer'd, 
 
 Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 
 
 Of thine and Venice' foes, there offer'd up 
 
 By thy descendant merit such acquittance? 
 
 Spirits! smile down upon me; for ray cause 
 
 Is yours, in all life now can be of yours, — 
 
 Tour fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 
 
 A.nd in the future fortunes of our race! 
 
 Let me but prosper, and I make this city 
 
 Free and immortal, and our house's name 
 
 Wortliier of what you were, now and hereafter ! 
 
 Enter Israel Bertlccio. 
 
 Bert. Who goes there ? 
 
 Doge. A friend to Venice. 
 
 Bert. 'Tishe. 
 yP'elcome, my lord, — you arc before the time. 
 
 Doge. T am ready to proceed to your assembly. 
 
 Bert. Have with y ou ! — I am proud and pleased to see 
 Such confident alacrity. Your doubts 
 since our last meeting, then, are all dispcll'd? 
 
 Doge. Not so — but I have set my little left 
 3f life upon this cast : the die was thrown 
 jiVhen I first listen'd to your treason — Start not! 
 Wliat is the word; I cannot shape my tongue 
 ^0 syllable black deeds into smooth names, 
 IThough I be wrought on to commit them. When 
 I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
 ^0 have you dragg'd to prison, I became 
 ITour guiltiest accomplice : now you may, 
 
 11^ so please you, do as much by me. 
 ^■er^. Strange words, my lord, and most unmerited ; 
 Wk no spy, and neither are we traitors. [the right 
 
 Hwo(ire. We! — We! — no matter — you have earn'd 
 potalk of M*. — But to the point. If this 
 attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd free 
 ind flourishing, when we are in our graves, 
 ponducts her generations to our tombs, 
 ind makes her children with their little hands 
 ''trew flowers o'er her deliverers' ashes, then 
 'lie consequence will sanctify the deed, 
 ind we Shall be like the two Bruti in 
 he annals of hereafter ; but if not, 
 f we should fail, employing bloody means 
 uid secret plot, although to a good end, 
 Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; — thou 
 Jo less than he who was thy sovereign 
 1 !ix hours ago, and now thy brother-rebel. 
 _| Bert. 'Tis not the moment to consider thus, 
 
 Else I could answer. — Let us to the meeting, 
 Or we may be observed in lingering here. 
 
 Doge. We are observed, and have been. 
 
 Bert. We observed ! 
 Let me discover — and this steel — 
 
 Doge. Put up; 
 Here are no human witnesses : look there — 
 What see you? 
 
 Bert. Only a tall warrior's statue 
 Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
 Of the dull moon. 
 
 Doge. That warrior was the sire 
 Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
 Decreed to him. by the twice rescued city: — 
 Think you that he looks down on us, or no? 
 
 Bert. My lord, these are mere phantasies; there are 
 No eyes in marble. 
 
 Doge. But there are inDeath. 
 I tell thee, man, there is a spirit in 
 Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though felt; 
 And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
 'Tis in such deeds as we are now upon. 
 Deemst thou the souls of such a race as mine 
 Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief. 
 Stands plotting on the brink of their pure graves 
 With stung plebeians? 
 
 Bert. It had been as well 
 To have ponder'd this before, — ere you embark'd 
 In our great enterprise. — Do you repent? 
 
 Doge. No — but I feel, and shall do to the last. 
 I cannot quench a glorious life at once, 
 Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be, 
 And take men's lives by stealth, without some pause: 
 Yet doubt me not, it is this very feeling, 
 And knowing what has wrung me to be thus, 
 Which is your best security. There's not 
 A roused mechanic in your busy plot 
 So wrong'd as I, so fallen, so loudly call'd 
 To his redress ; the very means I am forced 
 By these fell tyrants to adopt is such. 
 That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
 Which I must do to pay them back for theirs. 
 
 Bert. Let us away — hark ! — the hour strikes. 
 
 Doge. On — on — 
 It is our knell, or that of Venice — On. — 
 
 Bert. Say, rather, 'tis her freedom's rising peal 
 Of triumph — This way — we are near the place. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 The House where the Conspirators meet. 
 
 Dagolino, Doro, Bertram, Fedelk Tbevisano, CALEsrAiio, A.ntomo 
 DELLK Bknue, etc. 
 
 Cal. (entering) Are all here? 
 
 Dagolino. AH with you : except the three 
 On duty, and our leader Israel, 
 Who is expected momentl}'. 
 
 Cal. Where's Bertram ? 
 
 Bertram. Here ! 
 
 Cal. Have you not been able to complete 
 The number wanting in your company? 
 
MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 Bertram. I had mark'd out some : but I have not dared 
 To trust tliem witli the secret, till assured 
 That they were wortliy faith. 
 
 Cal. There is no need 
 Of trusting to their faith: who, save ourselves 
 And our more chosen comrades, is aware 
 Fully of our intent? they think themselves 
 Engaged in secret to the Signory, 
 To punish some more dissolute 3'oung nobles 
 Who have defied the law in their excesses ; 
 But once drawn up, and their new swords well-flesh'd 
 In the rank hearts of the more odious senators. 
 They will not hesitate to follow up 
 Their blow upon the others, when they see 
 Tiic example of their chiefs ; and I for one 
 Will set them such, that they for very shame 
 And safety will not pause till all have perish'd. 
 
 Bertram, How say you? all! 
 
 Cal. Whom wouldst thou spare? 
 
 Bertram. I spare? 
 I have no power to spare. I only question'd, 
 Thinking that even amongst these wicked men 
 There might be some, whose age and qualities 
 Might mark them out for pity. 
 
 Cal. Yes, such pity 
 \s when the viper hath been cut to pieces, 
 The separate fragments quivering in the sun 
 In the last energy of venomous life. 
 Deserve and have. Why, I should think as soon 
 Of pitying some particular fang which made 
 One in the jaw of the swoln serpent, as 
 Of saving one of these : they form but links 
 Of one long chain — one mass, one breath, one body; 
 They eat, and drink, and live, and breed together, 
 Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, — 
 So let them die as one! 
 
 Dag, SI'.ould one survive. 
 He would be dangerous as the whole: it is not 
 Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
 The spirit of this aristocracy 
 Which must be rooted out ; and if there were 
 A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
 'Twould fasten in the soil and spring again 
 To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit. 
 Bertram, we must be firm ! 
 
 Cal. Look to it well, 
 Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 
 
 Bertram. Who 
 Distrusts me? 
 
 Cal. Not I ; for if I did so, 
 Thou wouldst not now be there to talk of trust; 
 It is thy softness, not thy want of faith, 
 Which makes thee to be doubted. 
 
 Bertram. You should know 
 Who hear me, who and what I am; a man 
 Roused like yourselves to overthrow oppression; 
 A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
 Of you have found me; and if brave or no, 
 You, Calendar©, can pronounce, who have seen me 
 Put to the proof; or, if you should have doubts, 
 I'll clear them on your person ! 
 
 Cal. You are welcome, 
 When once our enterprise is o'er, which must not 
 Be interrupted by a private brawl. 
 
 Bertram. I am no brawler; but can bear myself 
 As far among the foe as any he 
 Who hears me; else why have I been selected 
 To be of your chief comrades? but no less 
 I own my natural weakness; I have not 
 Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder 
 Without some sense of shuddering ; and the sight 
 Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps is not 
 To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 
 Of men surprised a glory. Well — too well 
 I know that we must do such things on those 
 Whose acts have raised up such avengers; but 
 If there were some of these who could be saved 
 From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
 And for our honour, to take off some stain 
 Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly, 
 I had been glad; and see no cause in this 
 For sneer, nor for suspicion! 
 
 Dag. Calm thee, Bertram; 
 For we suspect thee not, and take good heart. 
 It is the cause, and not our will, which asks 
 Such actions from our hands: we'll wash away 
 All stains in Freedom's fountain ! 
 
 Enter Israel Bbhtoocio and the Doge, disguised. 
 
 Dag. Welcome, Israel. [art late- 
 
 Conspirators. Most welcome. — Brave Bertuccio, th( 
 Who is this stranger ? ; 
 
 Cal. It is time to name him. 
 Our comrades arc even now prepared to greet him 
 In brotherhood, as I have made it known 
 That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause, 
 Approved by thee, and thus approved by all. 
 Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
 Let him unfold himself. 
 
 Bert. Stranger, step forth ! [The Doge discovers hhns«p 
 
 Consp. To arms ! — we are betray'd — it is the Dog! 
 Down with them both ! our traitorous captain, and 
 The tyrant he hath sold us to! 
 
 Cal. (drawing hi* sword) Hold ! Hold! 
 
 Who moves a step against them dies. Hold! hear 
 
 Bertuccio — What ! are you appall'd to see 
 
 A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
 
 Amongst you ? — Israel, speak ! what means this mystcr; 
 
 Bert. Let them advance and strike at their own bosom 
 Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives 
 Depend their own, their fortunes, and their hopes. 
 
 Doge. Strike! — If I dreaded death, a death mo 
 Than any your rash weapons can inflict, [fcarf 
 
 I should not now be here: — Oh, noble Courage! 
 The eldest-born of Fear, which makes you brave 
 Against this solitary hoary head! 
 Sec the bold chiefs, who would reform a state 
 And shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread 
 At sight of one patrician! — Butcher me. 
 You can; I care not. — Israel, are these men 
 The mighty hearts you spoke of? look upon liiem ! 
 
 Cal. Faith! he hath shamed us, and deservedly. 
 
\CT HI. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 357 
 
 Was this your trust in your true Chief Bertuccio, 
 To turn your swords against Jiim and his guest? 
 Sheathe them, and hear him. 
 
 Bert. I disdain to speak. 
 They might and must have known a heart like mine 
 Incapable of treachery; and the power 
 They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
 To further their design was ne'er abused. 
 They might be certain that whoe'er was brought 
 By me into this council, had been led 
 To take his choice — as brother, or as victim. 
 
 Doge. And which am I to be? your actions leave 
 Some cause to doubt the freedom of the choice. 
 
 Bert. My lord, we would have perish'd here together, 
 Had these rash men proceeded; but, behold. 
 They are ashamed of that mad moment's impulse, 
 4nd droop their heads ; believe me, they are such 
 A.S I described them. — Speak to them. 
 
 Cal. Ay, speak; 
 We are all listening in wonder. 
 
 Bert, (addressing the conspirators) You are Saff, 
 
 jVay, more, almost triumphant — listen then, 
 |ind know my words for truth. 
 
 Doye. You see me here, 
 \\^ one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd, 
 pefencclcss man; and yesterday you saw mc 
 Presiding in the hall of ducal state, 
 [Vpparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
 'ffXobed in oflicial purple, dealing out 
 tkfhe edicts of a power which is not mine, 
 ^or yours, but of our masters — the patricians, 
 jiVhy I was there you know, or think you know ; 
 jliVhy I am here, he who hath been most wrong'd, 
 jle who among you hath been most insulted, 
 i)atraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
 f he be worm or no, may answer for me, 
 Asking of his own heart what brought him here? 
 fou know my recent story, all men know it, 
 * Ind judge of it far differently from those 
 ^? 'Vho sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
 hit spare me the recital — it is here, 
 Icre at my heart the outrage — but my words, 
 iilrcady spent in unavailing plaints, 
 I iVould only show my feebleness the more, 
 jind I come here to strengthen even the strong, 
 ind urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
 Vith woman's weapons; but I need not urge you. 
 >ur private wrongs have sprung from public vices 
 n this — I cannot call it common-wealth 
 ^or kingdom, which hath neither prince nor people, 
 lut all the sins of the old Spartan state 
 Vithout its virtues — temperance and valour. 
 lie lords of Lacedemon were true soldiers,, 
 tut ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
 'f whom I am the lowest, most enslaved, 
 Ithough drest out to head a pageant, as 
 he Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves to form 
 pastime for their children. You are met 
 overthrow this monster of a state, 
 liis mockery of a government, this spectre, 
 i'"hich must be exorcised with blood, — and then, 
 
 We will renew the times of truth and justice, 
 
 Condensing in a fair free common-wealth 
 
 Not rash equality, but equal rights, 
 
 Proportion'-d like the columns to the temple, 
 
 Giving and taking strength reciprocal, 
 
 And making firm the whole with grace and beauty. 
 
 So that no part could be removed without 
 
 Infringement of the general symmetry. 
 
 In operating this great change, I claim 
 
 To be one of you — if you trust in me; 
 
 If not, strike home, — my life is compromised. 
 
 And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 
 
 Than live ajiother day to act the tyrant 
 
 As delegate of tyrants; such I am not, 
 
 And never have been — read it iu our annals; 
 
 I can appeal to my past government 
 
 In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 
 
 If I were an oppressor, or a man 
 
 Feeling and thinking for my fellow-men. 
 
 Haply had I been what the senate sought, 
 
 A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 
 
 To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture; 
 
 A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 
 
 A stickler for the Senate and "the Forty," 
 
 A sceptic of all measures which had not 
 
 The sanction of "The Ten," a council-fawner, 
 
 A tool, a fool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 
 
 Fostcr'd the wretch who stung me. What I suifcr 
 
 Has reach'd me through my pity for the people; 
 
 That many know, and tiicy who know not yet 
 
 Will one day learn; meantime, I do devote, 
 
 Whate'er the issue, my last days of life — 
 
 My present power, such as it is, not that 
 
 Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 
 
 Before he was degraded to a Doge, 
 
 And still has individual means and mind; 
 
 I stake my fame (and I had fame) my breath 
 
 (The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) — 
 
 My heart — my hope — my soul — upon this cast ! 
 
 Such as I am, I offer me to you 
 
 And to your chiefs ; accept me or reject rae, 
 
 A prince who fain would be a citizen 
 
 Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be so. 
 
 Cal. Long live Falicro! — Venice shall be free ! 
 
 Consp. Long live Faliero ! 
 
 Bert. Comrades! did I well? 
 Is not this man a host in such a cause? 
 
 Doge. This is no time for eulogies, nor place 
 For exultation. Am I one of you? 
 
 Cal. Ay, and the first amongst us, as thou hast been 
 Of Venice — be our general and chief. 
 
 Doge. Chief! — General ! — I was general at Zara, 
 And chief in Rhodes and Cyprus, prince in Venice; 
 I cannot stoop — that is, I am not fit 
 To lead a band of — patriots : when I lay 
 Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
 'Tis not to put on others, but to be 
 Mate to my fellows — but now to the point: 
 Israel has stated to mc your whole plan — 
 'Tis bold, but feasible if I assist it. 
 And must be set in motion instantly. 
 
358 
 
 MARINO FALIERO.. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Cal. E'en when tliou wilt — is it not so, my friends? 
 I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
 When shall it be then? 
 
 Doge. At sunrise. 
 
 Bertram. So soon? 
 
 Doye. So soon? — so late — cacli hour accumulates 
 Peril on peril, and the more so now 
 Since I have mingled with you; know you not 
 Tiie Council, and "The Ten?" the spies, the eyes 
 Of the patricians dubious of their slaves. 
 And now more dubious of the prince they havemadeone? 
 I tell you you must strike, and suddenly. 
 Full to the Hydra's heart — its heads will follow. 
 
 Cal. With all my soul and sword I yield assent: 
 Our companies are ready, sixty each, 
 And all now under arms by Israel's order; 
 Each at their different place of rendezvous, 
 And vigilant, expectant of some blow; 
 Let each repair for action to his post! 
 And now, my lord, tiie signal? 
 
 Doye. When you hear 
 The great bell of Saint Mark's, which may not be 
 Struck without special order of the Doge, 
 (The last poor privilege they leave their prince) 
 Marcii on Saint Mark's! 
 
 Bert. And there? — 
 
 Doge. By different routes 
 Let your march be directed, every sixty 
 Entering a separate avenue, and still 
 Upon the way let your cry be of war 
 And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dawn 
 Discern'd before the port; form round the palace. 
 Within whose court will be drawn out in arms 
 My nephew and the clients of our house, 
 Many and martial; while the bell tolls on, 
 Shout ye, "Saint Mark ! — the foe is on our waters !" 
 
 Cal. I see it now — but on, my noble lord. 
 
 Doge. All the patricians flocking to the Council 
 (Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
 Pealing from out their patron-saint's proud tower) 
 Will then be gather'd in unto the harvest. 
 And we will reap them with the sword for sickle. 
 If some few should be tardy or absent then, 
 'Twill be but to be taken faint and single. 
 When tiie majority are put to rest. 
 
 Cal. Would thatthe hour were come! we will not scotch, 
 But kill. 
 
 Bertram. Once more, sir, with your pardon, I 
 Would now repeat the question which I ask'd 
 Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
 This great ally who renders it more sure. 
 And therefore safer, and as such admits 
 Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
 Our victims — must all perish in tliis slaughter ? 
 
 Cal. All who encounter me and mine, be sure, 
 The mercy they have shown, I show. 
 
 Consp. All! all! 
 Is this a time to talk of pity? when 
 Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it? 
 
 Bert. Bertram, 
 
 This false compassion is a folly, and 
 
 Injustice to thy comrades and tliy cause! 
 
 Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
 
 Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
 
 The fallen? and how distinguish now the innocent 
 
 From out the guilty? all their acts are one — 
 
 A single emanation from one body. 
 
 Together knit for our oppression ! 'Tis 
 
 Much that wc let their cliildren live; I doubt 
 
 If all of these even should be set apart: 
 
 The hunter may reserve some single cub 
 
 From out the tiger's litter, but who e'er 
 
 Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam, 
 
 Unless to perish by theijrfangs? However, 
 
 I will abide by Doge Falicro's counsel; 
 
 Let him decide if any should be saved. 
 
 Doge. Askmenot — tempt me not with suchaqucstioQ 
 Decide yourselves. 
 
 Bert. You know their private virtues 
 Far better than we can, to whom alone 
 Their public vices, and most foul oppression, 
 Have made them deadly; if there be amongst them 
 One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce. 
 
 Doge. Dolfino's father was my friend, and Lando 
 Fouglit by my side, and Marc Cornaro shared 
 My Genoese embassy; I saved the life 
 Of Veniero — shall I save it twice? 
 Would that I could save them and Venice also ! 
 All these men, or their fathers, were my friends 
 Till they became my subjects ; then fell from me 
 As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown flower, 
 And left me a lone blighted thorny stalk, 
 Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing; 
 So, as they let me wither, let them perish ! 
 
 Cal. They cannot co-exist with Venice' freedom 1 ' 
 
 Doge. Ye, though you know and feel our mutual mi 
 Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 
 What fatal poison to the springs of life. 
 To human ties, and all that's good and dear, 
 Lurks in the present institutes of Venice: 
 All these men were my friends ; I loved them, they 
 Requited honourably my regards; 
 We served and fought; we smiled and wept in concer 
 We revell'd or we sorrow'd side by side; 
 We made alliances of blood and marriage; 
 We grew in years and honours fairly, till 
 Their own desire, not my ambition, made 
 Them choose me for their prince, and then farewell! 
 Farewell all social memory! all thoughts 
 In common! and sweet bonds which link old fricndshi 
 When the survivors of long years and actions. 
 Which now belong to history, soothe the days 
 Which yet remain by treasuring each other, 
 And never meet, but each beholds the mirror . 
 Of half a century on his brother's brow. 
 And sees a hundred beings, now in earth, 
 Flit round them whispering of the days gone by, 
 And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
 Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band. 
 Which once were one and many, still retain 
 
ACT MI. 
 
 MARINO FALTERO. 
 
 359 
 
 A. breath to sigh for tliem, a tongue to speak 
 Of deeds tliat else were silent, save on marble — 
 Oime! Oime ! — and must 1 do this deed? 
 
 Bert. My lord, you are much moved: it is not now 
 That such things must be dwelt upon. 
 
 Doge. Your patience 
 A moment — I recede not: mark witli me 
 The gloomy vices of this government. [me — 
 
 From the iiour that made me Doge, the Doge THEY made 
 Farewell the past! I died to all that had been, 
 Or rather they to me: no friends, no kindness, 
 No privacy of life — all were cut off": 
 They came not near me, suchapproa'ch gave umbrage; 
 They could not love me, such was not the law; 
 They tlnvarted me, 'twas the state's policy; 
 They balllcd me, 'twas a patrician's duty; 
 They wrong'd me, for such was to right the state; 
 They could not right me, that would give suspicion; 
 So that I was a slave to my own subjects; 
 So tliat I was a foe to my own friends; 
 iBegirt with spies for guards — with robes for power — 
 jwitli pomp for freedom — gaolers for a council — 
 knquisitors for friends — and hell for life! 
 [ had one only fount of quiet left, 
 [And that tliey poison'd ! My pure household-gods 
 Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er their shrine 
 ?ate grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 
 
 Bert. You have been deeply wrong'd, and now shall be 
 ^obly avenged before another night. 
 
 Doge. I had borne all — it hurt me, but I bore it — 
 Pill this last running over of the cup 
 )f bitterness — until this last loud insult, 
 ■Jot only unredress'd, but sanction'd; then, 
 ind thus, I cast all further feelings from me — 
 'he feelings wiiich they crush'd for me, long, long 
 teforc, even in their oath of false allegiance! 
 jilvcn in that very hour and vow they abjured 
 hieir friend and made a sovereign, as boys make 
 •laytliings, to do their pleasure and be broken ! 
 from lliat hour have seen but senators 
 1 dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
 rooding with him in mutual hate and fear; 
 liey dreading he should snatch the tyranny 
 rom out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrants. 
 me, then, these men have no private life, 
 or claim to ties they have cut oft" from others; 
 s senators for arbitrary acts 
 nienable, I look on them — as such 
 2t tiiem be dealt upon. 
 Cai. And now to action ! 
 ence, brethren, to our posts, and may this be 
 lelast niglit of mere words: I'd fain be doing! 
 lint Mark's great bell at dawn sliall find me wakeful! 
 Bert. Disperse then to your posts; be firm and vigilant; 
 link on the wrongs we bear, the rights we claim, 
 lis day and nigtit shall be the last of peril ! 
 atch for the signal, and then march. I go 
 I join my band ; let each be prompt to marshal 
 s separate ciiarge: the Doge will now return 
 the palace to prepare all for llie blow, 
 e part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 
 
 Cal. Doge, when I greet you next, ifly homage to yon 
 Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 
 
 Doge. No; let him be reserved unto the last, 
 Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey. 
 Till nobler game is quarried ; his offence 
 Was a mere ebullition of the vice, 
 Tiie general corruption generated 
 By the foul aristocracy ; he could not — 
 He dared not in more honourable days 
 Have risk'd it! I have merged all private wrath 
 Against him, in the thought of our great purpose 
 A slave insults me — I require his punishment 
 From his proud master's hands; if he refuse it, 
 The oftencc grows his, and let him answer it. 
 
 Cal. Yet, as the immediate cause of the alliance 
 Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
 I owe him such deep gratitude, that fain 
 I would repay him as he merits; may I? 
 
 Doge. You would but lop the hand, and I the head ; 
 You would but smite the scholar, I the master; 
 You would but punish Steno, I the senate. 
 I cannot pause on individual hate, 
 In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge, 
 Which, like the sheeted fire from heaven, must blast 
 Without distinction, as it fell of yore. 
 Where the Dead Sea hath quench'd two cities' ashes. 
 
 Bert. Away, then, to your posts ! I but remain 
 A moment to accompany the Doge 
 To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
 Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 
 To where my allotted band is under arms. 
 
 Cal. Farewell, then, until dawn ! 
 
 Bert. Success go with you ! 
 
 Consp. We will not fail — away ! My lord, farewell ! 
 
 [The Conspiratori salate the DouE and IsraulBrk- 
 Tuccio, and retire, headed bj Phiui- Calknuaro. 
 The Doge and Israel Bertuccio remain. 
 
 Bert. We have them in the toil — it cannot fail! 
 Now thou'rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt make 
 A name immortal greater than the greatest ; 
 Free citizens have struck at kings ere now; 
 Ctesars have fallen, and even patrician hands 
 Have crush'd dictators, as the popular steel 
 Has reach'd patricians; but until this hour, 
 What prince has plotted for his people's freedom? 
 Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects? 
 For ever, and for ever, they conspire 
 Against the people, to abuse their hands 
 To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
 Against the fellow-nations, so that yoke 
 On yoke, and slavery and death may whet. 
 Not glut, the never-gorged Leviathan! 
 Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; 'tis great, 
 And greater the reward; why stand you rapt? 
 A moment back, and you were all impatience! 
 
 Doge. And is it then decided? must they die? 
 
 Bert. Who? 
 
 Doge. My own friends by blood and courtesy. 
 And many deeds and days — the senators? 
 
 Bert. You pass'd tiieir sentence, and it is a just one. 
 
360 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 Doge. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you; 
 You are a patriot, a plebeian Gracchus — 
 The rebel's oracle — the people's tribune — 
 I blame you not, you act in your vocation ; 
 They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised you; 
 So they have me: hut you ne'er spake with them; 
 You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt ; 
 You never had their wine-cup at your lips; 
 You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, 
 Nor held a revel in their company; 
 Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their smile 
 In social interchange for yours, nor trusted, 
 Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have: 
 These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs, 
 The elders of the council; I remember 
 When all our locks were like the raven's wing, 
 As we went forth to take our prey around 
 The isles wrung from the false Mahometan : 
 And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood? 
 Each stab to them will seem my suicide. 
 
 Bert. Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 
 A child; if you are not in second childhood, 
 Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 
 Thusshame yourself and me. By heavens! I'd rather 
 Forego even now, or fail in our intent. 
 Than see the man I venerate subside 
 From high resolves into such shallow weakness! 
 You have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 
 Your own and that of others ; can you shrink then 
 From a few drops from veins of hoary vampires, 
 Who but give back what they have drain'd from millions? 
 
 Doge. Bear with me! Step by step, and blow on blow, 
 I will divide with you; think not I waver; 
 Ah! no; it is the certem^^/ of all 
 Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 
 But let these last and lingering thoughts have way, 
 To which you only and theNight are conscious, 
 And both regardless; when the hour arrives, 
 'Tis mine to sound the knell, and strike the blow, 
 Which shall unpeople many palaces, 
 And hew the highest genealogic trees 
 Down to the earth, strew'd with their bleeding fruit, 
 And crush their blossoms into barrenness: 
 This will I — must I — have I sworn to do. 
 Nor aught can turn me from my destiny; 
 
 But still I quiver to behold what I 
 
 Must be, and think what I have been ! Bear with me. 
 
 Bert. Re-man your breast; I feel no such remorse, 
 I understand it not; why should you change? 
 You acted, and you act on your free will. 
 
 Doge, Ay, there it is — you feel not, nor do I, 
 Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
 A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder; 
 You feel not — you go to this butcher-work 
 As if these high-born men were steers for shambles! 
 When all is over, you'll be free and merry, 
 And calmly wash those hands incarnadine; 
 But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 
 In this surpassing massacre, shall be, 
 Shall see, and feel — oli God ! oh God ! 'tis true. 
 And thou dost well to answer that it was 
 "My own free will and act;" and yet you err. 
 For I will do this ! Doubt not — fear not ; I 
 Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 
 And yet I act no more on my free will, 
 Nor my own feelings — both compel me back ; 
 But there is hell within me and around. 
 And, like the demon who believes and trembles, 
 Must I abhor and do. Away ! Away ! 
 Get thee unto thy fellows, I will hie me 
 To gather the retainers of our house. 
 Doubt not, Saint Mark's great bell shall wake all Veni( 
 Except her slaughter'd senate; ere the sun 
 Be broad upon the Adriatic, there | 
 
 Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall drown 
 The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 
 I am resolved — come on. 
 
 Bert. With all my soul! 
 Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion; 
 Remember what these men have dealt to thee. 
 And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
 By ages of prosperity and freedom 
 To this unshackled city; a true tyrant 
 Would have depopulated empires, nor 
 Have felt the strange compunction which hatli wrungy 
 To punish a few traitors to the people! 
 Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
 Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. (ji 
 
 Doge. Man, thou hast struck upon the chord whi 
 All nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! [Exei 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Palazzo of the Patrician LiONi. LiONi laying aside the mask and cloak 
 which the Venetian Nobles wore in public, attended by a Domestic. 
 
 Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this revel. 
 The gayest we have held for many moons, 
 
 And yet, I know not why, it cheer'd me not; 
 There came a heaviness across ray heart. 
 Which in the lightest movement of the dance, 
 Though eye to eye, and hand in hand united 
 Even with the lady of my love, oppress'd me. 
 And through my spirit chill'd my blood, until 
 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 361 
 
 A damp like death rose o'er ijiy brow; I strove 
 To laugli tlic thought away, but 't would not be; 
 Through all the music ringing in my ears 
 A knoll was sounding as distinct and clear. 
 Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
 Rose o'er the city's murmur in the night, 
 Dashing against the outward Lido's bulwark; 
 So that I left the festival before 
 Itreach'd its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
 For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. 
 Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
 The lamp within my chamber. 
 
 Antonio. Yes, my lord: 
 Oommand you no refreshment? 
 
 Lioni. Nought, save sleep, 
 Which will not be commanded. Let me hope it, 
 
 [Exit Antonio. 
 
 Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will try 
 
 Whether the air will calm my spirits: 'tis 
 
 i goodly night; the cloudy wind which blew 
 
 ?rom the Levant hath crept into its cave, 
 
 ind the broad moon has brighten'd. What a stillness! 
 
 [Goes to an open lattice. 
 
 Vnd what a contrast with the scene I left, 
 iVhcre the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps' 
 liore pallid gleam along the tapestried walls, 
 'Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts 
 Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
 \i dazzling mass of artificial light, 
 iVhich show'd all things, but nothing as they were. 
 There Age essaying to recall the past, 
 ifter long striving for the hues of youth 
 it the sad labour of the toilet, and 
 •■ull many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
 'rank'd forth in all the pride of ornament, 
 ■"orgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
 )f the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide, 
 Relieved itself forgotten, and was fool'd. 
 ["here Youth, which needed not, nor thought of such 
 ain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and health, 
 k.nd bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
 )f tlush'd and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
 ts hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure, 
 Lnd so shall waste them till the sunrise streams 
 H)n sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which should not 
 |lave worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
 I'he music, and the banquet, and the wine — 
 I'be garlands, the rose-odours, and the flowers — 
 'he sparkling eyes and flashing ornaments — 
 I'he white arms and the raven hair — the braids 
 wfld bracelets; swanlike bosoms, and the necklace, 
 in India in itself, yet dazzling not 
 'he eye like what it circled ; the thin robes 
 'loating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and heaven; 
 » 'he many-twinkling feet so small and sylph-like, 
 ; uggesting the more secret symmetry 
 *f the fair forms which terminate so well — - 
 .11 the delusion of the dizzy scene, 
 s false and true enchantments — art and nature, 
 V'liich swam before my giddy eyes, that drank 
 'he sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 
 
 \s\i« 
 
 On Arab sands the false mirage, which offers 
 
 A lucid lake to his eluded thirst. 
 
 Are gone. — Around me are the stars and waters — 
 
 Worlds mirror'd in the ocean, goodlier sight 
 
 Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 
 
 And the great element, which is to space 
 
 What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths, 
 
 Soften'd witli the first breathings of the spring; 
 
 The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, 
 
 Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 
 
 Of those tall, piles and sea-girt palaces, 
 
 Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts, 
 
 Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles. 
 
 Like altars ranged along the broad canal, 
 
 Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 
 
 Rear'd up from out the waters, scarce less strangely 
 
 Than those more massj' and mysterious giants 
 
 Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics. 
 
 Which point in Egypt's plains to times that have 
 
 No other record. All is gentle: nought 
 
 Stirs rudely ; but, congenial with the night, 
 
 Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 
 
 The tinklings of some vigilant guitars 
 
 Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress. 
 
 And cautious opening of the casement, showing 
 
 That he is not unheard ; while her young hand, 
 
 Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part. 
 
 So delicately white, it trembles in 
 
 The act of opening the forbidden lattice, 
 
 To let in love through music, makes his heart 
 
 Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight ; — the dash 
 
 Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 
 
 Of the far lights of skimming gondolas. 
 
 And the responsive voices of the choir 
 
 Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse; 
 
 Some dusky shadow chequering the Rialto; 
 
 Some glimmering palace- roof^ or tapering spire, 
 
 Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade 
 
 The ocean-oorn and earth-commanding city. — 
 
 How sweet and soothing?: is this hour of calm ! 
 
 I thank thee. Night! for thou hast chased away 
 
 Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, 
 
 I could not dissipate: and with the blessing 
 
 Of thy benign and quiet influence. 
 
 Now will I to my couch, although to rest 
 
 Is almost wronging such a night as this — 
 
 [A knocking is heard from witlioot 
 
 Hark ! what is that? or who at such a moment? 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 Antonio. My lord, a man without, on urgent business, 
 Implores to be admitted. 
 
 Lioni. Is he a stranger? 
 
 Antonio. His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
 His voice and gestures seem familiar to me; 
 I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
 Tb trust, save to yourself; most earnestly 
 He sues to be permitted to approach you. 
 
 Lioni. 'Tis a strange hour, and a suspicious bearing ! 
 And yet there is slight peril: 'tis not in 
 Their houses noble men are struck at; still, 
 
 23* 
 
362 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Altliough I know not that I have a foe 
 In Venice, 'twill be wise to use some caution. 
 Admit him, and retire ; but call up quickly 
 Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. — 
 Who can this man be ? 
 
 Exit Antonio, and returns with Bbrtram muffled. 
 
 Bertram. My good Lord Lioni, 
 I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
 This menial hence; I would be private witlj you. 
 
 Lioni. It seems the voice of Bertram — go, Antonio. 
 
 [Exit Antonio. 
 
 Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour? 
 
 Bertram (discovering himseiO. A boon, my iioblc patron; 
 you have granted 
 Many to your poor client, Bertram; add 
 This one, and make him happy. 
 
 Lioni. Thou hast known me 
 From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
 In all fair objects of advancement, which 
 Beseem one of thy station ; I would promise 
 Ere thy request was lieard, but that the hour. 
 Thy bearing, and tliis strange and hurried mode 
 Of suing, give me to suspect this visit 
 Hath some mysterious import — but say on — 
 What has occurred? some rash and sudden broil? 
 A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab? — 
 Mere things of every day; so that thou hast not 
 Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety; 
 But then thou must witlidraw, for angry friends 
 And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance. 
 Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 
 
 Bertram. My lord, I thank you; but — 
 
 Lioni. But what? You have not 
 Raised a rash hand against one of our order? 
 If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not; 
 I would not slay — but then I must not save thee! 
 He who has shed patrician blood — 
 
 Bertram, I come 
 To save patrician blood, and not to shed it! 
 And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
 Each minute lost may lose a life : since Time 
 Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged sword. 
 And is about to take, instead of sand. 
 The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour-glass! 
 Go not thou forth to-morrow ! 
 
 Lioni. W^herefore not ? 
 What means this menace? 
 
 Bertram. Do not seek its meaning, 
 But do as I implore thee; — stir not forth, 
 Whate'er be stirring; though the roar of crowds — 
 The cry of women, and the shrieks of babes — 
 The groans of men — the clash of arms — the sound 
 Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 
 Peal in one wide alarum! — Go not forth 
 Until the tocsin 's silent, nor even then 
 Till I return! 
 
 Lioni. Again, what does this mean? 
 
 Bertram. Again, 1 tell thee, ask not; but by all 
 Thou boldest dear on earth or lieavcn — by all 
 The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
 
 To emulate them, and to leave behind 
 Descendants worthy both of them and thee — 
 By all thou hast of blest in hope or memory — 
 By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 
 By all the good deeds thou hast done to me. 
 Good I would now repay with greater good. 
 Remain within — trust to thy household-gods 
 And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
 As I now counsel — but if not, thou art lost! 
 
 Lioni. 1 am indeed already lost in Avonder; 
 Surely thou ravest! what have I to dread? 
 Who are my foes? or if there be sucii, why 
 Art thou leagued with them? — thou! or if so leagued. 
 Why comest thou to tell me at this hour. 
 And not before? 
 
 Bertram. I cannot answer this. 
 Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning? 
 
 Lioni. I was not born to shrink from idle threats. 
 The cause of which I know not: at the hour 
 Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
 Be found among the absent. 
 
 Bertram. Say not so! 
 Once more, art thou determined to go forth ? 
 
 Lioni. I am ; nor is tiicre aught which shall impede m 
 
 Bertram. Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul ! 
 Farewell! [<;oii 
 
 Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than my own safe 
 V/hich makes me call thee back ; we must not part thu 
 Bertram, I have known thee long. 
 
 Bertram, From childhood, signor. 
 You have been my protector : in the days 
 Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets, 
 Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember 
 Its cold prerogative, we play'd togetlier ; 
 Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft; 
 My father was your father's client, I 
 His son's scarce less than foster-brother; years 
 Saw us together — happy, heart-full hours ! — 
 Oh God ! the difference 'twixt those hours and tliis ! 
 
 Lioni. Bertram, 'tis thou who hast forgotten them. 
 
 Bertram. Nor now, nor ever; whatsoe'er betide, 
 I would have saved you: when to manhood s growth 
 We sprung, and you, devoted to the state, 
 As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 
 Was left unto the labours of the humble. 
 Still you forsook me not; and if my fortunes ; 
 
 Have not been towering, 'twas no fault of him 
 Who oft-times rescued and supported me 
 When struggling with the tides of circumstance 
 Which bear away the weaker: noble blood 
 Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than tliine 
 Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
 Would that thy fellow-senafors were like thee ! 
 
 Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against the scnattj 
 
 Bertram. Notiiing. 
 
 Lioni, I know that there are angry spirits 
 And turbulent muttcrers of stifled treason 
 Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
 Muffled to whisper curses to the niglit; 
 Di.sbanded soldier.s, discontented ruffians. 
 And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns; 
 
jifT IV. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 363 
 
 Thou Iierdest not with such : 'tis true, of late 
 
 I have lost sight of thee, but thou wort wont 
 
 To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
 
 With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
 
 What iiatli come to tiiee? in thy liollow eye ' 
 
 And iiueless cheolc, and thine unquiet motions, 
 
 Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
 
 To waste thee. 
 Bertram, Rather sliame and sorrow light 
 
 On the accursed tyranny which rides 
 
 The very air in Venice, and makes men 
 
 Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
 
 Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life! [Bertram ; 
 Lioni. Some villains have been tampering with thecv 
 
 JThis is not thy old language, nor own thoughts ; 
 
 ISome wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection; 
 
 [But thou must not be lost so; thou wert good 
 
 And kind, and art not tit for such base acts 
 
 (As vice and villauy would put thee to: 
 
 Confess — confide in me — tliou knovvst my nature — 
 
 [Wliat is it thou and thine are bound to do, 
 
 jWhich should prevent thy friend, the only son 
 
 Of him who was a friend unto thy father, 
 u jSo that our good-will is a heritage 
 I. jWe should bequeath to our posterity 
 ., j3uch as ourselves received it, or augmented ; 
 ij k say, what is it thou must do, that I 
 J Should deem tlice dangerous, and keep the house 
 
 fifjikea sick girl? 
 
 Ij Bertram, Nay, question me no further: 
 
 |j[ must be gone. — 
 
 I Lioni. And I be murder'd ! — say, 
 
 t [Was it not thus thou saidst, my gentle Bertram? [der ? — 
 
 Pi Bertram, Who talks of murder? what said I of mur- 
 
 [ITis false! I did not utter such a word. 
 
 Lioni, Thou didst not; but from out thy wolfish eye, 
 5o clianged from what I knew it, there glares forth 
 The gladiator, limy life 's thine object. 
 Take it — I am unarm'd — and then away! 
 
 I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 
 
 \ IS the capricious mercy of such things 
 
 \ is thou and those who have set thee to thy taskwork. 
 
 f Bertram. Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril mine ; 
 
 \ iooncr than harm a hair of thine, I place 
 n jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
 iS noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 
 
 % Lioni, Ay, is it even so? Excuse me, Bertram; 
 
 ( am not wortliy to be singled out 
 
 ji rem such exalted hecatombs — who are they 
 
 (^ {'hat are in danger, and that make the danger? 
 Bertram. Venice, and all that she inherits, are 
 'ivided like a house against itself, 
 nd so will perish ere to-morrow's twilight ! 
 Lioni, More mysteries, and awful ones! But now, 
 r thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
 pon the verge of ruin; speak once out, 
 nd thou art safe and glorious ; for 'tis more 
 lorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark too — 
 ie, Bertram! that was not a craft for thee ! 
 ow would it look to see upon a spear 
 he head of him whose heart was open to thee, 
 
 Borne by thy hand before the shuddering people? 
 
 And such may be my doom ; for here 1 swear, 
 
 VVhate'er the peril or the penalty 
 
 Of thy denunciation, I go forth. 
 
 Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 
 
 The consequence of all which led Ihce here! 
 
 Bertram, Is there no way to save thee? minutes fly. 
 And thou art lost! — thou ! my sole benefactor, 
 The only being who was constant to me 
 Through every change. Yet, make me not a traitor! 
 Let me save thee — but spare my honour! 
 
 Lioni. Where 
 Can lie the honour in a league of murder? 
 And who are traitors save unto tlie state? 
 
 Bertram. A. league is still a compact, and more binding 
 In honest hearts when words must stand for law; 
 And in my mind, there is no traitor like 
 He whose domestic treason plants the poniard 
 Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 
 
 Lioni. And who will strike the steel to mine? 
 
 Bertram. Not I; 
 I could have wound my soul up to all things 
 Save this. 77<om must not die! and think how dear 
 Thy life is, when I risk so many lives. 
 Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
 Of future generations, not to be 
 The assassin thou miscalist me; — once, once more 
 I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 
 
 Lioni. It is in vain — tiiis moment I go forth. 
 
 Bertram, Then perish Venice rather than my friend ! 
 I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
 Oh, what a villain I become lor thee ! 
 
 Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the state's ! — 
 Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
 Thy safety and thy welfare; wealth such as 
 Tht' state accords her worthiest servants; nay, 
 Nobility itself I guarantee thee, 
 So that thou art sincere and penitent. 
 
 Bertram. I have thought again : it must not be — I 
 love thee — 
 Thou knowest it — that I stand here is the proof, 
 Not least though last; but having done my duty 
 By thee, I now must do it by my country 1 
 Farewell ! — we meet no more in life! farewell! 
 
 Lioni. What, ho! Antonio — Pedro — to the door! 
 See that none pass — arrest this man ! — 
 
 Enter Antonio aii'l other armed Domestics, who seize BuRTnAH. 
 
 Lioni (continues). Take care 
 He hath no harm ; bring me my sword and cloak ; 
 And man the gondola with four oars — quick - 
 
 [Exit Antonio^' 
 
 We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
 
 And send for Marc Cornaro: — fear not, Bertram; 
 
 This needful violence is for thy safety. 
 
 No less than for the general weal. 
 
 Bertram. Where wouldst thou 
 Bear me a prisoner? 
 
 Lioni. Firstly, to "The Ten;" 
 Next to the Doge. 
 
 Bertram. To the Doge? ^^^yiij^. 
 
364 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 ACT 1 
 
 Lioni. Assuredly; 
 Is \\c not cbicf of tlie state? 
 
 Bertram. Perhaps at sunrise — 
 
 Lioni. What mean you? — but we'll know anon. 
 
 Bertram. Art sure? 
 
 Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can make; and if 
 They fail, you know "The Ten" and their tribunal, 
 And that Saint Mark's has dungeons , and the dungeons 
 A rack. 
 
 Bertram. Apply to it before the dawn 
 Now hastening into heaven. — One more such word, 
 And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
 Ye think to doom to me. 
 
 Re-enter Antonio. 
 
 Antonio. The bark is ready, 
 My lord, and-all prepared. 
 
 Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 
 Bertram, I'll reason with thee as we go 
 To the Magnifico's, sage Gradenigo. [Eieunt. 
 
 SCENE TI. 
 
 The Diical Palace — the Doge's Apartment. 
 
 The Doge and his ntphew Bkrtuccio Faliebo. 
 
 Doge. Are all the people of our house in muster? 
 
 B. Fal. They are array'd, and eager for the signal, 
 Within our palace-precincts at San Polo. 
 I come for your last orders. 
 
 Doge. It had been 
 As well had there been time to have got together 
 From my own fief, Val di Marino, more 
 Of our retainers — but it is too late. 
 
 B. Fal. Metliinks, my lord, 'tis better as it is; 
 A sudden swelling of our retinue 
 Had waked suspicion; and, though fierce and trusty, 
 The vassals of that district are too rude 
 And quick in quarrel to have long maintain'd 
 The secret discipline we need for such 
 A service, till our foes are dealt upon. 
 
 Doge. True; but when once the signal has been given, 
 Tliese are the men for such an enterprise: 
 These city-slaves liave all their private bias. 
 Their prejudice against or for this noble. 
 Which may induce them to o'erdo or spare 
 Where mercy may be madness ; the fierce peasants. 
 Serfs of my county of Val di Marino, 
 Would do the bidding of their lord without 
 Distinguishing for love or hate his foes; 
 Alike to them Marcello or Cornaro, 
 A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 
 They are not used to start at those vain names, 
 Nor bow the knee before a civic senate: 
 A cliief in armour is their suzerain. 
 And not a thing in robes. 
 
 B. Fal. We are enough; 
 And for the dispositions of our clients 
 Against the senate I will answer. 
 
 Doge. Well, 
 The die is thrown ; but for a warlike service. 
 Done in the field, commend me to my peasants; 
 
 They made the sun shine through the host of Huns 
 When sallow burghers slunk back to their tents. 
 And cower'd to hear their own victorious trumpet. 
 If there be small resistance, you will find 
 These citizens all lions, like their standard; 
 But if there's much to do, you'll wish, with me, 
 A band of iron rustics at our backs. j 
 
 B. Fal. Thus thinking, I must marvel you resoIvCS^^l 
 To strike the blow so suddenly. 
 
 Doge. Such blows 
 Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
 1 had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
 Which yearn'd about my heart, too fondly yielding 
 A moment to the feelings of old days, 
 I was most fain to strike; and, firstly, that 
 I might not yield again to such emotions; 
 And, secondly, because of all these men. 
 Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 
 I know not well the courage or the faith : 
 To-day might find 'mongst them a traitor to us. 
 As yesterday a thousand to the senate; 
 But once in, with their hilts hot in their hands, 
 They must on for their own sakes; one stroke struck, 
 And the mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 
 Which ever lurks somewhere in human hearts, 
 Though circumstance may keep it in abeyance, 
 Will urge the rest on like to wolves; the sight 
 Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, 
 As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel ; 
 And you will find a harder task to quell 
 Than urge them when they have commenced; but till 
 That moment, a mere voice, a straw, a shadow 
 Are capable of turning them aside. — 
 How goes the night? 
 
 B. Fal. Almost upon the dawn. 
 Doge. Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
 Are the men posted? 
 
 B. Fal. By this time they are; 
 But they have orders not to strike, until 
 They have command from you through me in person. 
 Doge. 'Tis well. — Will the morn never put to rest 
 These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the heavens? 
 I am settled and bound up, and being so, 
 The very effort which it costs me to 
 Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with fire. 
 Now leaves my mind more steady. I have wept, 
 And trembled at the thought of this dread duty; 
 But now I have put down all idle passion. 
 And look the growing tempest in the face. 
 As doth the pilot of an admiral-galley: 
 Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman?) it hath been 
 A greater struggle to me, than when nations 
 Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight. 
 Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 
 Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to spill 
 The rank polluted current from the veins 
 Of a few bloated despots needed more 
 To steel me to a purpose such as made 
 Timoleon immortal, than to face 
 The toils and dangers of a life of war. 
 
 B, Fal. It gladdens me to see your former wisdom 
 
A.CT IV. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 365 
 
 Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
 You were decided. 
 
 Doye. It was ever thus 
 With me; the hour of agitation came 
 III the first glimmering's of a purpose, when 
 Passion liad too much room to sway ; but in 
 The hour of action I have stood as calm 
 As were the dead who lay around me: this 
 They knew who made me what I am, and trusted 
 To the subduing power which I preserved 
 Over my mood, when its first burst was spent. 
 But they were not aware that there are tilings 
 Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
 And not an impulse of mere anger; though 
 The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured souls 
 Oft do a public right with private wrong. 
 And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
 Methinks the day breaks — is it not so? look, 
 [Thine eyes are clear with youth; — the air puts on 
 (A, morning-freshness, and, at least to me, 
 The sea looks grayer tlirough the lattice. 
 
 B.Fal. True, 
 riie morn is dappling in the sky. 
 
 Doge. Away, tlicn! 
 3ee that they strike without delay, and with 
 The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the palace 
 IVith all our house's strength ! here I will meet you — 
 fhe Sixteen and their companies will move 
 in separate columns at the self- same moment — 
 iJe sure you post yourself by the great gate, 
 ?j would not trust "The Ten" except to us — 
 [?he rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
 ijilut the more careless swords of those leagued with us. 
 ijlemember that the cry is still "Saint Mark ! 
 pe Genoese arc come — ho ! to the rescue ! 
 ilaint Mark and liberty ! " — Now — now to action ! 
 
 B. Fal. Farewell then, noble uncle! we will meet 
 n freedom and true sovereignty, or never ! 
 
 Doge. Come hitlier, my Bcrtuccio — one embrace — 
 
 peed, for the day grows broader — Send me soon 
 .messenger to tell me how all goes 
 
 V^hen you rejoin our troops, and then sound — sound 
 \ lie storm-bell from Saint Mark's! [Exit Bcrtuccio Falieio 
 i- Doge, (solus). He is gone, 
 ^ nd on each footstep moves a life. -— 'Tis done. 
 I ow the destroying angel hovers o'er 
 
 enice, and pauses ere he pours the vial, 
 
 ven as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
 
 nd, for a moment poised in middle air, 
 
 ispends the motion of his mighty wings, 
 
 len swoops with his unerring beak. — Thou day! 
 
 iiat slowly walkst the waters ! march — march on - 
 
 ■vould not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
 
 lat no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea-waves ! 
 
 lave seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 
 
 ith Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore, 
 hile that of Venice flow'd too, but victorious: 
 
 )w thou must wear an unmix'd crimson; no 
 
 irbaric blood can reconcile us now 
 
 ito that horrible incarnadine, 
 
 »t friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. 
 
 And have I lived to fourscore years for this? 
 
 I, who was named Preserver of the City? 
 
 I, at whose name the million's caps were flung 
 
 Into the air, and cries from tens of thousands 
 
 Rose up, imploring Heaven to send me blessings. 
 
 And fame and length of days — to see this day? 
 
 But this day, black within the calendar, 
 
 Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium. 
 
 Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers 
 
 To vanquish empires and refuse their crown; 
 
 I will resign a crown, and make the state 
 
 Renew its freedom — but oh ! by what means ? 
 
 The noble end must justify them — What 
 
 Area iew drops of human blood? 'tis false, 
 
 The blood of tyrants is not human ; they, 
 
 Like to incarnate Molochs, feed on ours. 
 
 Until 'tis time to give them to the tombs 
 
 Which they have made so populous. — Oh world! 
 
 Oh men ! what are ye, and our best designs, 
 
 That we must work by crime to punish crime? 
 
 And slay as if Death had but this one gate, 
 
 When a few years would make the sword superfluous? 
 
 And I, upon the verge of the unknown realm, 
 
 Yet send so many heralds on before me? — 
 
 I must not ponder thus, (a pnuse.) Hark! was there not 
 
 A murmur as of distant voices, and 
 
 The tramp of feet in martial unison? 
 
 What phantoms even of sound our wishes raise! 
 
 It cannot be — the signal hath not rung — 
 
 Why pauses it? My nephew's messenger 
 
 Should be upon his way to rae, and he 
 
 Himself perhaps even now draws grating back 
 
 Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower-portal, 
 
 Where swings the sullen huge oracular bell, 
 
 Which never knells but for a princely death, 
 
 Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
 
 Tremendous hodements; let itxlo its office, 
 
 And be this peal its avvfullest and last! 
 
 Sound still the strong tower rock! — What! silent still.' 
 
 I would go forth, but that my post is here. 
 
 To be the centre of re-union to 
 
 The oft discordant elements which form 
 
 Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
 
 The wavering of the weak, in case of conflict; 
 
 For if they should do battle, 'twill be here, 
 
 Within the palace, that the strife will thicken; 
 
 Then here must be my station as becomes 
 
 The master-mover. — Hark ! he comes — he comes. 
 
 My nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
 
 What tidings? Is he marching? Hath he sped? — 
 
 Tliey here! — all's lost — yet will I make an effort. 
 
 Enter ,i Signor of thk Nicht, with Guard.s. 
 
 Sign, of the Night. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ; 
 
 Doge. Me! 
 Thy prince, of treason ? — Who are they that dare 
 Cloak their own treason under such an order? 
 
 Sign, of the Night (showing bis order). 
 
 Behold my order from the assembled Ten. 
 
 Doge. And where are they, and why a.ssembled ? no 
 Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
 
366 
 
 MARINO FALEERO. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Preside there, and tliat duty 's mine: on tliine 
 I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
 To the council-chamber. 
 
 Sign, of the Niffht. Duke! it may not be; 
 Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
 Cut sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 
 
 Doffc. You dare to disobey me,tlien ? 
 
 Siffti. of the Night. I serve 
 The state, and needs must serve it faithfully; 
 My warrant is the will of those who rule it. 
 
 Doge. And till that warrant has my signature 
 It is illegal, and, as jiow applied. 
 Rebellious — Hast thou weigh'd well thy life's worth, 
 That thus you dare assume a lawless function? 
 
 Sign, of the Night. 'Tis not my office to reply, butact — 
 I am placed here as guard upon thy person, 
 And not as judge to hear or to decide. 
 
 Doge (aside). I must gain time — So that the storm- 
 bell sound. 
 All may be well yet. — Kinsman, speed — speed — 
 
 speed ! — 
 Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 
 Woe to the vanquish'd 1 be they prince and people, 
 
 Or slaves and senate — [The great bell of Saint Marie's toU.^. 
 
 Lo ! it sounds — it tolls ! 
 
 Doge (siioaii). Hark, Siguor of the Night! and you, ye 
 hirelings, 
 Who wield your mercenary staves in fear. 
 It is your knell — Swell on, thou lusty peal ! 
 Now, knaves, what ransom for your lives? 
 
 Sign, of ike Night. Confusion ! 
 Stand to your arms, and guard the door — all's lost 
 Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
 The officer hatii miss'd his path or purpose. 
 Or met some unforeseen and hideous obstacle. 
 Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
 Straight to the tower ; the rest remain with me. 
 
 [Kxit a part of the Guard. 
 
 Doge. Wretch! if thou wouldst have thy vile life, im- 
 plore it; 
 It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
 Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth; 
 They never shall return. 
 
 Sign, of the Night. So let it be ! 
 They die then in their duty, as will I. 
 
 Doge. Fool ! the high eagle flies at nobler game 
 Than thou and thy base myrmidons — live on, 
 So tiiou provokcst not peril by resistance, 
 And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 
 To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 
 
 Sign, of the Night. And learn thou to be captive — It 
 
 hatll ceased, [Tlie bell ceases to.toll. 
 
 The traitorous signal, which was to have set 
 The bloodhound-mob on their patrician prey — 
 The knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's ! 
 
 Doge (alter a pause). All's silcut, and all's lost! 
 
 Sign, of the Night. Now, Doge, denounce me 
 As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
 Have I not done my duty? 
 
 Doge. Peace, thou thing ! 
 Thou hast done a worthy deed, and earii'd the price 
 
 Of blood, and they who use thee will reward thee. 
 But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate, 
 As thou saidst even now — then do thine office, 
 But let it be in silence, as behoves thee, 
 Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince. 
 
 Sign, of the Night. I did not mean to fail in the respc 
 Due to your rank: in this I shall obey you. 
 
 Doge (aside). There now is nothing left me save to die 
 And yet how near success! I would have fallen, 
 And proudly, in the hour of triumph, but 
 To miss it thus! 
 
 Enter other Signors or thk Night with Bkrtuccio Faliero priso'ii 
 
 Second Signor. We took him in the act 
 Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order, 
 As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
 Had thus begun to sound. 
 
 First Signor. Are all the passes 
 Which lead up to the palace well secured? 
 
 Second Signor. They are — besides, it matters n< 
 the chiefs 
 Are all in chains, and some even now on trial — 
 Their followers are dispersed, and many taken. 
 
 B.Fal. Uncle! 
 
 Doge. It is in vain to war with Fortune; 
 The glory hath departed from our house. 
 
 jB. Fal. Who would have deem'd it? — Ah! onem 
 ment sooner! 
 
 Doge. That moment would have changed the face 
 ages; 
 Tlds gives us to eternity — We'll meet it 
 As men whose triumph is not in success, 
 But who can make their own minds all in all, 
 Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 'tis 
 But a brief passage — I would go alone, 
 Yet if they send us, as 'tis like, together. 
 Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 
 
 B. Fal. I shall not shame you, uncle. 
 
 First Signor. Lords, our orders 
 Are to keep guard on both in separate chambers, 
 Until the council call ye to your trial. 
 
 Doge. Our trial! will they keep their mockery up 
 Even to the last? but let them deal upon us, 
 As we had dealt on them, but with less pomp. 
 'Tis but a game of mutual homicides. 
 Who have cast lots for the first death, and they 
 Have won with false dice. — Who hath been our Judlj 
 
 First Signor. I am not warranted to answer that. 
 
 B. Fal. I'll answer for thee — 'tis a certain Bertraiil| 
 Even now deposing to the secret Giunta. 
 
 Doge. Bertram, ti>e Bergamask! With what vile to 
 We operate to slay or save! This creature. 
 Black with a double treason, now will earn 
 Rewards and honours, and be stamp'd in story 
 With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 
 Till Rome awoke and had an annual triumph, 
 While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, was cast 
 From the Tarpcian. 
 
 First Signor. He aspired to treason, 
 And sought to rule the state. 
 
mcT V. 
 
 MARINO FALTERO. 
 
 367 
 
 Dope. He saved the state, 
 And sought but to reform what he revived — 
 But this is idle — Come, sirs, do your work. 
 
 J-'irst Siffnor, Noble Bertuccio, we must now remove 
 you 
 into an inner chamber. 
 I B.Fal. Farewell, uncle! 
 
 If we shall meet again in life I know not. 
 But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 
 
 Doge. Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet go forth, 
 And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd, hath fail'd in! 
 They cannot quench the memory of those 
 Who would have hurl'd them from their guilty thrones. 
 And such examples will find heirs, though distant. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 he Hull of tlie Council of Ten assembled with tlie ndditioiial Senators, 
 ho, on the trials of the Conspirators for the treason of Marino Faliero, 
 imposed what was called the Giunta. — Guards, Officers, etc. etc. — 
 RAKL liKRTt'ccio and Calenuaro us Prisoners. — Bertram, Lioni and 
 Witnesses 
 
 The Chief of the Ten, Beni.ntf.nde. 
 
 Benintende, There now rests, after such conviction of 
 
 heir manifold and manifest offences, 
 
 ut to pronounce on these obdurate men 
 
 he sentence of the law : a grievous task 
 
 those who hear, and those who speak. Alas! 
 
 Iiat it should fall to me ! and that my days 
 
 f oflice should be stigmatised through all 
 
 lie years of coming time, as bearing record 
 
 3 this most foul and complicated treason 
 
 iCainst a just and free state, known to ail 
 
 le earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst 
 
 ie Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 
 
 le savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank ; 
 
 citj^ which has open'd India's wealth 
 
 > Europe J the last Roman refuge from 
 
 erwhelming Attila; the ocean's queen ; 
 
 bud Genoa's prouder rival! 'Tis to sap 
 
 le throne of such a city, tlicse lost men 
 
 »ve risk'd and forfeited their worthless lives — 
 
 let tlieni die the death. 
 Bert. We are prepared; 
 rar racks have done that for us. Let us die. 
 Benint. If ye fiavc that to say which would obtain 
 
 atement of your punishment, the Giunta 
 
 ill hear you; if you have aught to confess, 
 
 •w is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 
 
 Bert. We stand to hear, and not to speak. 
 
 Benint. Your crimes 
 
 frfully proved by your accomplices, 
 
 dall which circumstance can add to aid them; 
 
 t we would liear from your own lips complete 
 
 owalof your treason: on the verge 
 
 that dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
 
 >ne can prolit you on earth or heaven — 
 
 f, then, wliat was your motive? 
 
 Serf. Justice! 
 
 Benint. What your object? 
 
 Bert. Freedom ! 
 
 Benint. You are brief, sir. 
 
 Bert. So my life grows: I 
 Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 
 
 Benint. Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity 
 To brave your judges to postpone the sentence? 
 
 Bert. Do you be brief as I am, and, believe me, 
 I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon, 
 
 Benint. Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 
 
 Bert. Go,ask yourracks whatthey have wrung from us, 
 Or place us there again; we have still some blood left, 
 And .some slight sense of pain in these wrench'd limbs: 
 But this ye dare not do ; for if we die there — 
 And you have left us little life to spend 
 Upon your engines, gorged with pangs already — 
 Ye lose the public spectacle with which 
 You would appal your slaves to further slavery ! 
 Groans are not words, nor agony assent, 
 Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
 Should overcome the soul into a lie. 
 For a short respite — must we bear or die? 
 
 Benint. Say, who were your accomplices? 
 
 Bert. The Senate! 
 
 Benint. What do yon mean? 
 
 Bert. Ask of the suflering people. 
 Whom your patrician crimes have driven to crime. 
 
 Benint. You know the Doge? 
 
 Bert. I served with him at Zara 
 In tlie field, when you were pleading here your way 
 To present oflice; we exposed our lives, 
 While you but hazarded the lives of others, 
 Alike by accusation or defence; 
 And, for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, 
 Through his great actions, and the senate's insults! 
 
 Benint. You have held conference with him? 
 
 Bert. lam weary — 
 Even wearier of your questions than your tortures : 
 I pray you pass to judgment. 
 
 Benint. It is coming. — 
 And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what 
 Have j'ou to say why you should not be doora'd? 
 
 Cal. \ never was a man of many words. 
 And now have few left worth the utterance. 
 
368 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Benint. A further application of yon engine 
 May change your tone. 
 
 Cal. Most true, it will do so ; 
 A former application did so ; but 
 It will not change my words, or, if it did — 
 
 Benint. What then? 
 
 Cal. Will my avowal on yon rack 
 Stand good in law ? 
 
 Benint. Assuredly. 
 
 Cal. Wlioe'er 
 The culprit be whom I accuse of treason? 
 
 Benint. Without doubt, he will be brought up to trial. 
 
 Cal. And on this testimony would he perish? 
 
 Benint. So your confession be detail'd and full, 
 He will stand here in peril of his life. 
 
 Cal. Then look well to thy proud self, President! 
 For by the eternity which yawns before me, 
 I swear that thou, and only thou, shalt be 
 The traitor I denounce upon that rack. 
 If I be stretch'd there for the second time. 
 
 One of the Giunta. Lord President, 'twere best to 
 proceed to judgment ; 
 There is no more to be drawn from these men. 
 
 Benint. Unliappy men ! prepare for instant death. 
 The nature of your crime — our law — and peril 
 The state now stands in, leave not an hour's respite — 
 Guards ! lead them forth, and upon the balcony 
 Of the red columns, where, on festal Thursday, 
 The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls. 
 Let them be justified : and leave exposed 
 Their wavering relics, in the place of judgment, 
 To the full view of the assembled people! — 
 And Heaven have mercy on their souls ! 
 
 The Giunta. Amen! 
 
 Bert. Signors, farewell! we shall not all again 
 Meet in one place. 
 
 Benint. And lest they should essay 
 To stir up the distracted multitude — 
 Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd, even in the act 
 Of execution. — Lead them hence ! 
 
 Cal. What! must we 
 Not even say farewell to some fond friend, 
 Nor leave a last word with our confessor? 
 
 Benint. A priest is waiting in the antechamber; 
 But, for your friends, such interviews would be 
 Painful to them, and useless all to you. 
 
 Cal. I knew that we were gagg'd in life; at least 
 All those wlio had not heart to risk their lives 
 Upon their open thoughts ; but still I deem'd 
 That, in the last few moments, the same idle 
 Freedom of speech accorded to the dying, 
 Would not now be denied to us ; but since — 
 
 Bert. Even let them have their way, brave Calendaro! 
 What matter a few syllables ? let's die 
 Without the slightest show of favour from them; 
 So shall our blood more readily arise 
 To heaven against them, and more testify 
 To their atrocities, than could a volume 
 Spoken or written of our dying words ! 
 They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 
 Our very silence — let them live in fear! — 
 
 Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us now 
 Address our own above ! — Lead on ; we are ready. 
 
 Cal. Israel, hadst thou but hearken'd unto me. 
 It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 
 The coward Bertram, would — 
 
 Bert. Peace, Calendaro ! 
 What boots it now to ponder upon this? 
 
 Bertram. Alas ! I fain you died in peace with me : 
 I did not seek this task ; 'twas forced upon me: 
 Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
 Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not thus ! 
 
 Bert. I die and pardon thee ! 
 
 Cal, (spitting at him) I die and scorn thee! 
 
 [Exeunt Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calknuai 
 Guards, etc. 
 
 Benint. Now that these criminals have been disposed c 
 'Tis time tliat we proceed to pass our sentence 
 Upon the greatest traitor upon record 
 In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 
 The proofs and process are complete ; the time 
 And crime require a quick procedure : shall 
 He now be called in to receive the award ? 
 
 The Giunta. Ay, ay. 
 
 Benint. Avogadori, order that the Doge 
 Be brought before the council. 
 
 One of the Giunta. And the rest, 
 When .shall they be brought up? 
 
 Benint. When all the chiefs 
 Have been disposed of. Some have fled to Chiozza ; 
 But there are thousands in pursuit of them, 
 And such precaution ta'en on Terra-firma, 
 As well as in the islands, that we hope 
 None will escape to utter in strange lands 
 His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the senate. 
 
 Enter tlie Doge as Prisoner, with Guards, etc. 
 
 Benint. Doge — for such still you are, and by the la' 
 Must be consider'd, till the hour shall come 
 When you must doflthe ducal bonnet from 
 That head, which could not wear a crown more noble 
 Than empires can confer, in quiet honour, 
 But it must plot to overtlirow your peers. 
 Who made you what you are, and quench in blood 
 A city's glory — we have laid already 
 Before you in your chamber at full length, 
 By the AvOgadori, all the proofs 
 Which have appear'd against you; and more ample^ 
 Ne'er rear'd their sanguinary shadows to 
 Confront a traitor. What have you to say 
 In your defence ? 
 
 Doge. What shall I say to ye, 
 Since my defence must be your condemnation ? 
 You are at once offenders and accusers, 
 Judges and executioners ! — Proceed 
 Upon your power. 
 
 Benint, Your chief accomplices 
 Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 
 
 Doge. And who be tliey ? 
 
 Benint. In number many; but 
 The first now stands before you in the court, 
 Bertram, of Bergamo, — would you question him ' 
 
( ACT V. 
 
 MARINO TALIERO. 
 
 369 
 
 Doge, (looking at him contcniptiioiisly) No. 
 
 Beniut, And two others, Israel IJertuccio, 
 And Pliilip Calendaro, have admitted 
 Their fellowship in treason with the Doge! 
 l)o(je. And where are they ? 
 Bvuint. Gone to their place, and now 
 Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth. 
 
 Dofie. Ah! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone? 
 And the quick Cassius of the arsenal? — 
 How did they meet their doom? 
 Benint. Think of your own; 
 It is approaching. You decline to plead, then? 
 
 Doge. 1 cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 
 Can recognise your legal power to try me : 
 Show me the law! 
 
 [jfiiint. On great emergencies. 
 The law m'ust be remodell'd or amended : 
 Our fatljers had not fix'd the punishment 
 Of such H crime, as on the old Roman tables 
 The sentence against parricide was left 
 III pure forgetfulncss ; they could not render 
 That penal, which had neither name nor thought 
 In their great bosoms: who would have foreseen 
 That nature could be filed to such a crime 
 As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst tlieir realms? 
 Your sin hath made us make a law which will 
 Become a precedent 'gainst such haught traitors. 
 As would with treason mount to tyranny; 
 Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
 They can convert it to a two-edged sword! 
 ;\Vas not the place of Doge sufl'icient for ye? 
 What's nobler than the signory of Venice ? 
 
 Doge. The signory of Venice! You betra3''d me — 
 You — you, who sit there, traitors as ye are! 
 h'rom my equality with you in birth, 
 And my superiority in action, 
 i'ou drew me from my honourable toils 
 [n distant lands — on flood — in field — in cities — 
 Ybw singled me out like a victim to 
 3tand crown'd, but bound and helpless, at the altar 
 Where you alone could minister. I knew not — 
 [ sought not — wish'd not — dream'd not the election, 
 kVhich reach'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd; 
 Sut found on my arrival, tlmt, besides 
 riie jealous vigilance which always led you 
 To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents, 
 ifou had, even in the interregiium of 
 tfy journey to the capital, curtail'd 
 knd mutilated the few privileges 
 fet left the duke : all this I bore, and would 
 lave borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 
 ly the pollution of your ribaldry, 
 ind he, the ribald, whom I see amongst you — 
 ^H judge in such tribunal! — 
 
 Benint. (iiterrupting him) Michel Steno 
 8 here in virtue of his office, as 
 )ne of the Forty ; "The Ten" having craved 
 I Giunta of patricians from the senate 
 N) aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
 iiul novel as the present: he was set 
 "ree from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
 
 Because the Doge, who should protect the law, '.'m 
 
 Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
 No punishment of others by the statutes 
 Wliich he himself denies and violates ! 
 
 Doge, His punishment ! I'd rather see him there. 
 Where he now sits, to glut him with my death. 
 Than in the mockery of castigation. 
 Which your foul, outward, juggling show of justice 
 Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crime, 
 'Twas purity compared with your protection. 
 
 Benint. Ajid can it be, that the great Doge of Venice, 
 With three parts of a century of years 
 And honours on his head, could thus allow 
 His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
 All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
 A provocation as a young man's petulance? 
 
 Doge. A spark creates the flame; 'tis the last drop 
 Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was full 
 Already : you oppress'd the prince and people; 
 I would have freed both, and have fail'd in both : 
 The price of su<;h success would have been glory, 
 Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
 As would have made Venetian history 
 Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse 
 When they were freed, and flourish'd ages after, 
 And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus : — 
 Failing, I know the penalty of failure 
 Is present infamy and death — the future 
 Will judge, when Venice is no more, or free; 
 Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause not; 
 I would have shown no mercy, and I seek none; 
 My life was staked upon a mighty hazard, 
 And being lost, take what I would have taken! 
 I would have stood alone amidst your tombs ; 
 Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it. 
 As you have done upon my heart while living. 
 
 Benint. You do confess tjien, and admit the justice 
 Of our tribunal? 
 
 Doge. I confess to have fail'd : 
 Fortune is female; from my youth her favours 
 Were not withheld ; the fault was mine to hope 
 Her former smiles again at this late hour. 
 
 Benint. You do not then in aught arraign our equity ? 
 
 Doge. Noble Venetians ! stir me not with questions. 
 I am resign'd to the worst ; but in me still 
 Have something of the blood of brighter days, 
 And am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 
 Further interrogation, which boots nothing, 
 Except to turn a trial to debate. 
 I shall but answer that which will offend you. 
 And please your enemies — a host already : 
 'Tis true, these sullen walls should yield no echo; 
 But walls have ears — nay, more, they have tongues; and if 
 There were no other way for truth to o'erleap them, 
 You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me. 
 Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
 W^hat you would hear from me of good or evil; 
 The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
 Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
 A danger which would double that you escape. 
 Such my defence would be, had I full scope, 
 
 24 
 
370 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 To make it famous; for Iruc words arc things. 
 And dying men's are tilings wbicli long outlive. 
 And oftentimes avenge them; bury mine. 
 If ye would fain survive me: take this counsel. 
 And though too oft ye made me live in wrath, 
 Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this; — 
 I deny nothing — defend nothing — nothing 
 I ask of you, but silence for myself, 
 And sentence from the court! 
 
 Benint. This full admission 
 Spares us the harsh necessity of ordierin/r 
 The torture to elicit the whole truth. 
 
 Doge. The torture! you have put me there already, 
 Daily since I was Doge; but if you will 
 Add the corporeal rack, you may : these limbs 
 Will yield with age to crushing iron; but 
 There's that within my heart shall strain your engines. 
 
 Enter an Officbh. 
 
 Officer. Noble Venetians! Duchess Faliero 
 Requests admission to the Giunta's presence. 
 
 Benint. Say, conscript fathers, shall she be admitted ? 
 
 One of the Giunta. She may have revelations of im- 
 Unto the state, to justify compliance [portancc 
 
 With her request. 
 
 Benint. Is this the general will? 
 
 All. It is. 
 
 Doge. Oh, admirable laws of Venice! 
 Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
 That she might testify against the husband. 
 What glory to the chaste Venetian dames ! 
 But such blasphemers 'gainst all honour, as 
 Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
 Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
 I'll pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape. 
 And my own violent death, and thy vile life. 
 
 The Duchess enters. 
 
 Benint. Lady! this just tribunal has resolved. 
 Though the request be strange, to grant it, and 
 Whatever be its purport, to accord 
 A patient hearing with the due respect 
 Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues : 
 But you turn pale — ho ! there, look to the lady ! 
 Place a chair instantly. 
 
 Ang. A moment's faintness — 
 'Tis past ; I pray you pardon me, I sit not 
 In presence of my prince, and of my husband. 
 While he is on his feet. 
 
 Benint. Your pleasure, lady? 
 
 Ang. Strange rumours, but most true, if all I hear 
 And see be sooth, have reach'd me, and 1 come 
 To know the worst, even at the worst; forgive 
 The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 
 Is it — I cannot speak — I cannot shape 
 The question — but you answer it ere spoken. 
 With eyes averted and with gloomy brows — 
 Oh God! this is the silence of the grave! [repetition 
 
 Benint, (after a pause) Spare us, and spare thyself the 
 Of our most awful, but inexorable 
 Duty to Heaven and men ! 
 
 Ang. Yet speak; I cannot — 
 I cannot — no — even now believe these things. 
 Is he condemn'd? 
 
 Benint. Alas! 
 
 Ang. And was he guilty ? 
 
 Benint. Lady! the natural distraction of 
 Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the question 
 -Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
 Against a just and paramount tribunal 
 Were deep oflence. But question even the Doge, 
 And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 
 Guiltless as thy own bosom. 
 
 Ang. Is it so ? 
 My lord — my sovereign — my poor father's friend — 
 The mighty in the field, the sage in council ; 
 Unsay the words of this man ! — Thou art silent ! 
 
 Benint. He hath already own'd to his own ^uilt, 
 Nor, as thou seest, doth he deny it now. 
 
 Ang. Ay, but he must not die ! Spare his few years. 
 Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days! 
 One day of baffled crime must not eflace 
 Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 
 
 Benint. His doom must be fulfiU'd without remissioi 
 Of time or penalty — 'tis a decree. 
 
 Ang. He hath been guilty, but there may be mercy. 
 
 Benint. Not in this case with justice. 
 
 Ang. Alas! signor, 
 He who is only just is cruel; who 
 Upon the earth would live were all judged justly ? 
 
 Benint, His punishment is safety to the state. 
 
 Ayig. He was a subject, and hath served the state; 
 He was your general, and hath saved the state; 
 He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state. [stat( 
 
 One of the Council. He is a traitor, and betray'd th 
 
 Ang. And, but for him,, there now had been no state 
 To save or to destroy; and you who sit 
 There to pronounce the death of your deliverer, 
 Elad now been groaning at a Moslem oar. 
 Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters ! [would ' 
 
 One of the Council. No, lady, there are others w| 
 Rather than breathe in slavery! 
 
 xing. If there are so 
 Witliin these walls, thou art not of the number: 
 The truly brave are generous to the fallen! 
 Is there no hope? 
 
 Benint. Lady, it cannot be. [be ! 
 
 Ang. (turning to the Doge) Then die, Faliero! since it m| 
 But with the spirit of my father's friend. 
 Thou hast been guilty of a great offence, 
 Half-cancell'd by the harshness of these men. 
 1 would have sued to them — have pray'd to them — "aI 
 Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for bread — 
 Have wept as tlicy will cry unto their God 
 For mercy, and be answer'd as they answer — 
 Had it been fitting for thy name or mine, 
 And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
 Had not announced the heartless wrath within. 
 Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom ! 
 
 Doge. I have lived too long not to know how to die! 
 Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
 Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
 
Atrr V. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 371 
 
 Of seamen to the surge: I would not take 
 A life eternal, granted at the liands 
 Of wretches, from whose monstrous villanies 
 I sought to free the groaning nations ! 
 
 M. Sfeno. Doge, 
 A word with thee, and with this noble lady, 
 Whom I have grievously offended. Would 
 jSorrow, or shame, or penance on my part, 
 [Could cancel the inexorable past! 
 [But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
 |j>?ay farewell, and in peace: with full contrition 
 (crave, not pardon, but compassion from you, 
 ! And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 
 
 Ant/. Sage Benintende, now chief judge of Venice, 
 i| speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
 pnform the ribald Steno, that his words 
 !>fe'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's daugiiter 
 Further than to create a moment's pity 
 j ?or such as he is: would that others had 
 Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 
 !(fy honour to a thousand lives, could such 
 3e multiplied in mine, but would not have 
 V single life of others lost for that 
 kVliich nothing human can impugn — the sense 
 >f virtue, looking not to what is called 
 L good name for reward, but to itself. 
 To me the scorner's words were as the wind 
 Into the rock : but as there are — alas ! 
 »pirits more sensitive, on which such things 
 jight as the whirlwind on the waters; souls 
 Vo whom dishonour's shadow is a substance 
 \Iore terrible than death here and hereafter; 
 lien whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing, 
 ind who, though proof against all blandishments 
 )f pleasure, and all pangs of pain, arc feeble 
 Viien the proud name on which they pinnacled 
 'liL'ir hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 
 If her high aiery ; let what we now 
 5t hold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 
 
 wretclies how they tamper in their spleen 
 Vith beings of a higher order. Insects 
 lave made the lion mad ere now; a shaft 
 
 ' the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave; 
 L wife's dishonour was the bane of Troy; 
 I wife's dislionour unking'd Rome for ever; 
 \.a injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusium, 
 ind thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time; 
 ' \n obscene gesture cost Caligula 
 lis life, while earth yet bore his cruelties; 
 
 1 virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish province; 
 iiid Steno's lie, couch'd in two worthless lines, 
 lath decimated Venice, put in peril 
 
 I senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 
 )i.scrown'd a prince, cut off" his crownless head, 
 nd forged new fetters for a groaning people ! 
 'Ct the poor wretch, like to the courtesan 
 Vho fired Persepolis, be proud of this, 
 f it so please him — 'twere a pride fit for him ! 
 •ut let him not insult the last hours of 
 lim, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, 
 ij the intrusion of his very prayers; 
 
 Nothing of good can come from such a source, 
 
 Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor ever: 
 
 We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 
 
 Of human baseness. Pardon is for men. 
 
 And not for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 
 
 And no resentment; things like him must sting, 
 
 And higher beings sufltr; 'tis the charter 
 
 Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fang 
 
 May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger : 
 
 'Twas the worm's nature; and some men are worms 
 
 In soul, more than the living things of tombs. 
 
 Doffe (to Benintende). Signor , complete that which you 
 deem your duty. 
 
 Benint, Before we can proceed upon that duty. 
 We would request the princess to withdraw; 
 'Twill move her too much to be witness to it. 
 
 Ang. I know it will, and yet I must endure it; 
 For 'tis a part of mine — I will not quit. 
 Except by force, my husband's side. — Proceed! 
 Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear; 
 Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. — Speak! 
 I have that within which shall o'ermaster all. 
 
 Benint. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
 Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 
 And some time General of the Fleet and Army, 
 Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
 Entrusted by the state with high employments, 
 Even to the highest, listen to the sentence . 
 Convict by many witnesses and proofs. 
 And by thine own confession, of the guilt 
 Of treachery and treason, yet unheard of 
 Until this trial — the decree is death. 
 Thy goods are confiscate unto the state. 
 Thy name is razed from out her records, save 
 Upon a public day of thanksgiving 
 For this our most miraculous deliverance. 
 When thou art noted in our calendars 
 With earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes. 
 And the great enemy of man, as subject 
 Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in snatching 
 Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 
 The place wherein as Doge thou shouldst be painted, 
 With thine illustrious predecessors, is 
 To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 
 Flung over these dim words engraved beneath, — 
 "This place is of Marino Faliero, 
 "Decapitated for his crimes." 
 
 Doge. "His crimes?" 
 But let it be so: — it will be in vain. 
 The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
 And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, 
 Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraits 
 Which glitter round it in their pictured trappings — 
 Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants ! 
 "Decapitated for his crimes!" — What crimes ? 
 Were it not better to record the facts. 
 So that the contemplator might approve, 
 Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose? 
 When the beholder knows a Doge conspired. 
 Let him be told the cause — it is your history. 
 
 Benint. Time must reply to that; our sons will judge 
 
372 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Their fathers' judgment, which I now pronounce. 
 
 As Doge, clad in the ducal rohcs and cap, 
 
 Thou sliaJt be led hence to the Giant's Staircase, 
 
 Where thou and all our princes are invested; 
 
 And there, the ducal crown being iirst resumed 
 
 Upon the spot where it was first assumed, 
 
 Thy head shall be struck off"; and Heaven have mercy 
 
 Upon thy soul! 
 
 Doye, Is this the Giunta's sentence? 
 
 Beninl. It is. 
 
 Doge. I can endure it. — And the time? [God ; 
 
 Beiiint, Must be immediate. — Make thy peace with 
 Within an hour thou must be in his presence. 
 
 Doge. I am already; and my blood will rise 
 To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it. — 
 Are all my lands confiscated ? 
 
 Bcnint, They are; 
 And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure. 
 Except two thousand ducats — these dispose of. [lands 
 
 Doge. That's harsh — I would have fain reserved the 
 Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
 From Laurence the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 
 In fief perpetual to myself and heirs, 
 To portion them (leaving my city-spoil, 
 My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
 Between my consort and mj kinsmen. 
 
 Benint. These 
 Lie under the state's ban ; their chief, thy nephew. 
 In peril of his own life; but the council 
 Postpones his trial for the present. If 
 Thou will'st a state unto thy widow'd princess. 
 Fear not, for we will do her justice. 
 
 Ang. Signors, 
 I share not in your spoil ! From henceforth, know 
 I am devoted unto God alone, 
 And take my refuge in the cloister. 
 
 Doge. Come! 
 The hour may be a hard one, but 'twill end. 
 Have I aught else to undergo save death ? 
 
 Benint. You have noughtto do, except confess and die. 
 The priest is robed, the scimitar is bare. 
 And both await without. — But, above all. 
 Think not to speak unto the people; they 
 Are now by thousands swarming at the gates. 
 But these arc closed: the Ten, the Avogadori, 
 The Giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, 
 Alone will be beholders of thy doom, 
 And they are ready to attend the Doge. 
 
 Doge. The Doge! 
 
 Benint. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shalt die 
 A sovereign ; till the moment which precedes 
 The separation of that head and trunk, 
 That ducal crown and head shall be united. 
 Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
 To plot with petty traitors; not so we. 
 Who in the very punishment acknowledge 
 The prince. Thy vile accomplices have died 
 The dog's death, and the wolfs; but thou shalt fall 
 As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
 By those who feel a proud compassion for thee. 
 And mourn even the inevitable death 
 
 Provoked by thy wild w rath and regal fierceness. 
 
 Now we remit thee to thy preparation : 
 
 Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
 
 Thy guides unto the place where first we were 
 
 United to thee as thy subjects, and 
 
 Thy senate; and must now be parted from thee 
 
 As such for ever on the self-same spot. — ---^' 
 
 Guards! form the Doge's escort to his chamber. [Exeur 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 The Doge's Apartment. 
 Tlie Doge as prisoner, and the Duchess attending liim. 
 
 Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 'twere uselcs,s all 
 To linger out the miserable minutes; 
 But one pang more, the pang of parting from thee. 
 And I will leave the few last grains of sand, 
 Which yet remain of the accorded hour, 
 Still felling — I have done with Time. 
 
 Ang. Alas! 
 And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause ; 
 And for this funeral marriage, this black union, 
 Which thou, compliant with my father's wish. 
 Didst promise at his death, thou hast seal'd tliine ow n. 
 
 Doge. Not so : there was that in my spirit ever 
 Which shaped out for itself some great reverse; 
 The marvel is, it came not until now — 
 And yet it was foretold me. 
 
 Ang. How foretold you? 
 
 Doge. Long years ago — so long, they arc a doubt 
 In memory, and yet they live in annals : 
 When I was in my youth, and served the senate 
 And signory as podcsta and captain 
 Of tiic town of Treviso, on a day 
 Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
 Convey'd the Host aroused my rash young anger. 
 By strange delay, and arrogant reply 
 To my reproof; I raised my hand and smote hin). 
 Until he rcel'd beneath his holy burthen; 
 And as he rose from earth again, he raised 
 His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards heaven. 
 Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from hin 
 He turn'd to me, and said, "The hour will come 
 When he thou hast o'erthrown shall overthrow thee; 
 The glory shall depart from out thy house. 
 The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul. 
 And in thy best maturity of mind 
 A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee; 
 Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 
 In other men, or mellow into virtues; ' 
 
 And majesty, which decks all other heads. 
 Shall crown to leave thee headless; honours shall 
 But prove to thee the heralds of destruction. 
 And hoary hairs of shame, and both of death. 
 But not such death as fits an aged man." 
 Thus saying, he pass'd on. — That hour is come. 
 
 Ang. And with this warning couldst thou not iiav 
 To avert the fatal moment, and atone [strivci. 
 
 By penitence for that which thou hadst done? I 
 
 Doge. I own the words went to my heart, so much 
 That I remember'd them amid the maze 
 
kCT V. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, 
 
 373 
 
 tiice: 
 
 9»i 
 
 Of life, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 
 Wliioli sliook me in a supernatural dream; 
 And I repented ; but 'twas not for me 
 To pull in resolution: what must be 
 [ could not change, and would not fear. Nay, more, 
 rhou canst not have forgot,what all remember, 
 That on my day of landing here as Doge, 
 Pn my return from Rome, a mist of such 
 jnwontcd density went on before 
 The Bucentaur like the columnar cloud 
 vVhich usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 
 The pilot was misled, and disembark'd us 
 Jetwccn the pillars of Saint Mark's, where 'tis 
 The custom of the state to put to death 
 ts criminals, instead of touching at 
 'he Riva dclla Pagiia, as the wont is, — 
 5o that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 
 Aug. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
 luch things. 
 
 Doge. And yet I find a comfort in 
 'he thought that these tilings are the work of Fate; 
 j or I would rather yield to gods than men, 
 tf cling to any creed of destiny, 
 j lather tlian deem these mortals, most of whom 
 know to be as worthless as the dust, 
 nd weak as worthless, more than instruments 
 fan o'er-ruling power ; they in themselves 
 Tcre all incapable — they could not be 
 ictors of him who oft had eonquer'd for Ihem! 
 Ang. Employ the minutes left in aspirations 
 fa more healing nature, and in peace 
 ven with these wretches take thy flight to heaven. 
 Doge, I am at peace: the peace of certainty 
 hat a sure hour will come, when their sons' sons, 
 nd this proud city, and these azure waters, 
 nd all which makes them eminent and bright, 
 lall be a desolation and a curse, 
 hissing and a scoff unto the nations, 
 Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean-Babel! 
 Ang. Speak not thus now; the surge of passion still 
 JTceps o'er thee to the last; thou dost deceive 
 lysclf and canst not injure them — be calmer. 
 Doge. 1 stand within eternity, and see 
 to eternity, and I behold — 
 (Palpable as I sec thy sweet face 
 tthc last time — the days which I denounce 
 [ito all time against these wave-girt walls, 
 they who are indwellers. 
 ard (coming forward). Dogc of Venice, 
 Ten are in attendance on your iiighncss. 
 'oge. Then farewell, Angiolina! — one embrace — 
 give the old man who hath been to thee 
 bnd but fatal husband — love my memory — 
 Ould not ask so much for me still living, 
 it thou canst judge of me more kindly now, 
 eing my evil feelings are at rest. 
 
 ides, of all the fruit of these long }'ears, 
 [pry, and wealth, and power, and fame, and name, 
 hich generally leave some flowers to bloom 
 en o'er the grave, I have nothing left, uot even 
 tittle love, or friendship, or esteem, 
 
 No, not enough to extract an epitaph 
 
 From ostentatious kinsmen ; in one hour 
 
 1 have uprooted all my former life. 
 
 And outlived every thing, except thy heart. 
 
 The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 
 
 With unimpair'd but not a clamorous grief 
 
 Still keep — Thou turnst so pale — Alas ! she faints. 
 
 She hath no breath, no pulse! Guards! lend your aid — 
 
 I cannot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better, 
 
 Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
 
 When she shakes oft' this temporary death, 
 
 I shall be with the Eternal. — Call her women — 
 
 One look ! — how cold her hand ! as cold as mine 
 
 Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her. 
 
 And take my last thanks. — I am ready now. 
 
 [Tlie Attendants ofAnoiOLiNA enter and surround 
 their mistress, who has fainted. — Exeunt the 
 Dock, Guurds, etc. etc 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Court of the ducal Palace: the outer gates are ihut against the people. 
 — The Dock enters in his ducal robes, in procession with the Council of 
 Ten and other Patricians, attended by the Guards , till they arrive at the 
 top of tlie "Giant's Staircase" (where the Doges took the oaths); the 
 Executioner i» stationed there with his sword. On arriving, a Chief of 
 the Ten takes off the ducal cap from the Doge's head. 
 
 Doge. So, now the Doge is nothing, and at last 
 I am again Marino Faliero: 
 'Tis well to be so, though but for a moment. 
 Here was I crown'd, and here, bear witness, Heaven ! 
 With how much more contentment I resign 
 That shining mockery, the ducal bauble. 
 Than I received the fatal ornament. 
 
 One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero! 
 
 Doge. 'Tis with age, then. 
 
 Benint. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to commend. 
 Compatible with justice, to the senate? 
 
 Doge. I would commend my nephew to their mercy, 
 My consort to their justice; for mcthinks 
 My death, and such a death, might settle all 
 Between the state and me. 
 
 Benint. They shall be eared for ; 
 Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 
 
 Doge. Unheard-of! ay, there's not a history 
 But shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
 Against the people ; but to set them free 
 One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 
 
 Benint. And who are they who fell in such a cause? 
 
 Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Venice — 
 Agis and Faliero! 
 
 Benint. Hast thou more 
 To utter or to do ? 
 
 Doge. May I speak? 
 
 Benint. Thoumayst; 
 But recollect the people are without, 
 Beyond the compass of the human voice. 
 
 Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
 Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
 Ye elements, in which to be resolved 
 I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
 Upon you ! Ye blue waves, which bore my banner! 
 Ye winds, which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it. 
 
374 
 
 MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 
 
 To many a triumph ! Thou, ray native earth, 
 
 Which 1 have bled for, and thou foreign earth, 
 
 Which drank this willing blood from many a wound! 
 
 Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
 
 Reck up to Heaven ! Ye skies, which will receive it ! 
 
 Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou ! 
 
 Who kindlest and who quenchest suns! — Attest! 
 
 I am not innocent — but are these guiltless? 
 
 I perish, but not unavenged; far ages 
 
 Float up from the abyss of time to be, 
 
 And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 
 
 Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 
 
 On her and hers for ever! — Yes, the hours 
 
 Are silently engendering of the day, 
 
 When she who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 
 
 Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield, 
 
 Unto a bastard - Attila, without 
 
 Shedding so much blood in her last defence 
 
 As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her. 
 
 Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 
 
 And sold, and be an appanage to those 
 
 Who shall despise her! — She shall stoop to be 
 
 A province for an empire, petty town 
 
 In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 
 
 Beggars for nobles, panders for a people! 
 
 Then, when the Hebrew's in thy palaces. 
 
 The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 
 
 Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ! 
 
 When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 
 
 In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 
 
 Make their nobility a plea for pity ! 
 
 Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 
 
 Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 
 
 Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-gerent, 
 
 Even in the palace where they sway'das sovereigns, 
 
 Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign, 
 
 Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 
 
 From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 
 
 With some large gondolier or foreign soldier. 
 
 Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 
 
 To the third spurious generation; — when 
 
 Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being. 
 
 Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the victors, 
 
 Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 
 
 And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 
 
 As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 
 
 Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 
 
 Then, when of C3'prus, now thy subject kingdom, 
 
 All thine inheritance shall be her shame 
 
 Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters grown 
 
 A wider proverb for worse prostitution ; — 
 
 When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee. 
 
 Vice without splendour, sin without relief 
 
 Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er; 
 
 liut in its stead coarse lusts of habitude, 
 
 Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness. 
 
 Depraving nature's frailty to an art; — 
 
 When these and more are heavy on thee, when 
 
 Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure. 
 
 Youth without honour, age without respect, 
 
 Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe 
 
 'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and darest not murmui 
 
 Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts, 
 
 Then, in the last gasp of thine agony. 
 
 Amidst thy many murders, think of mine! 
 
 Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 
 
 Gehenna of the waters! thou sea -Sodom! 
 
 Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
 
 Thee and thy serpent -seed! 
 
 [Here the 1)0GB turns, and addresses the ?^xecution4 
 
 Slave, do thine office; 
 
 Strike as 1 struck the foe! Strike as I would 
 
 Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse I 
 
 Strike — and but once! 
 
 [The Doge throws himself upon his knees, and as 
 Kxecutioner raises his sword the scene closes. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 The Piazza and Piazretta of Saint Mark's. — The People in croV 
 gathered round the grated gates of tbe ducal Palace, which are shot 
 
 First Citizen. I have gain'd the gate, and can disce 
 
 the Ten, 
 
 Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the Doge 
 
 Second Citizen. I cannot reach thee with mine utmc 
 How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight [eflo 
 
 Is thus prohibited unto the people. 
 Except the occupiers of those bars. [they sti 
 
 First Citizen. One has approached the Doge, and n< 
 The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 
 He raises his keen eyes to heaven. I see 
 Them glitter, and his lips move — Hush ! hush ! — No 
 'Twas but a murmur — Curse upon the distance! 
 His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
 Swells up like mutter'd thunder; would we could 
 But gather a sole sentence! 
 
 Second Citizen. Hush ! we perhaps may catch the soui 
 
 First Citizen. 'Tis vain, 
 I cannot hear him. — How his hoary hair 
 Streams on the wind like foam upon the wave! 
 Now — now — he kneels — and now they form a cir 
 Round him and all is hidden — but I see 
 The lifted sword in air — Ah ! hark ! it falls! 
 
 [The people man 
 
 lliird Citizen. Then they have murder'd him w 
 
 would have freed us. [c\ 
 
 Fourth Citizen. He was a kind man to the coInm< 
 
 Fifth Citizen. Wisely they did to keep their porl 
 
 barr'd. 
 
 Would we had known the woark they were preparing 
 Ere we were summon'd here; we would have brough 
 Weapons, and forced them ! 
 
 Sixth Citizen. Are you sure he's dead ? [we h< 
 
 First Citizen. I saw the sword fall — Lo! what hi 
 
 [Enter on the Balcony of the Palace which fronts Saint Mj 
 Place a Chief of the ten, with a bloody sword. He.w 
 it thrice before the People, and exclaims, 
 
 "Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor !" 
 
 [The gates are opened; the populace rush in towards 
 "Giant's Staircase," where the execution has taken p; 
 The foremost of them exclaims to those behind: 
 
 The gory head rolls down the "Giant's Steps!" 
 
 
 [The curtain ) 
 
375 
 
 CAIN, 
 
 A MYSTERY. 
 
 Now the Serpent was more sabtii than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. — Gf,.\. Ill, 1 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 THIS MYSTERY OF CAIN 
 
 IS INSCRIBED B\ HIS O II 1. 1 G E D FRIENU, AND FAITHFUL SKKVANT, 
 
 TllK AUTHOR. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following scenes are entitled "a Mystery," in con- 
 
 tmity with the ancient title annexed to dramas upon 
 
 niiar subjects, which were styled Mysteries, orMo- 
 
 lltics. The author has by no means taken the same 
 
 lerties with his subject which were common formerly, 
 
 may be seen by any reader curious enougli to refer to 
 
 3sc very profane productions , whether in English, 
 
 ench, Italian, or Spanish. The author has endeavoured 
 
 preserve the language adapted to liis characters; and 
 
 ere it is (and this is but rarely) taken from actual 
 
 riptvre, he has made as little alteration, even of words, 
 
 the rhythm would permit. The reader will recollect 
 
 it the book of Genesis does not state that Eve was 
 
 opted by a demon, but by "the Serpent ;"and that only 
 
 cause he was "the most subtil of all the beasts of the 
 
 Id." Whatever interpretation the Rabbins and the 
 
 thers may have put upon this, I must take the words 
 
 I find them, and reply with Bishop Watson upon si- 
 
 iar occasions, when the Fathers were quoted to him, 
 
 Moderator in the Schools of Cambridge, "Behold the 
 
 lok !" — holding up the Scripture. It is to be recollected 
 
 |it ray present subject lias nothing to do with the Nrw 
 
 ttament, to which no reference can be here made with- 
 
 t anachronism. With the poems upon similar topics I 
 
 ke not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty, I 
 
 ft never read Milton; but I had read him so frequently 
 
 "ore, tliat this may make little difference. Gesncr's 
 
 eath of Abel" I have never read since I was eight years 
 
 Jgc, at Aberdeen. The general impression of my re- 
 
 lection is delight; but of the contents I remember 
 
 y that Cain's wife was called Mahala, and Abel's 
 
 irza. — In the following pages I have called them Adah 
 
 1 Zillah, the earliest female names which occur in Ge- 
 
 is; they were those of Lamech's wives: those of Cain 
 
 ^|l Abel are not called by their names. Whether, then, 
 
 a|Mncidence of subject may liave caused the same in ex- 
 
 F ssion, I know nothing, and care as little. 
 
 The reader will please to bear in mind (what few 
 choose to recollect,) that there is no allusion to a future 
 state in any of the books of Moses, nor indeed in the Old 
 Testament. For a reason for this extraordinary omission 
 he may consult "Warburton's Divine Legation;" whe- 
 ther satisfactory or not , no better ha.s yet been assigned. 
 I have therefore supposed it new to Cain, without, I hope 
 any perversion of Holy Writ. 
 
 With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was difficult 
 for me to make him talk like a Clergyman upon the same 
 subjects; but I have done what I could to restrain him 
 within the bounds of spiritual politeness. 
 
 If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape of the 
 Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis has not 
 the most distant allusion to any thing of the kind, but 
 merely to the Serpent in his serpentine capacity. 
 
 Note, — The reader will perceive that the author has 
 partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier, that 
 the world liad been destroyed several times before the 
 creation of man. This speculation , derived from the 
 different strata and the bones of enormous and unknown 
 animals found in them, is not contrary to the Mosaic 
 account, but rather confirms it; as no human bones 
 have yet been discovered in those strata, although those 
 of many known animals are found near the remains of 
 the unknown. The assertion of Lucifer, that the pre- 
 adamite world was also peopled by rational beings much 
 more intelligent than man, and proportionably powerful 
 to the mammoth, is, of course, a poetical fiction to help 
 him to make out his case. 
 
 I ought to add, that there is a "Tramelogedia" ofAl- 
 fieri, called "Abele" — I have never read that nor any 
 other of the posthumous works of the writer, except 
 his Life. 
 
376 
 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSON.^. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Adam. 
 
 
 
 Cain. 
 
 
 Eve. 
 
 Abel. 
 
 
 Adah. 
 
 SPIRITS. 
 
 
 ZlLLAH. 
 
 Angel of the Lord. 
 
 
 
 Lucifer. 
 
 
 
 A C T I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Land without Paradise. — Time, Sunrise. 
 Adam, Eve, Cain, Abbl, Adah, Zjllah, offering a sacrifice. 
 
 Adam. GoD, the Eternal ! Infinite! All- Wise! 
 Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
 Light on the waters with a word — all hail ! 
 Jehovah, with returning light, all hail I 
 
 Eve. God! who didst name the day, and separate 
 Morning from night, till then divided never — 
 Wlio didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
 Part of thy work the firmament — all hail! 
 
 Abel. God! who didst call the elements into 
 Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and with the day 
 And night, and worlds which these illuminate, 
 Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them, 
 And love both them and thee — all hail! all hail! 
 
 Adah. God, the Eternal! Parent of all things! 
 Who didst create these best and beauteous beings, 
 To be beloved, more than all, save thee — 
 Let me love thee and them : — All hail ! all hail ! 
 
 Zillah. Oh, God! who loving, making, blessing all, 
 Yet didst permit the serpent to creep in. 
 And drive my father forth from Paradise, 
 Keep us from further evil: — Hail ! all hail ! [silent? 
 
 Adam. Son Cain , my first-born, wherefore art thou 
 
 Cain. Why should I speak ? 
 
 Adam. To pray. 
 
 Cain. Have ye not pray'd ? 
 
 Adam, We have, most fervently. 
 
 Cain. And loudly ; I 
 Have heard you. 
 
 Adam. So will God, I trust. 
 
 Abel, Amen! 
 
 Adam. But thou, my eldest-born, art silent still, 
 
 Cain, 'Tis better I should be so. 
 
 Adam. Wherefore so? 
 
 Cain. I have nought to ask. 
 
 Adam. Nor aught to thank for ? 
 
 Cain. No. 
 
 Adam. Dost thou not live? 
 
 Cain,, Must I not die .' 
 
 Eve, Alas! 
 The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
 To fall. 
 
 Adam. And we must gfather it again. 
 Oh, God! why didst thou plant the tree of knowledge? 
 
 Cain. And wherefore pluck'd ye not the tree of life? 
 Ye might have then defied him. 
 
 Adam. Oh ! my son, 
 Blaspheme not: these are serpent's words. 
 
 Cain. Why not? 
 The snake spoke truth : it tvas the tree of knowledge ; 
 It was the tree of life: — knowledge is good. 
 And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 
 
 Eiie. My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke in sin, 
 Before thy birth : let me not see renew'd 
 My misery in thine. I have repented. 
 Let me not see my offspring fall into 
 The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
 Which e'en in Paradise destroy 'd his parents. 
 Content thee with what is. Had we been so. 
 Thou now hadst been contented. — Oh, my son ! 
 
 Adam, Our orisons completed, let us hence, 
 Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
 Needful: the earth is young, and yields us kindly 
 Her fruits with little labour. 
 
 Eve, Cain, my son, 
 Behold thy father cheerful and reslgn'd, 
 
 And do as he doth. [Exeunt Adam a]!d 1 
 
 Zillah, Wilt thou not, my brother? 
 
 Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy Lr* 
 Which can avail tliee nothing, save to rouse 
 The eternal anger? 
 
 Adah. My beloved Cain, 
 Wilt thou frown even on me? 
 
 Cain, No, Adah! no; 
 I fain would be alone a little while. 
 Abel, I'm sick at heart; but it will pass: 
 Precede me, brother — I will follow shortly. 
 And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind; 
 Your gentleness must not be harshly met: 
 I'll follow you anon. 
 
 Adah, If not, I will 
 Return to seek you here. 
 
 Abel. The peace of God 
 Be on your spirit, brother! [Kxcmn Abel, Ziiiaii, and A' 
 
 Cain (solus). And this is 
 Life ! — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil? — bccausi 
 My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
 What had /done in this? — I was unborn: 
 I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 
 To which that birth has brought me. Why did be 
 Yield to the serpent and the woman? or, 
 
\CT I. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 377 
 
 yielding, why suffer? What was there in this? 
 
 rhe tree was planted, and why not for him? 
 
 [f not, why place him near it, where it grew, 
 
 rhe fairest in the centre? They have but 
 
 Dne answer to all questions, "'twas his will, 
 
 And /ie is good." How know I that? Because 
 
 He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow? 
 
 [judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — 
 
 Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
 
 Whom have we here? — A shape like to the angels, 
 
 Vet of a sterner and a sadder aspect 
 
 pf spiritual essence : why do I quake? 
 
 Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 
 
 Whom I see daily wave their fiery swtrds 
 
 jjefore the gates round which I linger oft, 
 
 n twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
 
 Jardens which are my just inh(^tance, 
 
 5re the night closes o'er the inhibited walls 
 
 Sind the immortal trees which overtop 
 
 The cherubim-defended battlements? 
 
 |f I slirink not from these, the fire-arm'd angels, 
 
 ^Hiy should I quail from him who now approaches? 
 
 ■"et he seems mightier far than they, nor less 
 jtcauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
 
 s he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 
 
 [alf of his immortality. And is it 
 
 o? and can aught grieve save humanity? 
 fe cometh. 
 
 Enter Ia'cifkr 
 
 Lucifer. Mortal! 
 Ceein. Spirit, who art thou? 
 Lucifer. Master of spirits. 
 Cain. And being so, canst thou 
 save them, and walk with dust? 
 Lucifer. I know the thoughts 
 |f dust, and feel for it, and with you. 
 Cain. How! 
 |ou know my thoughts? 
 Lucifer. They are the thoughts of all 
 'orthy of thoughts; — 'tis your immortal part 
 hich speaks within you. 
 Cain, What immortal part? 
 lis has not been reveal'd ; the tree of life 
 as withheld from us by my father's folly, 
 'hile that of knowledge, by my mother's haste, 
 as pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death ! 
 Lucifer. They have deceived thee; thou shalt live. 
 Cain. I live, 
 
 it live to die: and, living, see nothing 
 make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
 oathsome and yet all invincible 
 itiiict of life, which I abhor, as I 
 jspise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
 J d so I live. Would I had never lived ! 
 Lucifer. Thou livest, and must live for ever : think not 
 ' c earth, which is thine outward cov'ring, is 
 i istence — it wil! cease, and thou wilt be 
 1 less than thou art now. 
 7am. tioless! and why 
 I more? 
 
 Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we. 
 
 Cain. And ye? 
 
 Lucifer. Are everlasting. 
 
 Cain. Are ye happy? 
 
 Lucifer. We are mighty. 
 
 Cain. Are ye happy? 
 
 Lucifer. No : art thou ? 
 
 Cain. How should I be so? Look on me I 
 
 Lucifer. Poor clay ! 
 And thou pretendest to be wretched ! Thou ! [thou ? 
 
 Cain. I am; — and thou, with all thy might, what art 
 
 Lucifer. One who aspired to be what made thee, and 
 Would not have made thee what thou art. 
 
 Cain. Ah! 
 Thou lookst almost a god; and — 
 
 Lucifer. I am none : 
 And having fail'd to be one, would be nought 
 Save what I am. He conquer'd; let him reign! 
 
 Cain. Who? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 
 
 Cain. And heaven's. 
 And all that in them is. So I have heard 
 His seraphs sing; and so my father saith. [pain 
 
 Lucifer. They say — what they must sing and say, on 
 Of being that which I am — and thou art — 
 Of spirits and of men. 
 
 Cain. And what is that? 
 
 Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — 
 Souls who dare look the omnipotent tyrant in 
 His everlasting face, and tell him, that 
 His evil is not good ! If he has made. 
 As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — 
 But, if he made us — he cannot unmake: 
 We are immortal ! — nay, he'd have us so. 
 That he may torture : — let him ! He is great 
 But, in bis greatness, is no happier than 
 We in our conflict ! Goodness would not make 
 Evil ; and what else hath he made? But let him 
 Sit on his vast and solitary throne, 
 Creating worlds, to make eternity 
 Less burthensome to his immense existence 
 And unparticipated solitude ! 
 Let him crowd orb on orb: he is a lone 
 Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ! 
 Could he but crush himself, 'twere the best boon 
 He ever granted : but let him reign on, 
 And multiply himself in misery! 
 Spirits and men, at least we sympathise; 
 And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, 
 Innumerable, more endurable, 
 By the unbounded sympathy of all — 
 With all ! But He ! so wretched in his height, 
 So restless in his wretchedness, must still 
 Create, and re-create — [swum 
 
 Cain. Thou speakst to me of things which long have 
 In visions through my thought: I never could 
 Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
 My father and my mother talk to me 
 Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I see 
 The gates of what they call their Paradise 
 Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim, 
 
 24* 
 
 ^y 
 
 ^ 
 
378 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Which shut them out, and me : I feel the weight 
 
 Of daily toil, and constant thought; I look 
 
 Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
 
 Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
 
 Could master all things ; — but I thought alone; 
 
 This misery was vtine. — My father is 
 
 Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 
 
 Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
 
 Of an eternal curse; my brother is 
 
 A watching shepherd-boy, who offers up 
 
 The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
 
 The eartli yield nothing to us without sweat ; 
 
 My sister Zillali sings an earlier hymn 
 
 Than the birds' matins ; and my Adah, my 
 
 Own and beloved, she too understands not 
 
 The mind which overwhelms me ; never till 
 
 Now met I aught to sympathise with me. 
 
 'Tis well — I rather would consort with spirits. [soul 
 
 Luctfer. And, hadst thou not been fit by thine own 
 For such companionship, I would not now 
 Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
 Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 
 
 Cain. Ah! didst f/tow tempt my mother? 
 
 Lucifer. I tempt none. 
 Save with the truth: was not the tree, the tree 
 Of knowledge? and was not the tree of life 
 Still fruitful? Did /bid her pluck them not? 
 Did /plant things prohibited within 
 The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
 By their own innocence ? I would have made ye 
 Gods; and even He who thrust ye forth, so thrust ye 
 Because "ye should not eat the fruits of life. 
 And become gods as we." Were those his words ? [them 
 
 Cain, They were, asl haveheard from those who heard 
 In tlmnder. 
 
 Lucifer. Then who was the demon? He 
 Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
 Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
 And power of knowledge? 
 
 Cain. Would they had snatcb'd both 
 The fruits, or neither ! 
 
 Lucifer. One is yours already, 
 The other may be still. 
 
 Cain. How so ? 
 
 Lucifer. By being 
 Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
 Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
 And centre of surrounding things — 'tis made 
 To sway. 
 
 Cain. But didst thou tempt my parents? 
 
 Lucifer. I? 
 Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or how ? 
 
 Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit, 
 
 Lucifer. Who 
 Saith that ? It is not written so on high: 
 The proud One will not so far falsify, 
 Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
 Would make him oast upon the spiritual nature 
 His own low failing. The snake was the snake — 
 No more ; and yet not less than those he tempted, 
 In nature being earth also — more in wisdom. 
 
 Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
 The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
 Thinkst thou I'd take the shape of things that die? 
 
 Cain. But the thing had a demon ^ 
 
 Lucifer, He but woke one 
 In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
 I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
 Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
 Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand ages 
 Have roll'd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's. 
 The seed of the then world may thus array 
 Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
 To me a shape I scori>> as I scorn all 
 That bows to him fho made things but to bend 
 Before his sullen, sole eternity; 
 But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
 Fond parents listen'd to* creeping thing. 
 And fell. For what should spirits tempt them? What 
 Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
 Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 
 Space — but I speak to thee of what thou knowst not. 
 With all thy tree of knowledge. 
 
 Cain, But thou canst not 
 Speak aught of knowledge which I would not know. 
 And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
 To know. 
 
 Lucifer, And heart to look on ? 
 
 Cain. Be it proved ! 
 
 Lucifer. Dar'st thou look on Death ? 
 
 Cain. He has not yet 
 lieen seen. 
 
 Lucifer. But must be undergone. 
 
 Cain, My father 
 Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
 Weeps when he's named; and Abel lifts his eyes 
 To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, 
 And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me. 
 And speaks not. 
 
 Lucifer. And thou? 
 
 Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 
 Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear 
 Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems, 
 Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him ? 
 I wrestled with the lion, when a boy. 
 In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 
 
 Lucifer. It has no shape; but will absorb all things 
 That bear the form of eai-th-born being. 
 
 Cain. Ah! 
 I thouglit it was a being: who could do 
 Such evil things to beings save a being? 
 
 Lucifer, Ask the Destroyer. 
 
 Cain, Whom? 
 
 Lucifer, The Maker — call him 
 Which name thou wilt; he makes but to destroy. 
 
 Cain, I knew not that, yet thought it, since I heard 
 Of death : although I know nrit what it is. 
 Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 
 In th(! vast desolate night in search of him ; 
 And, when I saw gigantic shadows in 
 The umbrage of the walls of Eden, cliequer'd 
 By the far-flashing of the cherubs' sw ords. 
 
 ■,- 
 
ACT I. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 379 
 
 I watch'd for what I thought his coming; for 
 
 With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
 
 What 'twas which shook us all — but nothing came. 
 
 And then I turn'd my weary eyes from ofl" 
 
 Dur native and forbidden Paradise, 
 
 Up to the lights above us, in the azure. 
 
 Which are so beautiful: shall they, too, die? 
 
 1 Lucifer. Perhaps— but long outlive both thine and thee. 
 
 ! Cain. I'm glad of that; I would not have them die, 
 
 rhcy are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, 
 
 1 feel, it is a dreadful thing; but what, 
 
 [cannot compass: 'tis denounced against us, 
 
 3otl> them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an ill — 
 
 What ill? 
 
 i Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 
 
 I 
 
 ; Cain. But shall I know it? 
 
 I Lucifer. As I know not deathj^ 
 
 i cannot answer. 
 
 i Cain. Were I quiet earth, 
 
 That were no evil: would I ne'er had been 
 
 iught else but dust! 
 
 . Lucifer. That is a grov'ling wish, 
 
 uess than thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 
 
 : Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
 
 'he life-tree? 
 
 Lucifer, He was hindcr'd. 
 
 Cain. Deadly error ! 
 jJot to snatch first that fruit: — but ere he pluck'd 
 'he knowledge, he was ignorant of death, 
 lias ! I scarcely now know what it is, 
 jind yet I fear it — fear I know not what! 
 1 Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear nothing: see 
 Vhat is true knowledge. 
 
 Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 
 1 Cain. Name it. 
 j Lucifer. That 
 
 hou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 
 
 Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worships. 
 
 Lucifer. No. 
 
 Cain. His equal ? 
 
 Lucifer. No; — I have nought in common with him ! 
 !or would : I would be aught above — beneath — 
 ught save a sharer or a servant of 
 lis power. I dwell apart; but I am great: — 
 [any there are who worship me, and more 
 Nho shall — be thou amongst the first. 
 ; Cain. I never 
 
 IS yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
 Ithough my brother Abel oft implores 
 hat I would join with him in sacrifice: — 
 ^'^hy should I bow to thee ? 
 
 Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 
 him? 
 
 Com. Have I not said it? — need I say it ? 
 ould not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that? 
 
 Lucifer. He who bows not to him has bow'd to me ! 
 
 Cain. But I will bend to neither. 
 
 Lucifer. Ne'er the less 
 
 hou art my worshipper: not worshipping 
 
 im makes thee mine the same. 
 
 Cain. And what is that? 
 
 Lucifer. Thou'lt know here — and hereafter. 
 
 Cain. Let me but 
 Be taught the mystery of my being. 
 
 Lucifer. Follow 
 Where I will lead thee. 
 
 Cain. But I must retire 
 To till the earth — for I had promised — 
 
 Lucifer. What? 
 
 Cain. To cull some first fruits. 
 
 Lucifer. W hy ? 
 
 Cain. To offer up 
 With Abel on an altar. 
 
 Lucifer. Saidst tiiou not 
 Thou ne'er hadst bent to him who made thee? 
 
 Cain. Yes — 
 But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon me; 
 The offering is more his than mine — and Adah — 
 
 Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate ? 
 
 Caiiu She is my sister. 
 Born on the same day, of the same womb; and 
 She wrung from me, with tears, this promise; and 
 Rather than see her weep, I would, methinks, 
 Bear all and — worship aught. 
 
 Lucifer. Then follow me! 
 
 Cain. I wiU. 
 
 Enter Adar. 
 
 Adah. My brother, 1 have come for theej 
 ft is our hour of rest and joj' — and we 
 Have less without thee. Thou hast labour'd not 
 This morn; but I have done thy task: the fruits 
 Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens : 
 Come away. 
 
 Cain. Seest thou not? 
 
 Adah. I see an angel; 
 We have seen many : will he share our liour 
 Of rest? — he is welcome. 
 
 Cain. But he is not like 
 The angels we have seen. 
 
 Adah. Are there, then, others? 
 But he is welcome, as they were ; they deign'd 
 To be our guests — will he? 
 
 Cain (to Lucifer). Wilt thou ? 
 
 Lucifer. I ask 
 Thee to be mine. 
 
 Cain. I must away with him. 
 
 Adah, And leave us? 
 
 Cain. Ay. 
 
 Adah, And me ? 
 
 Cain. Beloved Adah I 
 
 Adah. Let me go with thee. 
 
 Lucifer. No, she must not. 
 
 Adah. Who 
 Art thou that steppest between heart and heart? 
 
 Cain. He is a god. 
 
 Adah. How knowst thou? 
 
 Cain. He speaks like 
 A god. 
 
 Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 
 
380 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah ! — was not the tree that 
 Of knowledge? 
 
 Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. [not : 
 
 Lucifer, And yet that grief is knowledge — so he lied 
 And if he did betray you, 'twas witli truth; 
 And truth in its own essence cannot be 
 But good. 
 
 Adah. But all we know of it has gathcr'd 
 Evil on ill: expulsion from our home, 
 And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness; 
 Remorse of that which was, and hope of that 
 Which cometh not. Cain ! walk not with this spirit. 
 Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I 
 Love tliee. 
 
 Lucifer. More than thy mother and thy sire? 
 
 Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too? 
 
 Lucifer. No, not yet ; 
 It one day will be in your children. 
 
 Adah. What! 
 Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch? 
 
 Lucifer. Not as thou lovest Cain ! 
 
 Adah. Oh, my God! 
 Shall they not love and bring forth things that love Y 
 Out of their love? have they not drawn their milk 
 Out of tin's bosom? was not he, their father, 
 Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
 With me? did we not love each other? and, 
 In multiplying our being, multiply 
 Things which will love each other as we love 
 Them ? — Aad as I love thee, my Cain ! go not 
 Forth with this spirit; he is not of ours. 
 
 Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my making. 
 And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
 It seem in those who will replace ye in 
 Mortality. 
 
 Adah. What is the sin which is not 
 Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin 
 Or virtue? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
 Of — 
 
 Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves: and higher 
 Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
 Prefer an independency of torture 
 To the smooth agonies of adulation 
 In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking prayers 
 To that which is omnipotent, because 
 It is omnipotent, and not from love, 
 But terror and self-hope. 
 
 Adah, Omnipotence 
 Must be all goodness. 
 
 Lucifer. Was it so in Eden? [fairer 
 
 Adah. Fiend! tempt me not with beauty; thou art 
 Than was the serpent, and as false. 
 
 Lvcifer. As true. 
 Ask Eve, your mother ; bears she not the knowledge 
 Of good and evil? 
 
 Adah. Oh, my mother! thou 
 Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
 Than to thyself; thou at the least hast past 
 Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
 And happy intercourse with happy spirits; 
 But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
 
 Are girt about by demons, who assume 
 
 The words of God, and tempt us witii our own 
 
 Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as tiiou 
 
 Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flush'd 
 
 And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
 
 I cannot answer this immortal thing 
 
 Which stands before me; I cannot abhor him ; 
 
 I look upon him with a pleasing fear. 
 
 And yet I fly not from him : in his eye 
 
 There is a fastening attraction which 
 
 Fixes my fluttering eyes on his; my heart 
 
 Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near, 
 
 Nearer and nearer: Cain — Cain — save me from him! 
 
 Cain. What dreads my Adah ? This is no ill spirit. 
 
 Adah. He is not God — nor God's ; I have beheld 
 The cherubs and the seraphs; he looks not 
 Like them. 
 
 Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — 
 The archangels. 
 
 Lucifer. And still loftier than the archangels. 
 
 Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 
 
 Lucifer. If the blessedness 
 Consists in slavery — no. 
 
 Adah. 1 have heard it said, 
 The seraphs love most — cherubim hnow most — 
 And this should be a cherub — since he loves not. 
 
 Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge quenches lovt 
 What must he he you cannot love wheij known? 
 Since the all-knowing cherubim love least. 
 The seraphs' love can be but ignorance: 
 That they are not compatible, the doom 
 Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
 Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
 No other choice: your sire hath chosen already; 
 His worship is but fear. 
 
 Adah. Oh, Cain! choose love. 
 
 Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it was 
 Born with me — but I love nought else. 
 
 Adah. Our parents? [tre 
 
 Cain. Did they love us when they snatch'd from tli 
 That which hath driven us all from Paradise? 
 
 Adah. We were not horn then — and if we had beei 
 Should we not love them and our children, Cain ? 
 
 Cain. My little Enoch and his lisping sister ! 
 Could I but deem them happy, I would half 
 Forget — but it can never be forgotten 
 Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 
 Shall men love the remembrance of the man 
 Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 
 In the same hour! They pluck'd the tree of science 
 And sin — and, not content with their own sorrow, 
 Begot me — thee — and all the few that are. 
 And all the unnnmber'd and innumerable 
 Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, 
 To inherit agonies accumulated 
 By ages ! — And /must be sire of such things ! 
 T!iy beauty and thy love — my love and joy. 
 The rapturous moment and the placid hour, 
 All we love in our children and each other. 
 But lead them and ourselves througli many years 
 Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 381 
 
 Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, [ledge 
 To Death — the unknown ! Methinks the tree of know- 
 Hath not fulfill'd its promise: If they sinn'd, 
 At least they ought to have known all tilings that are 
 Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
 What do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
 What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that? 
 Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
 
 I Wert happy — 
 
 j Cain. Be thou happy then alone — 
 
 [I will have nought to do with happiness, 
 
 I Which humbles me and mine. 
 j Adah. Alone I could not, 
 
 |Nor would be happy : but with those around us, 
 
 II think I could be so, despite of death, 
 Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
 It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
 
 |Iudgc from what I have heard. 
 I Lucifer. And thou couldst not 
 /l/o/jp, thou sayst, be happy? 
 
 Adah. Alone! Oh, my Cod! 
 Wlio could be happy and alone, or good? 
 To me my solitude seems sin; unless 
 When I think how soon I shall see my brother. 
 His brother, and our children, and our parents. 
 
 Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone; and is he happy ? 
 [iOnely and good? 
 
 Adah, He is not so; he hath 
 Irhe angels and the mortals to make happy, 
 And thus becomes so in diffusing joy: 
 What else can joy be but the spreading joy? 
 
 Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from Eden ; 
 br of his first-born son; ask your own heart; 
 tis not tranquil. 
 
 Adah. Alas! no; and you — 
 Lre you of heaven! 
 
 Lucifer. If I am not, inquire 
 ["he cause of this all-spreading happiness, 
 Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 
 riaker of life and living things; it is 
 Us secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 
 kod some of us resist, and both in vain, 
 lis seraphs say ; but it is worth the trial, 
 iince better may not be without : there is 
 i wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
 'o right, as in the dim blue air the eye 
 >f you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
 'he star which watches, welcoming the morn. 
 Adah. It is a beautiful star; I love it for 
 f s beauty. 
 
 Lucfer, And why not adore? 
 Adah. Our father 
 dores the Invisible only. 
 Lucifer. But the symbols 
 f the Invisible are the loveliest 
 I f what is visible ; and yon bright star 
 |i leader of the host of heaven. 
 Adah. Our father 
 
 aith tiiat he has beheld the God himself 
 'k^ho made him and our mother. 
 Lucifer. Hast thou seen him? 
 
 Adah. Yes — in his works. 
 
 Lucifer. But in his being? 
 
 Adah. No — 
 Save in my father, who is God's own image; 
 Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
 And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
 In seeming ; as the silent sunny noon, 
 All light, they look upon us ; but thou seemst 
 Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
 Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 
 Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
 With things that look as if they would be suns ; 
 So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing, 
 Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them. 
 They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
 Thou seemst unhappy; do not make us so, 
 And I will weep for thee. 
 
 Lucifer. Alas! those tears! 
 Couldst thou but know what oceans will be siied — 
 
 Adah. By me ? 
 
 Lucifer. By all. 
 
 Adah. What all? 
 
 Lucifer. The million millions — 
 The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 
 The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peoplcd hell, 
 Of whicli thy bosom is the germ. 
 
 Adah. Oh Cain, 
 This spirit curseth us. 
 
 Cain. Let him say on ; 
 Him will I follow. 
 
 Adah. Whither? 
 
 Lucifer. To a place 
 Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour, 
 But in that hour see things of many days. 
 
 Adah. How can that be? 
 
 Lucifer. Did not your Maker make 
 Out of old worlds this new one in few days? 
 And cannot I, who aided in this work, 
 Siiow in an hour what he hath made in many, 
 Or hath destroy 'd in few? 
 
 Cain, Lead on. 
 
 Adah. Will he 
 In sooth return within an hour ? 
 
 Lucifer. He shall. 
 With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
 Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
 Or stretch an hour into eternity : 
 We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 
 But that's a mystery. Cain, come on with me* 
 
 Adah. Will he return? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay, woman ! he alone 
 Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
 Who shall return, save One) — shall come back to thee 
 To make that silent and expectant world 
 As populous as this: at present there 
 Are few inhabitants. 
 
 Adah. Where dwcllest thou? [Where are 
 
 Lucifer. Throughout all space. Where should I dwell? 
 Thy God or Gods — there am I; all tilings are 
 Divided witii me; life and death — and time — 
 Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 
 
382 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
 Those who once peopled or shall people both — 
 Tliese are my realms! So that I do divide 
 His, and possess a kingdom whicli is not 
 His. If I were not that which I have said, 
 Could I stand here? His angels are within 
 Your vision. 
 
 Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 
 Spoke with our mother first. 
 
 Lucifer. Cain ! thou hast heard. 
 If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
 That thirst : nor ask thee to partake of fruits 
 Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
 The conqueror has left thee Follow me. 
 
 Cain. Spirit, I have said it. [Exeunt Lucifer and Csh 
 
 Adah (follows, exclaiming). Cain ! my brother ! Cain ! 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Tlie Abyss of Space. 
 
 Cain. I tread on air, and sink not; yet I fear 
 To sink. 
 
 Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
 Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 
 
 Cain. Can I do so without impiety? [thus 
 
 Lucifer. Believe — and sink not ! doubt — and perish ! 
 Would run the edict of the other God, 
 Who names me demon to his angels; they 
 Echo the sound to miserable things. 
 Which knowing nought beyond their .shallow senses. 
 Worship the word Avhich strikes their ear, and deem 
 Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
 In their abasement. I will have none such : 
 Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
 The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
 Amerced, for doubts beyond thy little life. 
 With torture oimy dooming. There will come 
 An hour, when toss'd upon some water-drops, 
 A man shall say to a man, "Believe in me, 
 And walk the waters;" and the man shall walk 
 The billows and be safe, /will not say 
 Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
 To save thee; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
 Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
 What thou dar'st not deny, the history 
 Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 
 
 Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
 Is yon ou/earth? 
 
 Lucifer. Dost thou not recognize 
 The dust which form'd your father ? 
 
 Cain. Can it be? 
 Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 
 With an inferior circlet near it still. 
 Which looks like that which lit our earthly night ? 
 Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls. 
 And they who guard them? V 
 
 Lucifer. Point me out the site 
 Of Paradise. 
 
 Cain. How should I? As we move 
 Like sunbeam? onward, it grows small and smaller. 
 
 And as it waxes little, and then less, 
 Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
 Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I 
 Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
 Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 
 Appear to join the innumerable stars 
 Which are around us; and, as we move on, 
 Increase their myriads. 
 
 Lucifer. And if there should be 
 Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
 By greater things, and they themselves far more 
 In number than the dust of thy dull earth, 
 Though multiplied to animated atoms. 
 All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched. 
 What wouldst thou think? 
 
 Cain. I should be proud of thought 
 Which knew such things. 
 
 Lucifer. But if that high thought were 
 Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and. 
 Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, 
 And science still beyond them, were chain'd down 
 To the most gross and petty paltry wants. 
 All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
 Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
 A most enervating and filthy cheat 
 To lure thee on to the renewal of 
 Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 
 As frail, and few so happy — 
 
 Cain. Spirit! I 
 Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thing 
 Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
 A hideous heritage I owe to them 
 No less than life; a heritage not happy. 
 If I may judge till now. But, spirit! if 
 it be, as thou hast said (and I within 
 Feel the prophetic torture of its truth), 
 Here let me die: for to give birth to those 
 Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
 Methinks is merely propagating death. 
 And multiplying mufder. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou canst not 
 AH die — there is what must survive. 
 
 Cain. The Other 
 
AUT II. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 383 
 
 Spake not of this unto my father, when 
 He shut liim forth from Paradise, with death 
 Written upon his forehead. But at least 
 Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
 [ may be in the rest as angels are. 
 
 Lucifer, /am angelic: wouldst thou be as I am? 
 
 Cain. I know not what thou art : I see thy power, 
 knd see thou showst me things beyond my power, 
 jUeyond all power of my born faculties, 
 !\ltiiough inferior still to my desires 
 \nd my conceptions. 
 
 Lucifer, What are they, which dwell 
 90 humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
 With worms in clay? 
 
 Cain. And what art thou, who dwellest 
 50 haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
 <fature and immortality — and yet 
 |5eemst sorrowful? 
 ] Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 
 i^nd therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
 jJVouldst be immortal? 
 
 Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 
 mmortal in despite of me. I knew not 
 his until lately — but since it must be, 
 \e^ me, or happy, or unhappy, learn 
 'o anticipate my immortality. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 
 
 Cain. How? 
 
 Lucifer. By suffering. 
 
 Cain. And must torture be immortal ? 
 
 Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now, behold ! 
 5 it not glorious? 
 
 Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 
 
 nd unimaginable ether! and 
 
 e multiplying masses of increased 
 
 nd still-increasing lights! what are ye? what 
 
 this blue wilderness of interminable 
 
 ir, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
 
 he leaves along the limpid streams of Eden? 
 
 I your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
 
 weep on in your unbounded revelry 
 
 brough an aerial universe of endless 
 
 xpansion, at whicli my soul aches to think, 
 
 jtoxicated with eternity ? 
 
 h<3od! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are! 
 
 ow beautiful ye are! how beautiful 
 
 oar works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
 
 hey may be! Let me die, as atoms die, 
 
 'f that they die) or know ye in your might 
 
 nd knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 
 
 nworthy what I see. though my dust is ; 
 
 3irit! let me expire, or see them nearer. 
 
 Lucifer. Art thou not nearer? look back to thine earth ! 
 
 Cain. Where is it? I see nothing save a mass 
 
 f most innumerable lights. 
 
 Lucifer, Look there! 
 Cain. I cannot sec it. 
 
 Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 
 
 Cain. What, yonder? 
 
 Lucifer. Yea. 
 
 Cam. And wilt thou tell me so? 
 
 Why, I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
 Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
 In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
 Which bears them. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds, 
 Each bright and sparkling, — what dost think of them? 
 
 Cain. That they are beautiful in their own sphere, 
 And through the night, which makes both beautiful. 
 The little shining fire-fly in its flight. 
 And the immortal star in its great course, 
 Must both be guided. 
 
 Lucifer. But by whom or what? 
 
 Cain. Show me. 
 
 Lucifer. Dar'st thou behold? 
 
 Cain. How know I what 
 I dare behold ? as yet, thou hast shown nought 
 I dare not gaze on further. 
 
 Lucifer. On, then, with me. 
 Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal? 
 
 Cain. Why, what are things? 
 
 Lucifer. Both partly: but what doth 
 Sit next thy heart? 
 
 Cain. The things I see. 
 
 Lucifer. But what 
 Sate nearest it ? 
 
 Cain. The things I have not seen, 
 Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. [died, 
 
 Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things which have 
 As I have shown thee much which cannot die? 
 
 Cain. Do so. 
 
 Lucifer. Away, then ! on our mighty wings. [us ! 
 
 Cain. Oh! how wecleavetheblue! The stars fade from 
 The earth ! where is my earth ? let me look on it, 
 For I was made of it. 
 
 Lucifer. 'Tis now beyond thee. 
 Less in the universe, than thou in it: 
 Yet deem not that thou canst escape it; thou 
 Shalt soon return to earth, and aU its dust; 
 'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 
 
 Cain. Where dost thou lead me? 
 
 Lucifer, To what was before thee! 
 The phantasm of the world; of which thy world 
 Is but the wreck. 
 
 Cain. What! is it not then new? 
 
 Lucifer. No more than life is: and that was ere thou 
 Or /were, or the things which seem to us 
 Greater than either: many things will have 
 No end; and some, which would pretend to have 
 Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
 As thou; and mightier things have been extinct 
 To make way for much meaner than we can 
 Surmise; for moments only and the space 
 Have been and must be all unchangeable. 
 But changes make not death, except to clay; 
 But thou art clay — and canst but comprehend 
 That which was clay, and such thou shalt behold. 
 
 Cain. Clay, spirit ! What thou wiit, I can survey. 
 
 Lucifer. Away, then ! 
 
 Cain. But the lights fade from me fast, 
 And some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
 And wore the look of worlds. 
 
384 
 
 CAIN, 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Lucifer. And such tliey-are. 
 
 Cain. And Edens in them? 
 
 Lucifer. It may be. 
 
 Cain. And men? 
 
 Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 
 
 Cain. Ay? and serpents too? [no reptiles 
 
 Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without them ? must 
 Breathe, save the erect ones? 
 
 Cain. How the lights recede! 
 Where fly we? 
 
 Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 
 Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 
 
 Cain. But it grows dark, and dark-the stars are gone! 
 
 Lucifer. And yet thou seest. 
 
 Cain. 'Tis a fearful light ! 
 No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 
 The very blue of the empurpled night 
 Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see 
 Huge dusky masses; but unlike the worlds 
 We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
 Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere 
 Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shapes 
 Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains; 
 And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
 Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
 With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took 
 Like them the features of fair earth: — instead, 
 All here seems dark and dreadful. 
 
 Lucifer. But distinct. 
 Thou seekcst to behold death, and dead things? 
 
 Cain. I seek it not ; but as I know there are 
 Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
 And all that we inherit, liable 
 To such, I would behold at once, what I 
 Must one day see perforce. 
 
 Lucifer. Behold! 
 
 Cain. 'Tis darkness. 
 
 Lucifer. And so it shall be ever; but we will 
 Unfold its gates ! 
 
 Cain. Enormous vapours roll 
 Apart — what's this ? 
 
 Lucifer. Enter! 
 
 Cain. Can I return? [peopled? 
 
 iMcifer. Return! be sure: how else should death be 
 Its present realm is thin to what it will be, 
 Through thee and thine. 
 
 Cain. The clouds still open wide 
 And wider, and make widening circles round us. 
 
 Lucifer. Advance! 
 
 Cain. And thou! 
 
 Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou 
 Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 
 
 [They disappear through the clouds. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Hades. 
 Enter Lucifer and Cain. 
 
 Cain. How silent and how vast are these dim worlds! 
 For they seem more than one, and yet more peopled 
 Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 
 
 So thickly in the upper air, that I 
 
 Had dcem'd them rather the bright populace 
 
 Of some all unimaginable heaven 
 
 Than things to be inhabited themselves. 
 
 But that on drawing near them I beheld 
 
 Their swelling into palpable immensity 
 
 Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell on, 
 
 Rather than life itself. But here, all is 
 
 So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 
 
 It speaks of a day past. 
 
 Lucifer. It is the realm 
 Of death. — Wouldst have it present? 
 
 Cain. Tilllknow 
 That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
 But if it be as I have heard my father 
 Deal out in his long homilies, 'tis a thing — 
 Oh God! I dare not think on't! Cursed be 
 He who invented life that leads to death ! 
 Or the dull mass of life, that being life 
 Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it — 
 Even for the innocent! 
 
 Lucifer. Dosi thou curse thy father? 
 
 Cain. Cursed he not me in giving me my birth ? 
 Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
 To pluck the fruit forbidden? 
 
 Lucifer. Thou sayst well : 
 The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
 But for thy sons and brother! 
 
 Cain. Let them share it 
 With me, their sire and brother ! What else is 
 Bequeath'd to me? I leave them my inheritance. 
 Oh ye interminable gloomy realms 
 Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes. 
 Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
 Mighty and melancholy — what are ye? 
 Live ye, or have ye lived? 
 
 Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 
 
 Cain. Then Avhat is death? 
 
 Lucifer. What? Hath not he who made ye 
 Said 'tis another life? 
 
 Cain. Till now he hath 
 Said nothing, save that all shall die. 
 
 Lucifer. Perhaps 
 He one day will unfold that further secret. 
 
 Cain. Happy the day ! 
 
 Lucifer. Yes, happy ! when unfolded 
 Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
 With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
 Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
 All to be animated for this only ! 
 
 Cain. What are these mighty phantoms which 1 1 
 Floating around me ? — they wear not the form 
 Of the intelligences I have seen 
 Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
 Nor wear the form of man as I have view'd it 
 In Adam's, and in Abel's, and in mine. 
 Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's: 
 And yet they have an aspect, whicli, though not 
 Of men nor angels, looks like something, which. 
 If not the last, rose higiier than tlie first; 
 Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
 
CAIN. 
 
 385 
 
 Ot seeming streng-tli, but of inexplicable 
 Shape; for I never saw such. They bear not 
 The wing of seraph, nor the face of man, 
 Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that is 
 Now breathing; miglity yet and beautiful 
 As the most beautiful and mighty which 
 Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
 Can call them living. 
 
 Lucifer. Yet they lived. 
 
 Cain. Where? 
 
 Lucifer. Where 
 Thou livest. 
 
 Cain. When? 
 ■ Lucifer. On what thou callest earth 
 They did inhabit. 
 
 Cain. Adam is the first. 
 
 Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee — but too mean to be 
 he last of these. 
 
 Cain. And what are they ? 
 
 Lucifer. That which 
 Thou shalt be. 
 
 Cain. But what were they ? 
 
 Lucifer. Living, high, 
 nteliigent, good, great, and glorious things, 
 S much superior unto all thy sire, 
 dam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
 he sixty-thousandth generation shall be, 
 n its dull damp degeneracy, to 
 ^hee and thy son ; — and how weak they are, judge 
 |3y thy own flesh. 
 
 j Cain. Ah me! and did ?/tey perish? [thine. 
 
 ! Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade from 
 1 Cam. But was mme theirs? 
 j Lucifer. It was. 
 
 Cain. But not as now. 
 t is too little and too lowly to 
 sustain such creatures. 
 
 Lucifer. True, it was more glorious. 
 
 Cain. And wherefore did it fall? 
 
 Lucifer. Ask Him who fells. 
 
 Cain. But how ? 
 
 Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 
 )estruction and disorder of the elements, 
 Vliicli struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
 
 ubsiding has struck out a world : such things, 
 
 liough rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 
 'ass on, and gaze upon the past. 
 
 Cain. 'Tis awful! [once 
 
 Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms ! they were 
 
 [aterial as thou art. 
 
 Cain. And must I be 
 
 ike them? 
 
 Lucifer. Let Him who made thee answer that. 
 
 show thee what thy predecessors are, 
 
 nd what they were thou feelest, in degree 
 
 ifcrior, as thy petty feelings and 
 
 hy pettier portion of the immortal part 
 
 f high intelligence and earthly strength. 
 
 ►'hat ye in common have with what they had 
 
 '• life, and what ye shall have — death ; the rest 
 
 f your poor attributes is such as suits 
 
 Reptiles engcnder'd out of the subsiding 
 
 Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into ^- 
 
 A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
 
 Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness — 
 
 A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
 
 Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
 
 What these superior beings are or were; 
 
 Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
 
 The earth, thy task — I'll waft thee there in safety. 
 
 Cain. No : I'll stay here. 
 
 Lucifer. How long? 
 
 Cain. Forever! Since 
 I must one day return here from the earth, 
 I rather would remain; I am sick of all 
 That dust has shown me — let me dwell in shadows. 
 
 Lucifer. It cannot be: thou now beholdest as 
 A vision that which is reality. 
 
 To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou [pass'd — 
 Must pass through what the things thou secst have 
 The gates of death. 
 
 Cain. By what gate have we enter'd 
 Even now ? 
 
 Lucifer. By mine! But , plighted to return. 
 My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
 Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on; 
 But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
 Is come. 
 
 Cain. And these, too; can they ne'er repass 
 To earth again? 
 
 Lucifer. Their earth is gone for ever — 
 So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
 Be conscious to a single present spot 
 Of its new scarcely harden'd surface — 'twas — 
 Oh, what a beautiful world it was! 
 
 Cain. And is. 
 It is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
 I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
 By what it bears of beautiful untoiling, 
 Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
 With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
 Ofdeath and life. 
 
 Lucifer. What thy world is thou seest. 
 But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
 That which it was. 
 
 Cain. And those enormous creatures, 
 Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
 (At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd, 
 Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
 Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
 Roar nightly in the forest, but ten-fold 
 In magnitude and terror ; taller than 
 The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
 Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence thera, 
 And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
 Their bark and branches — what were they \ 
 
 Lucifer. That which 
 The Mammoth is in thy world; but these lie 
 By myriads underneath its surface. 
 
 Cain. But 
 None on it? 
 
 Lucifer. No; for thy frail race to war 
 25 
 
386 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 With them would render tlie curse on it useless — 
 'Twould be destroy'd so early. 
 
 Cain. But why war/ 
 
 Lucifer. You have forgotten the denunciation 
 Whicli drove your race from Eden — war with all things, 
 And death to all things, and disease to most things, 
 And pangs, and bitterness; these were the fruits 
 Of the forbidden tree. 
 
 Cain. But animals — 
 Did they too eat of it, that they must die? 
 
 Lucifer. Your Maker told ye, thei/ were made for you, 
 As you for him. — You would not have their doom 
 Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
 Fallen, all had stood. 
 
 Cain. Alas ! the hopeless wretches ! 
 They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons ; 
 Like tJjem, too, without having shared the apple; 
 Like them, too, without the so dear-bought knowledge! 
 It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
 At least it promised knowledge at the price 
 Of death — but knowledge still : but what knows man ? 
 
 Lucifer. It may be death leads to the highestknoviledgc; 
 And being of all things the sole thing certain, 
 At least leads to the surest science: therefore 
 The tree was true, though deadly. 
 
 Cain. These dim realms! 
 I see them, but I know them not. 
 
 Lucifer. Because 
 Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
 Comprehend spirit wholly — but 'tis something 
 To know there are such realms. 
 
 Cain. We knew already 
 That there was death. 
 
 Lucifer. But not what was beyond it. 
 
 Cain. Nor know I now. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou knowst that there is 
 A state, and many states, beyond thine own - 
 And this thou knewest not this morn. 
 
 Cain. But all 
 Seems dim and shadowy. 
 
 Lucifer. Be content; it will 
 Seem clearer to thine immortality. 
 
 Cuin. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
 Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 
 Which looks like water, and which I should deem 
 The river which flows out of Paradise 
 Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
 And boundless and of an ethereal hue — 
 What is it? 
 
 Lucifer. There is still some such on earth. 
 Although inferior, and thy children shall 
 Dwell near it — 'tis the fantasm of an ocean. 
 
 Cain. 'Tis like another world; a liquid sun 
 And those inordinate creatures sporting o'ei 
 Its shining surface? 
 
 Lucifer. Are its habitants, 
 The past leviathans. 
 
 Cain. And yon immense 
 Serpent, which rears his dripping mane and vasty 
 Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
 Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
 
 
 Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 
 Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
 The tree in Eden? 
 
 Luc far. Eve, thy mother, best 
 Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 
 
 Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt the other 
 Had more of beauty. -- 
 
 Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him? 
 
 Cain. Many of the same kind (at least so cail'd). 
 But never that precisely which persuaded 
 The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 
 
 Lucifer. Your father saw him not? 
 
 Cain. No : 'twas my mother 
 Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent. 
 
 Lucifer. Good man! whene'er thy wife, or thy son; 
 wives 
 Tempt thee or them to aught that's new or strange. 
 Be sure thou seest first who hath tempted them. 
 
 Cain, Thy precept comes too late: there is no more 
 For serpents to tempt woman to. 
 
 Lucifer. But there 
 Are some things still which woman may tempt man to. 
 And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to it ! 
 My counsel is a kind one; for 'tis even 
 Given chiefly at my own expense : 'tis true, 
 'Twill not be folio w'd, so there's little lost. 
 
 Cain. I understand not this. 
 
 Lucifer. The happier thou! — 
 Thy world and thou are still too young! Thou thinkcst 
 Thyself most wicked and unhappy ; is jt 
 Not so? 
 
 Cain. For crime I know not; but for pain, 
 I have felt much. 
 
 Lucifer. First-born of the first man ! 
 Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil. 
 Of sorrow — and tliou sufferest, are both Eden 
 In all its innocence compared to what 
 Thou shortly mayst be; and that state again, 
 In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
 To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
 In generations like to dust (which they 
 In fact but add to), shall endure and do. — 
 Now let us back to earth ! 
 
 Cain. And wherefore didst thou 
 Lead me here only to inform me this ? 
 
 Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 
 
 Cain. Yes: as being 
 The road to happiness. 
 
 Lucifer. If truth be so, 
 Thou hast it. 
 
 Cain. Then my father's God did well 
 When he prohibited the fatal tree. 
 
 Lucifer. But had done better in not planting it. 
 But ignorance of evil doth not save 
 From evil ; it must still roll on the same, 
 A part of all things. 
 
 Cain. Not of all things. No: 
 I'll not believe it — for I thirst for good. [ci 
 
 Lucifer. And who and what doth not? Who qoxr 
 For its own bitter sake? — ^one — nothing! 'tis 
 The leaven of all life and lifelessnesa. 
 
ACT II. 
 
 4 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 387 
 
 Cain. Within those glorious orbs vvliich we behold 
 Distant and dazzling-, and innumerable, 
 Ere we came down into this phantom-realm, 
 (11 cannot come; they are too beautiful. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar. 
 
 Cain. And what of that? 
 Distance can but diminish glory — they 
 When nearer must be more inefl'ablc. 
 
 Lucifer. Approach the things of earth most beautiful, 
 Vnd judge their beauty near. 
 
 Cain. I have done this — 
 The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 
 
 Lucifer. Then there must be delusion. — What is that, 
 kVhich being nearest to thine eyes is still 
 klore beautiful than beauteous things remote? 
 
 Cain. My sister Adah. — All the stars of heaven, 
 The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
 tVhich looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
 The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous coming — 
 jlis setting indescribable, which fills 
 ly eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 
 lira sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
 ilong that western paradise of clouds — 
 'he forest-sliadc — the green bough — the bird's voice — 
 'he vesper-bird's, which seems to sing of love, 
 ,nd mingles with the song of cherubim, 
 lS the day closes over Eden's walls; — 
 .11 these are nothing to my eyes and heart, 
 .ike Adah's face: I turn from earth and heaven 
 'o gaze on it. 
 
 Lucifer. 'Tis fair as frail mortality, 
 ^i the first dawn and bloom of young creation 
 
 nd earliest embraces of earth's parents, 
 an make its offspring; still it is delusion. 
 
 Cain. You think so, being not her brother. 
 
 Lucifer. Mortal! 
 [y brotherhood's with those who have no children. 
 
 Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 
 
 Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be for me. 
 
 ut if thou dost possess a beautiful 
 
 eing beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
 
 i^hy art thou wretched ? 
 
 Cain. Why do I exist ? 
 
 i^liy art thou wretched ? why are all things so? 
 
 ven he who made us must be as the maker 
 
 f things unhappy! To produce destruction 
 
 an surely never be the task of joy, 
 
 nd yet my sire says he's omnipotent: 
 
 hen why is evil — he being good ? I ask'd 
 
 his question of my father ; and he said, 
 
 ecause this evil only was the path 
 
 o good. Strange good, that must arise from out 
 
 s deadly opposite. I lately saw 
 
 Iamb stung by a reptile: the poor suckling 
 
 ay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 
 
 nd piteous bleating of its restless dam: 
 
 y father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
 
 he wound; and by degrees the helpless wretch 
 
 csumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
 
 he mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
 
 tood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
 
 Beliold, my son! said Adam, how from evil 
 Springs good! 
 
 Lucifer. What didst thou answer ? 
 
 Cain. Nothing; for 
 He is my father: but I thought, that 'twere 
 A better portion for the animal 
 Never to have been slung at all, than to 
 Purchase renewal of its little life 
 With agonies unutterable, though 
 Dispell'd by antidotes. 
 
 Lucifer. But as thou saidst 
 Of all beloved things thod lovest her 
 Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 
 Unto thy children — 
 
 Cain. Most assuredly : 
 What should I be without her? 
 
 Lucifer. What am 1? 
 
 Cain, Dost thou love nothing ? 
 
 Lucifer. What does thy God love ? 
 
 Cain. All things, my father says ; but I confess 
 I see it not in their allotment here. 
 
 Lucifer. And therefore thou canst not see if I love 
 Or no, except some vast and general purpose. 
 To which particular things must melt like snows. 
 
 Cain. Snows ! what are they ? 
 
 Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 
 What thy remoter offspring must encounter; 
 But bask beneath the clime which knows no winter. 
 
 Cain. But dost thou not love something like thyself? 
 
 Lucifer. And dost thou love thyself! 
 
 Cain. Yes, but love more 
 What makes my feelings more endurable, 
 And is more than myself, because I love it. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou lovest it? because 'tis beautiful, 
 As was the apple in thy motlier's eye; 
 And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
 Will cease, like any other appetite. 
 
 Cain. Cease to be beautiful ! how can that be? 
 
 Lucifer. With time. 
 
 Cain. But time has past, and hitherto 
 Even Adam and my mother both are fair: 
 Not fair like Adah and the seraphim — 
 But very fair. 
 
 Lucifer. All that must pass away 
 In them and her. 
 
 Cain. I'm sorry for it; but 
 Cannot conceive my love for her the less. 
 And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
 He who creates all beauty will lose more 
 Than I in seeing perish such a work. 
 
 Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest what must peri.sh. 
 
 Cain. And I thee who lov'st nothing. 
 
 Lucifer. And thy brother — 
 Sits he not near thy heart? 
 
 Cain. Why should he not? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy father loves him well — so does thy God. 
 
 Cain. And so do I. 
 
 Lucifer. 'Tis well and meekly done. 
 
 Cain. Meekly ! 
 
 Lucifer. He is the second-born of flesh, 
 And is his mother's favourite. 
 
388 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Cam. Let him keep 
 Her favour, since the serpent was the first 
 To win it. 
 
 Lucifer. And his father's? 
 
 Cain. What is that 
 ■to me? should I not love that which all love? 
 
 Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent Lord, 
 And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 
 He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 
 
 Cain. I 
 Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 
 
 Lucifer. But you have seen his angels. 
 
 Cain. Rarely. 
 
 Lucifer. But 
 Sufficiently to see they love your brother; 
 His sacrifices are acceptable. 
 
 Cain. So be they ! wherefore speak to me of this? 
 
 Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of this ere now. 
 
 Cain. And if 
 I have thought, why recall a thought that — (he pauses, as 
 
 agitated) — Spirit ! 
 
 Here we are in thy world ; speak not of mine. 
 
 Thou hast shown me wonders; thou hast shown me those 
 
 Mighty Pre-Adamites who walk'd the earth 
 
 Of which ours is the wreck ; thou hast pointed out 
 
 Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 
 
 Is the dim and remote companion, in 
 
 Infinity of life: thou hast shown me shadows 
 
 Of that existence with the dreaded name [much — 
 
 Which my sire brought us — Death ; thou hast shown me 
 
 But not all : show me where Jehovah dwells, 
 
 In his especial Paradise — or thine: 
 
 Where is it? 
 
 Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 
 
 Cain. But ye 
 Have some allotted dwelling — as all things ; 
 Clay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants; 
 All temporary breathing creatures their 
 Peculiar element; and things which have, 
 Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, thou sayst ; 
 And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 
 Ye do not dwell together? 
 
 Lucifer. No, we reign 
 Together, but our dwellings are asunder. 
 
 Cain. Would there were only one of ye ! perchance 
 An unity of purpose might make union 
 In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms. 
 How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 
 To separate? Are ye not as brethren in 
 y&'ur essence, and your nature, and your glory ? 
 
 Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother? 
 
 Cain. We are brethren, 
 And so we shall remain; but, were it not so, 
 Is spirit like to flesh? can it fall out ? 
 Infinity with Immortality? 
 Jarring and turning space to misery — 
 For what? 
 
 Lucifer. To reign. 
 
 Cain, Did ye not tell rac that 
 Ye are both eternal? 
 
 Lucifer, Yea! 
 
 is there iiol 
 
 Cain. And what I have seen, 
 Yon blue immensity, is boundless? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay. 
 
 Cain. And cannot ye both reign then? 
 Enough? — why should ye dift'er? 
 
 Lucifer. We both reign. 
 
 Cain. But one of you makes evil. 
 
 Lucifer. Which? 
 
 Cain. Thou! for 
 If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not? 
 
 Lucifer. And why not he who made? I made ye not 
 Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 
 
 Cain. Then leave us 
 His creatures, as thou sayst we are, or show me 
 Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 
 
 Lucifer, I could show tliee 
 Both ; but the time will come thou shalt see one 
 Of them for evermore. 
 
 Cain, And why not now ? 
 
 Lucifer, Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to gatli 
 The little I have shown thee into calm 
 And clear thought; and thou wouldst go on aspirinjr 
 To the great double mysteries ! the two Principles ! 
 And gaze upon them on their secret thrones ! 
 Dust ! limit thy ambition, for to see 
 Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 
 
 Cain, And let me perish, so I see them! 
 
 Lucifer. There 
 The son of her who snatch'd the apple spake! 
 But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them ; 
 That sight is for the other state. 
 
 Cain. Of death? 
 
 Lucifer, That is the prelude. 
 
 Cai7i Then I dread it less. 
 Now that I know it leads to something definite. 
 
 Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to tliy world. 
 Where thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 
 Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, w eep, sleep, and die. 
 
 Cain. And to what end have I beheld these things 
 Which thou hast shown me? 
 
 Lucifer. Didst thou not require 
 Knowledge? And have I not, in what I shovv'd. 
 Taught thee to know thyself? 
 
 Cain. Alas! 1 seem 
 Nothing. 
 
 Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
 Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness; 
 Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
 'Twill spare them many tortures. 
 
 Cain. Haughty spirit! 
 Thou speakst it proudly; but thyself, though proud. 
 Hast a superior. 
 
 Lucifer. No ! By heaven, which He 
 Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity i 
 
 Of worlds and life, which I hold with him — No ! ^ 
 I have a victor — true; but no superior. 
 Homage he has from all — but none from me: - 
 
 I battle it against him, as I battled , 
 
 In highest heaven. Through all eternity, ,^! 
 
 And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, ^ 
 
 And the interminable realms of space, .^ 
 
ACT III. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 389 
 
 And the infinity of endless ages, 
 
 All, all, will I dispute! And world by world, 
 
 And star by star, and universe by universe 
 
 Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
 
 Conllict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 
 
 Wiiich it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd ! 
 
 And what can quench our immortality, 
 
 Or mutual and irrevocable hate? 
 
 He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
 
 Evil; but what will be the ^oorf he gives? 
 
 Were I the victor, his works would be deem'd 
 
 The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
 
 And scarce-born mortals, what have been his gifts 
 
 To you already in your little world? 
 
 Cain. But few; and some of those but bitter. 
 
 Lucifer, Back 
 With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
 
 Of his celestial boons to ye and yours. 
 Evil and good are things in their own essence, 
 And not made good or evil by the giver; 
 But if he gives you good — so call him ; if 
 Evil springs from him, do not name it mine. 
 Till ye know better its true fount ; and judge 
 Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
 Of your existence, such as it must be. 
 One good gift has the fatal apple given — 
 Your reason : — let it not be over-sway'd 
 By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
 'Gainst all external sense and inward feeling: 
 Think and endure, — and form an inner world 
 In your own bosom — where the outward fails; 
 So shall you nearer be the spiritual 
 Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 
 
 [They disappear 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Earth near Eden, as in Act I 
 Enter Cai.n and Auah. 
 
 Adah. Hush! tread softly, Cain. 
 
 Cain. I will; but wherefore? 
 
 Adah'. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
 bf leaves, beneath the cypress. 
 
 Cain. Cypress! 'tis 
 ^ gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
 )'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose it 
 or our child's canopy? 
 
 Adah. Because its branches 
 5hut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
 Mtting to shadow slumber. 
 
 Cain. Ay, the last — 
 ind longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 
 
 [They go up to the child. 
 
 How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
 ; ui their pure incarnation, vying with 
 fhe rose-leaves strewn beneath them. 
 I Adah. And his lips, too, 
 jlow beautifully parted! No; you shall not 
 . kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon — 
 lis hour of mid-day rest is nearly over; 
 tut it were pity to disturb him till 
 ris closed. 
 
 Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 
 ly heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on 
 nd smile, thou little, young inheritor 
 ►fa world scarce less young: sleep on, and smile! 
 'hine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
 nd innocent! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — 
 hou knowst not thou art naked ! Must the time 
 
 Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, 
 Which were not thine nor mine? But now sleep on! 
 His checks are reddening into deeper smiles. 
 And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
 Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ; 
 Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
 Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream — 
 Of what ? Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it, 
 My disinherited boy ! 'Tis but a dream; 
 For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
 Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! - 
 
 Adah. Dear Cain! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son 
 Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past: 
 Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise? 
 Can we not make another? 
 
 Cain. Where? 
 
 Adah. Here, or 
 Where'er thou wilt: where'er thou art, I feel not 
 The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
 Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
 And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
 To whom we owe so much besides our birth? [her. 
 
 Cain. Yes — death, too, is amongst the debts we owe 
 
 Adah. Cain ! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee 
 Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped [hence, 
 The promised wonders which thou hast beheld. 
 Visions, thou say.st, of past and present worlds. 
 Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
 Of a contented knowledge; but I see 
 Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him, 
 And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
 Hath given thee back to us. 
 
 Cain. So soon ? 
 
 Adah. 'Tis scarcely 
 
890 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Two hours since ye departed: two lony hours 
 To me, but only hours upon the sun. 
 
 Cain. And yet I have approach'd tliat sun, and seen 
 Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
 Shall light; and worlds he never lit: methought 
 Years had roll'd o'er ray absence. 
 
 Adah. Hardly hours. 
 
 Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
 And measures it by that which it beholds, 
 Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
 I had beheld the immemorial works 
 Of endless beings; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds; 
 And, gazing on eternity, methought 
 I had borrow 'd more by a few drops of ages 
 From its immensity; but now I feel 
 AFy littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
 That I was notiiing! 
 
 Adah. Wherefore said he so? 
 Jehovali said not that. 
 
 Cain. No: /te contents him 
 With making us the nothing which we are ; 
 And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
 Eden and Immortality, resolves 
 It back to dust again — for what? 
 
 Adah. Thou knowst — 
 Even for our parents' error. 
 
 Cain. What is that 
 To us? they sinii'd, then let them die I 
 
 Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that thought 
 Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
 Would /could die for them, so they might live ! 
 
 Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one victim 
 Might satiate the insatiable of life, 
 And that our little rosy sleeper there 
 Might never taste of death nor human sorrow. 
 Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. [day 
 
 Adah. How know we that some such atonement one 
 May not redeem our race? 
 
 Cain. By sacrificing 
 The harmless for the guilty? what atonement 
 Were there? why, we are innocent: what have we 
 Done, that we must be victims for a deed 
 Before our birth, or need have victims to 
 Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
 If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge? 
 
 Adah. Alas! thou sinnest now, my Cain; thy words 
 Sound impious in mine ears. 
 
 Cain. Then leave me! 
 
 Adah. Never, 
 Though thy God left thee. 
 
 Cain. Say, what have we here? 
 
 Adah. Two altars, which our brother Abel made 
 During tliine absence, whereupon to offer 
 A sacrifice to God ou thy return. 
 
 Cam, And how knew he, that /would be so ready 
 With the burnt offerings, which he daily brings 
 With a meek brow, whose base humility 
 Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
 To the Creator? 
 
 Adah. Surely, 'tis well done. 
 
 Cain, Onealtar may suffice; /have no offering. 
 
 Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 
 Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers, and fruits; 
 These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
 Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 
 
 Cain. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the si 
 According to the curse: — must I do more? 
 For what should I be gentle? for a war 
 With all the elements ere they will yield 
 The bread we eat? For what must I be grateful? 
 For being dust, and groveling in the dust. 
 Till I return to dust? If I am nothing — 
 For nothing shallJ be an hypocrite, 
 And seem well pleased with pain? For what should I 
 Be contrite? for my father's sin, already 
 Expiate with what we all have undergone, 
 And to be more than expiated by 
 The ages prophesied, upon our seed? 
 Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there, 
 The germ of an eternal misery 
 To myriads is within him ! better 'twere 
 Isnatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst 
 The rocks, than let him live to — 
 
 Adah. Oh, my God! 
 Touch not the child — my child ! thy c\\\\A\ Oh Cain 
 
 Cain. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the power 
 Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
 With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 
 
 Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech? 
 
 Cain. I said, 
 'Twere better that he ceased to live, than give 
 Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
 Endure, and, harder still, bequeath; but since 
 That saying jars you, let us only say — 
 'Twere better that he never had been born. 
 
 Adah. Oh, do not say so ! Where were then the jo; 
 The mother's joys of watching, nourishing, 
 And loving him? Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch! 
 
 [She goes to tfie c. 
 
 Oh Cain! look on him; see how full of life, 
 Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy. 
 How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle. 
 For then we are all alike; is 't not so, Cain? 
 Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
 Reflected in each other; as they are 
 In the clear waters, when they dire gentle, and 
 When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain! 
 And love thyself for our sakcs, for we love thee. 
 Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, 
 And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, 
 To hail his father; while his little form 
 Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain! 
 The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
 The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ! 
 As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
 His heart will, and thine own too. 
 
 Cain. Bless thee, boy ! 
 If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, 
 To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 
 
 Adah. It shall. 
 Surely a father's blessing may avert 
 A reptile's subtlety. 
 
CAIN. 
 
 391 
 
 C«/M. Ofthatldoubt; 
 lut bless liim ne'er the less. 
 Adah. Our brother comes. 
 Cain. Tliy brother Abel. 
 
 Enter Abel. 
 
 Abel Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 
 he peaee of God be on thee ! 
 Cain. Abel, hail ! 
 
 Abel. Our sister tells methatthouhast been wandering, 
 I higli communion with a spirit, far 
 cyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
 /'e have seen and spoken witii, like to our father? 
 Cain. No. 
 
 Abel. Wiiy then commune with him? lie may be 
 foe to the Most High. 
 Cain. And friend to man. 
 
 IS the Most High been so — if so you term him? 
 Abel. Term him! your words arc strange to-day, my 
 y sister Adah leave us for a while— [brother, 
 
 e mean to sacrifice. 
 Adah. Farewell, my Cain; 
 t first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
 d Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
 
 peace and holiness ! [Exit A<lali, nith her child. 
 
 Abel. Where hast thou been? 
 Cain. I know not. 
 ibel. Nor what thou hast seen? 
 'ain. The dead, 
 
 i immortal , the unbounded, the omnipotent, 
 3 overpowering mysteries of space — 
 
 innumerable worlds that were and are — 
 /hirlwind of such overwhelming things, 
 J. IS, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced spheres 
 ging in thunder round me, as have made me 
 ^t for mortal converse: leave me, Abel. 
 j^bel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural light — 
 
 cheek is (lush'd with an unnatural hue — 
 ' words are frauglit with an unnatural sound — 
 at may this mean? 
 
 'ain. It means — I pray thee, leave me. 
 bel. Not till we have pray'd and sacrificed together. 
 'ain. Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
 >vah loves thee well. 
 bel. Both well, I hope. 
 
 ain. But thee the better: I care not for that; 
 u art fitter for his worship than I am: 
 ere him, then — but let it be alone — 
 
 ast without me. 
 
 bel. Brother, I should ill 
 
 •rve the name of our great father's son, 
 
 my elder I revered thee not, 
 
 in the worship of our God call'd not 
 
 hce to join me, and precede me in 
 
 priesthood — 'tis thy place. 
 
 lin. But I have ne'er 
 
 rted it. 
 
 let. The more my grief; I pray thee 
 
 so now : thy soul seems labouring in 
 
 J strong delusion; it will calm thee. 
 
 Cain. No; 
 Nothing can calm me more. Calm] say I? Never 
 Knew I what calm was in tiie soul, although 
 I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave me! 
 Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 
 
 Abel. Neither; we must perform our task together. 
 Spurn me not. 
 
 Cain. If it must be so — well, then, 
 What shall I do? 
 
 Abel. Choose one of those two altars. 
 
 Cain. Choose for me: they to me are so much turf 
 And stone. 
 
 Abel. Choose thou! 
 
 Cain. I have chosen. 
 
 Abel. 'Tis the highest. 
 And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
 Thine offerings. 
 
 Cain. Where are thine ? 
 
 Abel. Behold them here — 
 The firstlings of the flock, and^fat thereof — 
 A shepherd's humble offering. 
 
 Cain. I have no flocks ; 
 I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
 Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit : 
 
 [He gathers fruitj. 
 
 Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 
 
 [They dress their altars, and kindle a flame upon them. 
 
 Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
 Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 
 
 Cain. No — I am new to this; lead thou the way. 
 And I will follow — as I may. 
 
 ^i^/ (kneeling). OhGod! 
 
 Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
 
 Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, 
 
 And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
 
 His children all lost, as tliey might have been, 
 
 Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
 
 The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
 
 Accord a pardon like a paradise, 
 
 Compared with our great crimes: — Sole Lord of light! 
 
 Of good, and glory, and eternity; 
 
 Without whom all were evil and with whom 
 
 Nothing can err, except to some good end 
 
 Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
 
 Inscrutable, but still to be fulfill'd — 
 
 Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 
 
 First of the first-born flocks — an offering. 
 
 In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
 
 Aught unto thee? — but yet accept it for 
 
 The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
 
 The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
 
 Even to the dust, of which he is, in honour 
 
 Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 
 
 Cain (standing erect daring this speecli). 
 
 Spirit! whate'cr or whosoe'er thou art, 
 Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good. 
 Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil ; 
 Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 
 And it may be with other names, because 
 Thine attributes seem many, as thy works: — 
 If thou must be propitiated with prayers. 
 
392 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 ACT 111 
 
 Take them! If thou must be induced with altars, 
 
 And softcn'd with a saisrificc, receive them ! 
 
 Two beings here erect tliem unto thee. 
 
 If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, which smokes 
 
 On mj right hand, hath shed it for thy service 
 
 In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 
 
 In sanguinary incense to thy skies; 
 
 Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth. 
 
 And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 
 
 I spread them on now offers in the face 
 
 Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 
 
 Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 
 
 Suffcr'd in limb or life, and rather form 
 
 A sample of thy works, than supplication 
 
 To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim, 
 
 And altar without gore, may win thy favour, 
 
 Look on it! and for him who dresseth it, 
 
 He is — such as thou mad'st him; and seeks nothing 
 
 Which must be won by kneeling: if he's evil. 
 
 Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and mayst, — 
 
 For what can he oppose? If he be good, 
 
 Strike him, or spare him, as thou wilt ! since all 
 
 Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 
 
 To have no power themselves, save in thy will ; 
 
 And whether that be good or ill I know not, 
 
 Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 
 
 Omnipotence, but merely to endure 
 
 Its mandate; which thus far I have endured. 
 
 The fire npon the altar of Abel kindles into a oolamn 
 of the brightest flame, and ascends to heaven ; while 
 a whirlwind throws down tlie altar of Cain, and 
 scatters the fruits abroad upon tlie earth. 
 
 Abel (kneeling). Oh, brother, pray! Jehovah's wroth 
 with thee! 
 
 Cain. Why so? 
 
 Abel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 
 
 Cain. From earth they came, to earth let them return; 
 Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the summer: 
 Thy burnt flesh-off'ring prospers better; see 
 How heaven licks up the flames, when thick with blood ! 
 
 Abel. Think not upon my oiTrings' acceptance, 
 But make another of thine own before 
 It is too late. 
 
 Cain. 1 will build no more altars. 
 Nor suffer any — 
 
 Abel (rhing). Cain! what meanest thou? 
 
 Cain. To cast down yon vile tlatt'rer of the clouds, 
 The smoky harbinger of thy dull prayers — 
 Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids, 
 Which fed on milk, to be destroy'd in blood. 
 
 Abel (opposing him). Thou slialt not : — add not impious 
 works to impious 
 Words ! let that altar stand — 'tis hallow'd now 
 By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
 la his acceptance of the victims. 
 
 Cain. His! 
 His pleasure ! what was his high pleasure in 
 The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking blood, 
 To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
 Still yearn for their dead offspring? or the pangs 
 Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
 
 Thy pious knife? Give way ! this bloody record 
 Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 
 
 Abel. Brother, give back ! tliou shalt not touch my alta 
 With violence; if that thou wilt adopt it. 
 To try another sacrifice, 'tis thine. 
 
 Cain. Another sacrifice! Give way, or else 
 That sacrifice may be — 
 
 Abel. What meanest thou? 
 
 Cam. Give — 
 Give way! thy God loves blood! — then look to it: — 
 Give way, ere he hath more ! 
 
 Abel. In his great name, 
 I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
 Had his acceptance. 
 
 Cain. If thou lov'st thyself, 
 Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 
 Its native soil : — else — 
 
 Abel (opposing him). I lovc God far more 
 Than life. 
 
 Cain, (striking him on the temples, with a brand, which he snatchi 
 from the altar) 
 
 Then take thy life unto thy God, 
 Since he loves lives. 
 
 Abel (faiu). What hast thou done, my brother? 
 
 Cain. Brother! 
 
 Abel. Oh, God! receive thy servant, and 
 Forgive his slayer, fur he knew not what 
 He did. — Cain, give me — give me thy baud; and tel 
 Poor Zillah - 
 
 CaUl (after a niomeut's stupefaction). 
 
 Ml/ hand! 'tis all red, and with — what? 
 
 [A long pause. — Looking slowly roan 
 
 Where am I? alone! Where's Abel? where 
 
 Cain ! Can it be that I am he? My brother, ^' 
 
 Awake ! — why liest thou so on the green earth? ' 
 
 'Tis not the hour of slumber: — why so pale? 
 
 What hast thou ! — thou wert full of life this morn ! 
 
 Abel! I pray thee, mock me not! I smote 
 
 Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 
 
 Wouldst thou oppose me? This is mockery; 
 
 And only done to daunt me: — 'twas a blow — 
 
 And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir! 
 
 Why, so — that's well! — thou breath'st! breathe upc 
 
 Oh, God! Oh, God! 
 
 Abel (very faintly). What's lie who spcaks ofGod? 
 
 Cain. Thy murderer. 
 
 Abel. Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 
 Comfort poor Zillab : — she has but one brother 
 
 Now. [Abel di 
 
 Cain. And I none! — Who makes rae brotherless? 
 His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
 Death is like sleep; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
 His lips, too, arc apart; why then he breathes! 
 And yet I feel it not. — His heart! — his heart! 
 Let me sec, doth it beat? — methinks — No ! — no ! 
 This is a vision, else I am become 
 The native of another and worse world. 
 The earth swims round me: - what is this? — 'tis wet 
 
 [Puts his hand to his brow, and then looks at 
 
 And yet there are no dews ! 'Tis blood — my blood — 
 My brother's and my own ; and shed by me! 
 
 [mi 
 
ACT III. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 393 
 
 Then what have I further to do with life, 
 Since I liave taken life from my own flesh ? 
 But he can not be dead! — Is silence death? 
 No; he will wake: then let me watch by him. 
 Life cannot be so slight„as to be quench'd 
 Thus quickly! — he hath spoken to me since — 
 What shall I say to him ? — My brother! — No; 
 He will not answer to that name; for bretlvren 
 Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me. 
 Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
 That I may bear to hear iny own again ! 
 
 Enter ZiLLAH. 
 
 I Zillali. I heard a heavy sound : what can it be? 
 i'TisCain; and watching by my husband. What 
 Dost thou there, brother? Doth he sleep? Oh ! heaven ! 
 iWhat means this paleness, and yon stream ? — No ! no! 
 It is not blood; for who would shed his blood? [not; 
 iAbel! what's this? — who hath done this? He moves 
 :He breathes not: and his hands drop down from mine 
 With stony lifelessness ! Ah ! cruel Cain! 
 Why cara'st thou not in time to save him from 
 [This violence? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
 iThou wert the stronger, and shouldst have stepp'd in 
 iBetween him and aggression! Father! — Eve! — 
 Adah! — come hither! Death is in the world! 
 
 [Exit Zilluh, calling on her parents. 
 
 Cain (solus). And who hath brought him there? — I — 
 1 who abhor 
 
 JThe name of Death so deeply, that the thought 
 Empoison'd all my life, before I knew 
 His aspect — I have led him here, and given 
 |My brother to his cold and still embrace, 
 [\s if he would not have asserted his 
 j[nexorable claim without my aid. 
 'I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
 i^Iad raadden'd me; — but he shall ne'er awake! 
 
 I Enter Adah, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 
 
 j Adam. A voice of woe from Zillah brings me here. — 
 What do I see? — 'Tis true! — My son! — my son! 
 jVVoman, behold the serpent's work, and thine! [To Eve. 
 j Eve, Oh! speak not of it now: the serpent's fangs 
 |Vre in my heart. My best beloved, Abel! 
 Ilehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
 ^ mother's sin, to take him from me! 
 
 Adam. Who, 
 )r what hath done this deed? — speak, Cain, since thou 
 iVert present: was it some more hostile angel, 
 tVho walks not with Jehovah? or some wild 
 irutc of the forest? 
 
 Eve. Ah! a livid light 
 jJreaks through as from a thunder-cloud ! yon brand, 
 jrlassy and bloody ! snatcli'd from off the altar, 
 ind black with smoke, and red with — 
 
 Adam. Speak, my son ! 
 ipeak, and assure us, wretched as we are, 
 hat we are not more miserable still. 
 Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou ! 
 Eve. It was. 
 see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
 
 And covers his ferocious eye with bands 
 Incarnadine. 
 
 Adah. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 
 Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal. 
 Which grief wrings from our parent. 
 
 Eve. Hear, Jehovah! 
 May the eternal serpent's curse be on hini ! 
 For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
 May all his days be desolate! May — 
 
 Adah. Hold! 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother. 
 And my betroth'd. 
 
 Eve. He hath left thee no brother — 
 Zillah no husband — me no son! — for this 
 I curse him from my sight for evermore! 
 All bonds I break between us, as he broke 
 That of his nature, in yon — Oh death ! death! 
 Why didst thou not take me, who first incurr'd thee? 
 Why dost thou not so now? 
 
 Adam. Eve! let not this. 
 Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
 A heavy doom was long forespoken to us; 
 And now that it begins, let it be borne 
 In such sort as may show our God, that we 
 Are faithful servants to his holy will. [spirit 
 
 Eve (pointing to Cain). His will! the will of yon incarnate 
 Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
 To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
 Of life be on him! and his agonies 
 Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
 From Eden, till his children do by him 
 As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
 And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
 By day and night — snakes spring up in his path — 
 Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
 On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
 With scorpions! May his dreams be of his victim! 
 His waking a continual dread of death ! 
 May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
 Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip ! 
 May every element shun or change to him ! 
 May he live in the pangs which others die with! 
 And death itself wax something worse than death 
 To him who first acquainted hira with man ! 
 Hence, fratricide! henceforth that word is Cain, 
 Through all the coming myriads of mankind. 
 Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert their sire! 
 May the grass wither from thy feet! the woods 
 Deny thee shelter! earth a home ! the dust 
 A grave! the sun his light! and heaven her God! 
 
 [Exit Eve. 
 
 Adam. Cain! gettheeforth : we dwell no more together. 
 Depart! and leave the dead to me — lam 
 Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 
 
 Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my father ; do not 
 Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 
 
 Adam. I curse him not: his spirit be his curse, 
 Come, Zillah ! 
 
 Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse. 
 
 Adam. We will return again, when he is gone 
 
 25* 
 
394 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 ACT 1 
 
 Who liatb provided for us this dread oflSce. 
 Come, Zillah! 
 
 Zillak. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 
 And those lips once so warm — my heart! my heart! 
 
 [Exeunt Adam and Zillah weeping. 
 
 Adah. Cain ! tiiou hast heard, we must go forth. I am 
 So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, [ready, 
 
 And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
 Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
 Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me, 
 To me — thine own. 
 
 Cain. Leave me! 
 
 Adah. Why, all have left thee. [fear 
 
 Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou? Dost thou not 
 To dwell with one who hath done this ? 
 
 Adah. I fear 
 Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
 Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
 I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
 And the great God. 
 
 A Voice from within exclaims : 
 
 Cain! Cain! 
 Adah. Hearst thou that voice ? 
 
 The Voice within. 
 
 Cain! Cain! 
 
 Adah. It soundeth like an angel's tone. 
 
 Enter the Angel of the Lord. 
 
 Where is thy brother Abel? 
 
 Cain. Am I then 
 My brother's keeper? 
 
 Angel. Cain! what hast thou done? 
 The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries out, 
 Even from the ground, unto the Lord ! — Now art thou 
 Cursed from the earth, which opcn'd late her mouth 
 To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
 Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, it shall not 
 Yield thee her strength ; a fugitive shalt thou 
 Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 
 
 Adah. This punishment is more than he can bear. 
 Behold, thou drivest him from the face of earth, 
 And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
 A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
 'Twill come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
 Shall slay him. 
 
 Cain. Would they could ! but who are they 
 Shall slay me? where are these on the lone earth 
 As yet unpeopled? 
 
 Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 
 And who shall warrant thee against thy son? 
 
 Adah. Angel of Light! be merciful, nor say, 
 That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
 A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 
 
 Angel. Then he would but be what his father is. 
 Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
 To him thou now seest so besmcar'd with blood? 
 The fratricide might well engender parricides. — 
 But it shall not be so — the Lord thy God 
 And mine commandeth me to set his seal 
 On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
 
 Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
 Be taken on his head. Come hither! 
 
 Cain, What 
 Wouldst thou with me? 
 
 Angel. To mark upon thy brow 
 Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 
 
 Cain. No, let me die! 
 
 Angel. It must not be. 
 
 [The Angel .«et3 the mark on Cain's hr 
 
 Cain. It burns 
 My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
 Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. [woo 
 
 Angel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn from i 
 As the ground thou must henceforth till; but he 
 Thou slewst was gentle as the flocks he tended. 
 
 Cain. After the fall too soon was I begotten ; 
 Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
 The serpent, and my sire still mourn'd for Eden. 
 That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
 For life, nor did I make myself; but could J 
 With my own death redeem him from the dust — 
 And why not so? let him return to day, 
 And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored 
 By God the life to him he loved : and taken 
 From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 
 
 Angel. Who shall heal murder? what is done is don 
 Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds 
 
 Unlike the last ! [The Angel disappc 
 
 Adah. He's gone, let us go forth ; 
 I hear our little Enoch cry within 
 Our bower. 
 
 Cain. Ah! little knows he what he weeps for! 
 And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears! 
 But the four rivers would not cleanse my soul. 
 Thinkst thou my boy will bear to look on me? 
 
 Adah. If I thought that he would not, I would — 
 
 Cain (interrupting her). No, 
 
 No more of threats: we have had too many of them: 
 Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 
 
 Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead; 
 Let us depart together. 
 
 Cain. Oh ! thou dead 
 And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking 
 Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art, 
 I know not! but if thou secst what /am, 
 I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
 Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell! 
 I must not, dare not touch what I have made thee. 
 I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drain'd 
 The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own, 
 In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
 Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
 To do that for thee, which thou shouldst have done 
 For me — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
 The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
 But who hath dug that grave? Oh, earth ! Oh, cartli I 
 For all the fruits thou hast rcnder'd to me, I 
 Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness. | 
 
 [Adah stoops down and kisses the body of Ap 
 
 Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my brother, 
 Has been thy lot ! Of all who mourn for thee, 
 
AjCT III. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 395 
 
 I alone must not weep. My office is 
 Henccfortli to dry up tears, and not to shed them; 
 But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
 Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
 Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 
 
 Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take our way; 
 'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. 
 -Adah. Lead! thou shalt be my guide, and may our God 
 »| Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. 
 
 Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. I 
 Have dried the fountain of the gentle race, 
 Which might have graced his recent marriage-couch, 
 And might have temper'd tiiis stern blood of mine, 
 Uniting with our children Abel's offspring! 
 OAbel! 
 
 Adah. Peace be with him! 
 
 Cain. But with me.' [Exeunt 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW. 
 
 Though'Cain' abounds in beautiful passages, and shows 
 more power, perliaps,than any of the author's dramatical 
 compositions, we regret very much that it should ever 
 have been published. It will give very great scandal and 
 offence to pious persons in general, and may be the 
 means of suggesting the most painful doubts and distress- 
 if jing perplexities to hundreds of minds that might never 
 otherwise have been exposed to such dangerous disturb- 
 ^jance. Lord Byron has no priestlike cant or priestlike 
 ireviliug to apprehend from us. Wedonotchargehimwith 
 'being either a disciple or an apostle ofLucifcr; nor do we 
 klescribe his poetry as a mere compound of blasphemy 
 land obscenity. On tiie contrary, we are inclined to believe 
 jthat he wishes well to tlie happiness of mankind, and are 
 i^lad to testify that his poems abound with sentiments of 
 ijreat dignity and tenderness, as well as passages of infinite 
 
 subUmity and beauty Philosophy and poetry are both 
 
 [V'ery good things in their way ; but, in our opinion, they 
 
 do not go very well togetlier. It is but a poor and pedantic 
 
 port of poetry that seeks to embody nothing but meta- 
 
 bhysical subtleties and abstract deductions of reason — 
 
 jinda very suspicious philosophy that aims at establishing 
 
 jts doctrines by appeals to the passions and the fancy. 
 
 Ifhough such arguments, however, are worth little in the 
 
 lichools, it does not follow that their eflect i»inconsider- 
 
 hie in the world. On the contrary, it is the mischief of 
 
 11 poetical paradoxes, that, from the very limits and end 
 
 fpoetry, which deals only in obvious and glancing views, 
 
 hey are never brought to the fair test of argument. An 
 
 llusion to a doubtful topic will often pass for a definitive 
 
 onclusion on it; and, clothed in beautiful language, 
 
 liay leave the most pernicious impressions behind. We 
 
 icrefore think that poets ought fairly to be confined to 
 
 , le established creed and morality of their country, or 
 
 |> the aciwa/ passions and sentiments of mankind; and 
 
 ■ 'lat poetical dreamers and sophists who pretend to theo- 
 
 :«eaccordingto their feverish fancies, without a warrant 
 
 om authority or reason, ought to be banished the com- 
 
 lon wealth of letters. In the courts of morality, poets are 
 
 aexceptionable witnesses: they may give in the evi- 
 
 ence, and depose to facts wliether good or ill; but we 
 
 emur to their arbitrary and self-pleasing summing up; 
 
 they are suspected judges, and not very often safe ad- 
 vocates, where great questions are concerned, and uni- 
 versal principles brought to issue. 
 
 We do not think, indeed, that there is much vigour or 
 poetical propriety in any of the characters of Lord By- 
 ron's Mystery. Eve, on one occasion, and one only, ex- 
 presses herself with energy, and not even then with any 
 great depth of that maternal feeling which the death of 
 her favourite son was likely to excite in her. Adam mo- 
 ralises without dignity. Abel is as dull as he is pious. 
 Lucifer, though his first appearance is well conceived, is 
 as sententious and sarcastic as a Scotch metaphysician; 
 and the gravamina which drive Cain into impiety are 
 circumstances which could only produce a similar effect 
 on a weak and sluggish mind,— the necessity of exertion 
 and the fear of death ! Yet , in the happiest climate of 
 earth, and amid the early vigour of nature, it would be 
 absurd to describe (nor has Lord Byron so described it) 
 the toil to which Cain can have been subject as excessive 
 or burdensome. And he is made too happy in his love, 
 too extravagantly fond of his wife and his child, to have 
 much leisure for those gloomy thoughts which belong to 
 disappointed ambition and jaded licentiousness. Nor, 
 though there are some passages in this drama of no com- 
 mon power, is the general tone of its poetry so excellent 
 as to atone for these imperfections of design. The dia- 
 logue is cold and constrained. The descriptions are like 
 t|»e shadows of a phantasmagoria , at once indistinct and 
 artificial. Except Adah, there is no person in whose for- 
 tunes we are interested ; and we close the book with no 
 distinct or clinging recollection of any- single passage 
 in it, and with the general impression only that Lucifer 
 has said much and done little, and that Cain has been 
 unhappy without grounds and wicked without an object. 
 But if, as a poem, Cain is little qualified to add to Lord 
 Byron's reputation, we are unfortunately constrained to 
 observe that its poetical defects are the very smallest of its 
 demerits. It is not, indeed, as some both of its admirers 
 and its enemies appear to have supposed, a direct attack 
 on Scripture and on the authority of Moses. The ex- 
 pressions of Cain and Lucifer are not more offensive to 
 the ears of piety than such discourses mast necessarily 
 
396 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 be, or than Milton, without offence, has put into the 
 moutlis of beings similarly situated. And though the in- 
 tention is evident which has led the Atheists and Jacobins 
 (the terms are convertible) of our metropolis to circulate 
 the work in a cheap form among the populace, we are not 
 ourselves of opinion that it possesses much power of 
 active mischief, or that many persons will be very deeply 
 or lastingly impressed by insinuations which lead to no 
 practical result, and difficulties which so obviously tran- 
 scend the range of human experience. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM CAMPBELL'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 'Cain, a Mystery,' is altogether of a higher order than 
 'Sardanapalus' and the 'Two Foscari.' Lord Byron has 
 not , indeed , fulfilled our expectations of a gigantic 
 picture of the first murderer ; for there is scarcely any 
 passion , except the immediate agony of rage , which 
 brings on the catastrophe; and Cain himself is little more 
 than the subject of supernatural agency. This piece is 
 essentially nothing but a vehicle for striking allusions to 
 the mighty abstractions of Death and Life, Eternity aud 
 Time; for vast but dim descriptions of the regions of 
 space, and for daring disputations on that great problem, 
 the origin of evil. The groundwork of the arguments on 
 the awful subjects handled is very common-place; but 
 they are arrayed in great majesty of language, and con- 
 ducted with a frigJitful audacity. The direct attacks on 
 the goodness of God are not, perhaps, taken apart, bolder, 
 
 than some passages of Milton; but theyfnspire quite 
 different sensation; because, in thinking of Paradiij 
 Lost, we never regard the Deity, or Satan, as other tha! 
 great adverse powers, created by the imagination of tl 
 poet. The personal identity which Milton has given 1 
 his spiritual intelligences, — the local habitations whic 
 he has assigned them, — the material beauty with whic 
 he has invested their forms, — all these remove the id( 
 of impurity from their discourses. But we know notliir. 
 of Lord Byron's Lucifer, except his speeches: he is ii 
 vented only that he may utter them; and the whole a] 
 pears an abstract discussion, held for its own sake, iv 
 maintained in order to serve the dramatic consistency ■ 
 the persons. He has made no attempt to imitate Milton 
 plastic power; — that power by which our great poet lu 
 made his Heaven and Hell, and the very regions of spac 
 sublime realities, palpable to the imagination, and li; 
 traced the lineaments of his angelic messengers with tl 
 precision of a sculptor. The Lucifer of 'Cain' is a mci 
 bodiless abstraction, — the shadow of a dogma; and 
 the scenery over which he presides is dim, vague, a 
 seen only in faint outline. There is, no doubt, a very ui 
 common power displayed, even in this shadowing out • 
 the ethereal journey of the spirit and his victim, and 
 the vast sketch of the world of phantasms at which tin 
 arrive: but they are utterly unlike the massive grandcu 
 of Milton's creation. We are far from imputing inteni 
 ional impiety to Lord Byron for this Mystery; nol 
 though its language occasionally shocks, do we appr 
 hend any danger will arise from its perusal." 
 
397 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH; 
 
 A MYSTERY, 
 
 FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP. VL 1. 2. ' ^ 
 
 'And it came to pass ....that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives 
 
 of all wliich tltey chose." 
 
 "And woman wailing for her demon lover." — Colericgk. 
 
 DRA3IATIS PERSOIViE. 
 
 ANGELS. 
 
 Samiasa. 
 
 AZAZIEL. 
 
 Raphael, the Archamjel. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Noah, and his Sons. 
 Irad. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 An AH. 
 Aholibamah. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits of the Earth. — Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A woody and mountainous district near Mount Ararat — Time, 
 midnigbt- 
 
 . Enter Anah and Aholibamah. 
 
 Anah. Our father sleeps: it is the hour when they 
 Who love us are accustom'd to descend 
 Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : — 
 How my heart beats ! 
 
 Aholibamah. Let US proceed upon 
 Our invocation. 
 I Anah. But the stars are hidden. 
 I I tremble. 
 
 Ahol. So do I, but not with fear 
 Df aught save their delay. 
 i j Anah. My sister, though 
 » \. love Azazicl more tlian — oh, too much ! 
 
 What was I going to say? my heart grows impious. 
 . ! Ahol. And where is the impiety of loving 
 ^lestial natures? ' 
 j Anah. But, Aholibamah, 
 " I love our God less since his angel loved mc: 
 rhis cannot be of good; and though I know not 
 That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
 JVhich are not ominous of right. 
 
 Ahol. Then wed thee 
 Into some 5on of clay, and toil and spin . 
 
 There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long; 
 Marry, and bring forth du.st! 
 
 Allah. I should have loved 
 Azaziel not less were he mortal; yet 
 I am glad he is not. I can not outlive him. 
 And when I think that his immortal wings 
 Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 
 Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, 
 As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
 Less terrible; but yet I pity him; 
 His grief will be of ages, or at least 
 Mine would be such for him, were I the seraph, 
 And he the perishable. 
 
 Ahol. Ratlier say, 
 That he will single forth some other daughter 
 Of earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 
 
 Anah. And if it should be so, and she so loved him, 
 Better thus than that he should weep for me. 
 
 Ahol. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
 Ail seraph as he is, I'd spurn him from me. 
 But to our invocation ! 'Tis the hour. 
 
 Anah. Seraph! 
 
 From thy sphere! 
 Whatever star contain thy glory : 
 
 In the eternal depths of heaven 
 
 Albeit thou watchcst with "the seven," 
 Though through space infinite and hoary 
 
398 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
 Yet hear! 
 Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear ! 
 
 And though she nothing is to thee, 
 Yet think that thou art all to her. 
 Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
 Such pangs decreed to aught save me, 
 
 The bitterness of tears. ^ 
 
 Eternity is in thine years, 
 Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes; 
 With me thou canst not sympathize. 
 Except in love, and tliere thou must 
 Acknowledge that more loving dust 
 Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
 Tliou waikst thy many worlds, thou seest 
 
 The face of Him who made thee great, 
 As He hath made me of the least 
 Of tliose cast out from Eden's gate: 
 Yet, Seraph dear ! 
 O hear! 
 For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
 Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
 That thou forgetst in thine eternity [flowing 
 
 Her whose heart death could not keep from o'er- 
 For thee, immortal essence as tliou art! 
 Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
 And such I feel are waging in my lieart 
 A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
 Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear, 
 For sorrow is our element; 
 Delight 
 An Eden kept afar from sight. 
 
 Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
 The hour is near 
 Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite. — 
 Appear! Appear! 
 Seraph ! 
 My own Azaziel! be but here. 
 And leave the stars to their own light. 
 Ahol. Samiasa! 
 
 Wheresoe'er ' 
 
 Thou rulest in the upper air — 
 Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
 Dispute with Him, 
 Who made all empires, empire; or recalling, 
 Some wandering star which shoots through the abyss, 
 Wiiose tenants dying, while their world is falling, 
 Share the dim destiny of clay in this; 
 Or joining with the inferior cherubim, 
 Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
 Samiasa! 
 I call tlice, I await thee, and I love thee. 
 
 Many may worship thee, that will I not: 
 If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, 
 Descend and share ray lot! 
 
 Though I be form'd of clay, 
 
 And thou of beams 
 More bright than those of day 
 On Eden's streams, 
 Thine immortality can not repay 
 
 With love more warm than mine 
 My love. There is a ray 
 
 In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, 
 
 I feel was lighted at thy God's and tliine. 
 It may be hidden long: death and decay 
 
 Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart 
 Defies it : though this life must pass away, 
 
 Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? 
 Thou art immortal — so am I: I feel — 
 
 I feel my immortality o'ersweep 
 All pains, all tears, all fears, and peal, 
 
 Like the eternal thunders of the deep. 
 Into my ears this truth — "thou livest for ever !" 
 But if it be in joy 
 
 I know not, nor would know; 
 That secret rests with the almighty giver 
 
 Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and woe. 
 But thee and me He never can destroy; 
 
 Change us He may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are 
 
 Of as eternal essence, and must war 
 
 With Him if He will war with us; with thee 
 I can share all things, even immortal sorrow ; 
 
 For thou hast ventured to share life with me. 
 
 And shall /shrink from thine eternity? [rou{!:Ii 
 
 No! though the serpent's sting should pierce me tho 
 
 And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil 
 
 Around me still ! and I will smile 
 
 And curse thee not; but hold 
 Thee in as warm a fold 
 As — but descend; and prove 
 A mortal's love 
 For an immortal. If the skies contain 
 More joy tiian thou canst give and lake, remain! 
 
 Anah. Sister! sister! I view them winging 
 Their bright way through the parted night. 
 
 Ahol. The clouds from oft" their pinions flinging 
 As though they bore to-morrow's light. 
 
 Anah. But if our father see the sight! 
 
 Ahol. He would but deem it was the moon 
 Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
 An hour too soon. 
 
 Anah. They come! becomes! — Azaziel! 
 
 Ahol. Haste 
 To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
 My spirit, while they hover there. 
 To Samiasa's breast! 
 
 Anah. Lo! they have kindled all the west, 
 
 Like a returning sunset; — lo ! 
 On Ararat's late secret crest 
 
 A mild and many-colour'd bow. 
 The remnant of their flashing path. 
 Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
 Return'd to night, as rippling foam. 
 
 Which the Leviathan hath lash'd 
 From his unfathomable home. 
 When sporting on the face of the calm deep, 
 
 Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
 Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. 
 
 Ahol. They have touch'd earth ! Samiasa ! 
 
 Anah. My Azaziel! [Exeun 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 399 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Enter Irau and Japhet. 
 
 Irad. Despond not: wherefore wilt thou wander thus 
 To add thy silence to the silent night, 
 And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars? 
 Tliey cannot aid thee. 
 
 Japhet. But they soothe me — now 
 Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
 Methinks a being that is beautiful 
 Becometh more so as it looks on beauty, 
 The eternal beauty of undying things. 
 Oh, Anah! • 
 
 Irad. But she loves thee not. 
 
 Japhet. Alas ! 
 
 Irad. And proud Aholibamah spurns me also. 
 I Japhel. I feel for thee too. 
 
 Irad. Let her keep her pride, 
 I Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn; 
 jit may be, time too will avenge it. 
 
 Japhet. Canst thou 
 (Find joy in such a thought? 
 j Irad. Nor joy, nor sorrow. 
 jl loved her well ; I would have loved her better. 
 Had love been met with love: as 'tis, I leave her 
 |To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 
 
 Japhet. What destinies? 
 
 Irad. I have some cause to think 
 She loves another. 
 
 Japhet. Anah ! 
 
 Irad. No; her sister. 
 
 Japhet. What other? 
 
 Irad. That I know not; but her air, 
 Tnot her words, tell me she loves another. 
 
 Japhet. Ay, but not Anah : she but loves her GodL 
 
 Irad. Whate'er slie loveth, so she loves thee not, 
 tVhat can it profit thee? 
 
 Japhet. True, nothing; but 
 
 love. 
 
 Irad. And so did I. 
 
 Japhet, And now thou lov'st not, 
 )r thinkst thou lov'st not, art thou happier? 
 
 Irad. Yes. 
 
 Japhet. I pity thee. 
 
 Irad. Me! why? 
 
 Japhet. For being happy, 
 )eprived of tliat which makes my misery. 
 
 Irad. I take tliy taunt as part of thy distemper, 
 
 .nd would not feel as thou dost, for more shekels 
 
 'iian all our fatiier's herds would bring if weigh'd 
 
 gainst the metal of the sons of Cain — 
 
 he yellow dust they try to barter with us, 
 I s if such useless and diseolour'd trash, 
 ii- 
 
 h 
 
 he refuse of the earth, could be received 
 
 or milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
 
 ur flocks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
 
 igli to the stars as wolves howl to the moon — 
 
 loiust back to my rest. 
 
 ' Japhet. And so would I 
 
 1 1 could rest. 
 
 • Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then? 
 
 Japhet. No, Irad; I will to the cavern, whose 
 Mouth they say opens from the internal world 
 To let the inner spirits of the earth 
 Forth when they walk its surface. 
 
 Irad. Wherefore so? 
 What wouldst thou there? > 
 
 Japhet. Soothe further my sad spirit 
 With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot, 
 And I am liopeless. 
 
 Irad. But 'tis dangerous; 
 Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with terrors. — 
 I must go with tiiee. 
 
 Japhet. Irad, no; believe me 
 I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 
 
 Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the more 
 As not being of them: turn thy steps aside, 
 Or let mine be with thine. 
 
 Japhet. No; neither, Irad; 
 I must proceed alone. 
 
 Irad. Then peace be with thee! [Exit irad. 
 
 Japhet (solus). Peace ! I have sought it where it should 
 be found. 
 In love — with love, too, which perhaps deserved it; 
 And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 
 A weakness of the spirit — listless days, 
 And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 
 Have come upon me. Peace! what peace? the calm 
 Of desolation, and the stillness of 
 The untrodden forest, only broken by 
 The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs; 
 Such is the sullen or the fitful state 
 Of my mind overworn. The earth's grown wicked, 
 And many signs and portents iiave proclaim'd 
 A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 
 To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah I 
 When the dread hour denounced shall open wide 
 The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 
 Have lain within this bosom, folded from 
 The elements; this bosom, which in vain 
 Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vainly, 
 While thine — Oh, God ! at least remit to her 
 Thy wrath ! for she is pure amidst the failing, 
 As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench. 
 Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah! 
 How would I have adored thee, but thou wouldst not; 
 And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 
 When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 
 By rock or shallow, the Leviathan, 
 Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world. 
 Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. [Exit Japhet 
 
 Enter NoAH and Sem. 
 
 Noah. Where is thy brother Japhet? 
 
 Sem. He went forth, 
 According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
 He said; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
 Towards Anali's ieni. round whidi he hovers nightly, 
 Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest; 
 Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
 Which opens to the heart of Ararat, 
 
 Noah. What doth he there? It is an evil spot 
 
400 
 
 HEA.VEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Upon au earth all evil ; for things worse 
 Than even wicked men resort there: he 
 Still loves this daughter of a fated race, 
 Altliough he could not wed her if she loved him, 
 And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
 Of men ! tliat one of my blood, knowing well 
 The destiny and evil of these days, 
 And that the hour approacheth, should indulge 
 In such forbidden yearnings! Lead the way; 
 He must be sought for ! 
 
 Sem. Go not forward, father: 
 I will seek Japhet. 
 
 Noah. Do not fear for me : 
 All evil tilings are powerless on the man 
 Selected by Jehovah — let us on. " 
 
 Sem. To the tents of the father of the sisters? 
 
 Noah. No; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 
 
 [Exeunt Noah and Sem. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The mountains. — A cavern, and the rocks of Caucasus. 
 
 Japhet (solus) Ye wilds, that looketernal; and thou cave, 
 Which seemst unfathomable; and ye mountains, 
 So varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
 Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
 And toppling trees that twine their roots with stone 
 In perpendicular places, where the foot 
 Of man would tremble, could he reach them — yes, 
 Ye look eternal! Yet, in a few days, 
 Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, hurled 
 Before the mass of waters ; and yon cave. 
 Which seems to lead into a lower world. 
 Shall have its depths search'd by the sweeping wave, 
 And dolphins gambol in the lion's den! 
 And man — Oh, men! my fellow -beings! Who 
 Shall weep above your universal grave, 
 Savel? Who shall be left to weep?. My kinsmen, 
 Alas ! what am I better than ye are. 
 That I must live beyond ye? Where shall be 
 The pleasant places where I thought of Anah 
 While I had hope? or the more savage haunts, 
 Scarce less beloved, where I despair'd for her? 
 And can it be ! — Shall yon exulting peak. 
 Whose glittering top is like a distant star. 
 Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep? 
 No more to have the morning-sun break forth. 
 And scatter back the mists in floating folds 
 From its tremendous brow? no more to have 
 Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 
 Leaving it with a crown of many hues? 
 No more to be the beacon of the world, 
 For angels to alight on, as the spot 
 Nearest the stars? And can those words "no more" 
 Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us. 
 And the predestined creeping things reserved 
 By my sire to Jehovah's bidding? May 
 He preserve them, and 1 not have the power 
 To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters from 
 A doom which even some serpent, with his mate. 
 Shall 'scape to save bis kind to be prolong'd, 
 
 To hiss and sting through some emerging world, 
 
 Reeking and dank from out the slime, whose ooze 
 
 Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this until 
 
 The salt morass subside into a sphere 
 
 Beneath the sun, and be the^monument. 
 
 The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre, 
 
 Of yet quick myriads of all life? How much 
 
 Breath will be still'd at once! All-beauteous world! 
 
 So young, so mark'd out for destruction, I 
 
 With a cleft heart look on thee day by day. 
 
 And night by night, thy number'd days and nights. 
 
 I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 
 
 Whose love had made melove thee more; but as 
 
 A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 
 
 Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 
 
 Such as — Oh God! and canst thou — [He piH 
 
 A rushing sound from the cavern is heard and shouts of laughter • 
 afterwards a Spirit passes. 
 
 Japhet. In the name 
 Of the Most High, what art thou? 
 
 Spirit (laughs). Ha! Ha! Ha! 
 
 Japhet. By all that earth holds holiest, speak ! 
 
 Spirit (uin«bs). Ha! Ha! 
 
 Japhet. By the approaching deluge! by the earth 
 Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
 The deep wiiich will lay open all her fountains! 
 The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas! 
 And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes! 
 Thou unknown, terrible, and indi.stinct. 
 Yet awful thing of shadows, speak to me ! 
 Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh? 
 
 Spirit. Why wcepst thou? 
 
 Japhet. For earth and all her children. 
 
 Spirit. Ha! Ha! Ha! [Spirit vanisfr 
 
 Japhet. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a world 
 The coming desolation of an orb. 
 On which the sun shall rise and warm no life! 
 How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
 Sleep too upon the very eve of death ! 
 Why should they wake to meet it? What is here 
 Which look like death in life, and speak like things 
 Born ere this dying world? They come like clouds! 
 
 [Various Spirits pass from the ca 
 Spirit. Rejoice! 
 The abhorred race 
 Which could not keep in Eden their high place. 
 
 But listen'd to the voice 
 Of knowledge without power, 
 Are nigh the hour 
 
 Of death! >^ 
 
 Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow, [tioj 
 Nor years, nor hesut-break, nor time's sapping m 
 Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow ! 
 Earth shall be ocean ! 
 And no breath, 
 Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave! 
 Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot: 
 Not even a rock from out the liquid grave 
 
 Shall lift its point to save, 
 Or show the place where strong Despair hath died. 
 
 1 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 401 
 
 After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
 For the expected ebb which cometh not ; 
 All shall be void, 
 Destroy'd ! 
 Another element shall be the lord 
 
 Of life, and the abhorr'd 
 Children of dust be quench'd; and of each hue 
 Of earth nought left but the unbroken blue; 
 And of the variegated mountain 
 Shall nought remain 
 Unchanged, or of the level plain ; 
 Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain : 
 All merged within the universal fountain, 
 Man, earth, and fire, shall die, 
 And sea and sky 
 kiook vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 
 Upon the foam 
 Who shall erect a home ? 
 Japhet (coming forward). My sire ! 
 Earth's seed shall not expire; 
 Only the evil shall be put away 
 
 From day. 
 Avaunt! ye exulting demons of the waste! 
 Who howl your hideous joy 
 When God destroys whom you dare not destroy ; 
 I Hence! haste! 
 
 Back to your inner caves ! 
 Until the waves 
 I Shall search you in your secret place, 
 I And drive your sullen race 
 Perth, to be roll'd upon the tossing winds 
 
 In restless wretchedness along all space! 
 I Spirit. Son of the saved! 
 When thou and thine have braved 
 The wide and warring element ; 
 When the great barrier of the deep is rent, 
 ■1 hall thou and thine be good or happy ? — No ! 
 Thy new world and new race shall be of woe — 
 Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
 Less than the glorious giants, who 
 Yet walk the world in pride, 
 he Sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
 ^ hine shall be nothing of the past, save tears ! 
 
 I And art thou not asjtamed 
 
 Thus to survive, 
 And eat, and drink, and wive? 
 V^ith a base heart so far subdued and tamed, 
 s even to hear this wide destruction named, 
 k'^ithout such grief and courage, as should rather 
 lid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
 lian seek a shelter with thy favour'd father, 
 lid build thy city o'er the drown'd earth's grave? 
 Who would outlive their kind, 
 Except the base and blind? 
 
 Mine 
 Hateth thine 
 As of a different order in the sphere, 
 
 But not our own. 
 >ere is not one who hath not left a throne 
 Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here, 
 ither than see his mates endure alone. 
 
 Go, wretch ! and give 
 A life like thine to other wretches — • live ! 
 And when the annihilating waters roar 
 Above what they have done. 
 Envy the Giant-Patriarchs then no more. 
 And scorn thy sire as the surviving one! 
 Thyself for being his son ! 
 
 Cboru3 of Spirits issuing from the cavern. 
 
 Rejoice ! 
 No more the human voice 
 Shall vex our joys in middle air 
 
 With prayer; 
 No more 
 Shall they adore ; 
 And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 
 
 The prayer-exacting Lord, 
 To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
 Is vice; 
 We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'd 
 Until one element shall do the work 
 Of all in chaos; until they, 
 The creatures proud of their poor clay. 
 Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurk 
 In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
 The deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 
 
 Wliere even the brutes, in their despair. 
 Shall cease to prey on man and on each other, 
 
 And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
 Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother ; 
 Till all things shall be as they were, 
 Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
 While a brief truce 
 Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
 The little remnant of the past creation, 
 To generate new nations for his use; 
 
 This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
 Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime. 
 When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soil 
 Into a world, shall give again to Time 
 New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — crime — 
 With all companionship of hate and toil, — Until — 
 Japhet (interrupting them). The eternal will 
 Shall deign to expound this dream 
 Of good and evil ; and redeem 
 
 Unto Himself all times, all things; 
 And, gather'd under his almighty wings , 
 Abolish hell! 
 And to the expiated Earth 
 Restore the beauty of her birth. 
 Her Eden in an endless paradise. 
 Where man no more can fall as once he fell. 
 And even the very demons shall do well! 
 Spirits. And when shall take effect this wondrous spell ? 
 Japhet. When the Redeemer cometh; first in pain. 
 
 And then in glory. 
 Spirits. Meantime still struggle in the mortal chain, 
 Till earth wax hoary; 
 War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain. 
 
 Until the clouds look gory 
 With the blood reeking from each battle-plain ; 
 26 
 
402 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 New times, new climes, new arts, new men ; but still 
 Tlic same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill, 
 Shall be amongst your race in diflerent forms ; 
 But the same moral storms 
 Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
 In a few hours the glorious Giants' graves. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits. 
 
 Brethren, rejoice! 
 Mortal, farewell! 
 Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
 Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 
 The winds, too, plume their piercing wings! 
 The clouds have nearly fill'd their springs ! 
 The fountains of the great deep shall be broken, 
 
 And heaven set wide her windows; while mankind 
 View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
 Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 
 
 We hear the sound they cannot hear, 
 The mustering thunders of the threatening sphere ; 
 Yet a few hours their coming is delay'd; 
 Their flashing banners, folded still on high, 
 
 Yet undisplay'd, 
 Save to the Spirits' all-pervading eye. 
 
 Howl! howl! oh Earth! 
 Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth : 
 ^Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink below 
 
 The ocean's overflow ! 
 The wave shall break upon your clifi's; and shells, 
 
 The little shells of ocean's least things be 
 Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells — 
 How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea ! 
 And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
 Uhanswer'd save by the encroaching swell; — 
 While man shall long in vain for his broad wings. 
 
 The wings which could not save : — 
 Where could he rest them, while the whole space brings 
 Nought to his eye beyond the deep, his grave? 
 Brethren, rejoice! 
 And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 
 
 All die, 
 Save the slight remnant of Scth's seed — 
 
 TheseedofSetb, 
 Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death. 
 But of the sons of Cain 
 None shall remain; 
 And all his goodly daughters 
 Must lie beneath the desolating waters; 
 Or, floating upward with their long hair laid 
 Along the wave, the cruel Heaven upbraid. 
 Which would not spare 
 Beings even in death so fair. 
 It is decreed, 
 All die! 
 And to the universal human cry 
 The universal silence shall succeed ! 
 Fly, brethren, fly ! 
 But still rejoice! 
 We fell ! 
 They fall ! 
 
 So perish all 
 These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from Hell ! 
 
 [llic Spirits disappear, soaring up^an 
 
 Japliet (sohis). Godhathproclaim'dthedcstinyofeartI 
 My father's ark of safety hath announced it: 
 The very demons shriek it from their caves; 
 The scroll of Enoch prophesied it long 
 In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
 More to the mind than thunder to the ear: 
 And yet men listen'd not, nor listen ; but 
 Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though so nigli. 
 Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief. 
 Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty purpos. 
 Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
 No sign yet hangs its banner in the air ; 
 The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture; 
 The sun will rise upon the earth's last day 
 As on the fourth day of creation, when 
 God said unto him, "Shine!" and he broke forth 
 Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
 Unform'd forefather of mankind — but roused 
 Before the human orison the earlier 
 Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
 Which in the open firmament of heaven 
 Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
 Heaven first each day before the Adamites ! 
 Their matins now draw nigh — the east is kindling 
 And they will sing! and day will break! Both near. 
 So near the awful close ! For these must drop 
 Their outworn pinions on the deep; and day, 
 After the bright course of a few brief morrows, - 
 Ay, day will rise; but upon what? A chaos. 
 Which was ere day; and which, renew'd, makes time 
 Nothing! for, without life, what are the hours ? 
 No more to dust than is eternity 
 Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
 Without him, even eternity would be 
 A void : without man, time, as made for man. 
 Dies with man, and is swallow'd in that deep 
 Which has no fountain; as his race will be 
 Dcvour'd by that which drowns his infant-world. — 
 What have we here? Shapes of both earth and air? 
 No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 
 I cannot trace their features; but their forms. 
 How lovclily they move along tlie side 
 Of the gray mountain, scattering its mist! 
 And after the swart savage spirits, whose 
 Infernal immortality pour'd forth 
 Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 
 Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 
 To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 
 For which I have so often pray'd — They come! 
 Anah! oh God! and with her — 
 
 Enter Samusa, Azaziel, Anah, and Aholibayah. 
 
 Anah. Japhet! 
 
 Samiasa. Lo! 
 A son of Adam ! 
 
 Azaziel. What doth the earth-born here. 
 While all his race are slumbering? 
 
 P 
 
 1 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 403 
 
 Japhet. Angel! what 
 Dost thou on earth wlien thou shouldst be on high? 
 
 Azaziel. Knowst thou not, or forgetst thou, that a part 
 Of our great function is to guard thine earth? 
 
 Japhet. But all good angels have forsaken earth, 
 Which is condemn'd; nay, even the evil fly 
 The approaching chaos. Anah! Anah! my 
 In vain, and long, and still to be beloved ! 
 Wliy walkst thou with this spirit, in those hours 
 When no good spirit longer lights below? 
 
 Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee; yet, yet 
 Forgive me — 
 
 Japhet. May the Heaven, which soon no more 
 Will pardon, do so! for thou art greatly tempted. 
 
 AhoUhamah. Back to thy tents, insultingson ofNoah ! 
 We know thee not. 
 
 Japhet. The hour may come when thou 
 Mayst know me better; and thy sister know 
 Mc still the same which I have ever been. 
 
 Samiasa. Son of the Patriarch, who hath ever been 
 Upright before his God, whate'er thy griefs, 
 And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wrath. 
 How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
 [Wrong? 
 
 Japhet. Wrong! the greatest of all wrongs; but thou 
 iSayst well ! though she be dust, I did not, could not, 
 'Deserve her. Farewell, Anah ! I have said 
 That word so often! but now say it, ne'er 
 To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
 Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
 To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
 Children of Cain? 
 
 Azaziel. From what? 
 ; Japhet. And is it so, 
 iThat ye too know not? Angels! angels! ye 
 Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now must 
 iParlake his punishment; or at the least 
 My sorrow. 
 
 Samiasa. Sorrow ! I ne'er thought till now 
 To liear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 
 
 Japhet. And hath nottheMost High expounded them ? 
 Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 
 
 Aholibamah. So be it ! 
 [f they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
 iMore to be mortal, than I would to dare 
 j.\n immortality of agonies 
 IWith Samiasa ! 
 
 I Anah, Sister! Sister! speak not 
 Irhus. 
 
 I Azaziel. Fearest thou, my Anah ? 
 I Anah. Yes, for thee; 
 ;' would resign the greater remnant of 
 This little life of mine, before one hour 
 )f thine eternity should know a pang. 
 
 Japhet. It is for him, then ! for the seraph thou 
 jlast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 
 jjcft thy God too! for unions like to these, 
 between a mortal and immortal, cannot 
 5c liappy or be hallow'd. We are sent 
 
 pon the earth to toil and die; and they 
 \ic made to minister on high unto 
 
 The Highest; but if he can save thee, soon 
 The hour will come in which celestial aid 
 Alone can do so. 
 
 Anah. Ah! he speaks of death. 
 
 Samiasa. Of death to us ! and those who are with us! 
 But that the man seems full of sorrow, I 
 Could smile. 
 
 Japhet. I grieve not for myself, nor fear; 
 I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
 Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
 Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
 His power was greater of redemption ! or 
 That by exchanging my own life for hers, 
 Who could alone liavc made mine happy, she, 
 The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
 The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
 TheseedofSeth! 
 
 Aholibamah. And dost thou think that we. 
 With Cain's, the eldest-born of Adam's, blood 
 Warm in our veins, — strong Cain ! wlvo was begotten 
 In Paradise, — would mingle with Seth's children? 
 Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage? 
 No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril! 
 Our race hath always dwelt apart from thine 
 From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 
 
 Japhet. I did not speak to thee, Aholibamah! 
 Too much of the forefather, whom thou vauntest. 
 Has come down in that haughty blood which springs 
 From him who shed the first, and that a brother's ! 
 But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine, 
 Albeit thou art not; 'tis a word I cannot 
 Part with, although I must from thee. My Anah ! 
 Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel 
 Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
 Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
 The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, 
 For all of them are fairest in their favour — 
 
 Aholibamah (interrupting him). 
 
 x\nd wouldst thou have her like our father's foe 
 In mind, in soul? If /partook thy thought, 
 And dream'd that aught of Abel was in her! — 
 Get thee hence, son of Noah; thou mak'st strife. 
 
 Japhet. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so! 
 
 Aholibamah. But 
 He slew not Seth ; and what hast thou to do 
 With other deeds between his God and him? [and 
 
 Japhet. Thouspeakest well: hisGodhath judged him, 
 I had not named his deed, but that thyself 
 Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
 From what he had done. 
 
 Aholibamah. He was our fathers' father; 
 The eldest-born of man, the strongest, bravest. 
 And most enduring: — Shall I blush for him. 
 From whom we had our being? Look upon 
 Our race; behold their stature and their beauty, 
 Their courage, strength, and length of days — 
 
 Japhet. They are numbcr'd — 
 
 Aholibamah. Beit so! butwhileyet their hours endure, 
 I glory in my brethren and our fathers ! 
 
 Japhet. My sire and race but glory in their God, 
 Anah! and thou? — 
 
404 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Anah, Whate'er onr God decrees, 
 The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey, 
 And will endeavour patiently to obey ; 
 But could I dare to pray in this dread hour 
 Of universal vengeance (if such should be). 
 It would not be to live, alone exempt 
 Ofail my house. My sister! Oh, my sister! 
 What were the world, or other worlds, or all 
 The brightest future without the sweet past — 
 Thy love — my father's — all the life, and all 
 Tlie things which sprang up with me, like the stars, 
 Making mj' dim existence radiant with 
 Soft lights which were not mine? Aholibamah! 
 Oh I if tliere should be mercy— seek it, find it: 
 I abhor death, because that thou must die. [ark, 
 
 Aholibamah. What! hath this dreamer, with his father's 
 The bugbear he hath built to scare the world. 
 Shaken mi/ sister? Are toe not the loved 
 Of seraphs? and if we were not, must we 
 Cling to a son of Noah for our lives? 
 Rather than thus — But the enthusiast dreams 
 The worst of dreams, the fantasies engender'd 
 By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
 Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm earth. 
 And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
 Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
 Have seen them wear on their eternal way? 
 Who shall do this? 
 
 Japhct. He, whose one word produced them. 
 
 Aholibamah. Who heard that word? 
 
 Japhet. The Universe, which leap'd 
 To life before it. Ah ! smilest thou still in scorn? 
 Turn to thy seraphs; if they attest it not, 
 They are none. 
 
 Samiasa. Aholibamah, own thy God! 
 
 Aholibamah. I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 
 As thine, and mine: a God of love, not sorrow. 
 
 Japhet. Alas! what else is love but sorrow? Even 
 He who made earth in love, had soon to grieve 
 Above its first and best inhabitants. 
 
 Aholibamah. 'Tis said so. 
 
 Japhet. It is even so. 
 
 Enter Noah and Sbm. 
 
 Noah. Japhet! What 
 Dost thou here with these children of the wicked? 
 Dreadst thou not to partake their coming doom? 
 
 Japhet. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
 To save an earth-born being; and behold, 
 These arc not of the sinful, since they have 
 The fellowship of angels. 
 
 Noah. These are they, then. 
 Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 
 From out the race of Cain ; the sons of Heaven, 
 Who seek Earth's daughters for their beauty? 
 
 Azaziel. Patriarch ! 
 Thou hast said it. 
 
 Noah. Woe, woe, woe to such communion! 
 Has not God made a barrier between Earth 
 And Heaven, and limited each, kind to kind? 
 
 Samiasa, Was not man made in high Jehovah's image? 
 
 Did God not love what he had made? And what 
 Do we but imitate and emulate 
 His love unto created love? 
 
 Noah. I am 
 But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 
 Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
 Has dcign'd to commune with me, and reveal 
 M* judgments, I reply, that the descent 
 Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
 Unto a perishable and perishing. 
 Even on the very eve oiperiihing, world, 
 Cannot be good. 
 
 Azaziel. What! though it were to save? 
 
 Noah. Not ye in all your glory can redeem 
 What He who made you glorious hath condemn'd. 
 Were your immortal mission safety, 'twould 
 Be general, not for two, though beautiful, 
 And beautiful they are, but not the less 
 Condemn'd. 
 
 Japhet. Oh father ! say it not. 
 
 Noah. Son ! son ! 
 If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
 That they exist; they soon shall cease to be, 
 While thou shalt be the sire of a new world. 
 And better. 
 
 Japhet. Let me die with this, and them! 
 
 Noah. Thou shouldst for such a thought, but shalt i 
 Who can, redeems thee. 
 
 Samiasa. And why him and thee. 
 More than what he, thy son, prefers to both? 
 
 Noah. Ask Him who made thee greater than myself 
 And mine, but not less subject to his own 
 Almightiness. Andio! his mildest and 
 Least to be tempted messenger appears! 
 
 Enter Raphael, the Archangel. 
 Raphael. Spirits I 
 
 Whose seat is near the throne, 
 Wiiat do ye here? 
 Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown 
 Now that the hour is near 
 When earth must be alone? 
 Return! 
 Adore and burn 
 In glorious homage with the elected "seven." 
 Your place is heaven. 
 Samiasa. Raphael! 
 The first and fairest of the .sons of God, 
 
 How long hath this been law. 
 That earth by angels must be left untrod ? 
 
 Earth! which oft saw 
 Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod ! 
 The world He loved, and made 
 For love; and oft have we obey'd 
 His frequent mission with delighted pinions. 
 
 Adoring Him in His least works display'd ; 
 Watching this youngest star of His dominions: 
 And, as the latest birth of His great word. 
 Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
 Why is thy brow severe? 
 And wherefore speakst thou of destruction near? 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 405 
 
 Rapluiel. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
 In tlieir true place, with the angelic choir, 
 Written in fire 
 They would have seen 
 Jehovah's late decree. 
 And not inquired their Maker's breath of me: 
 But ignorance must ever be 
 A part of sin ; 
 And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 
 
 As they wax proud within; 
 For Blindness is the first-born of Excess. 
 
 When all good angels left the world, ye stay'd. 
 Stung with strange passions, and debased 
 
 By mortal feelings for a mortal maid; 
 But ye are pardon'd thus far, and replaced 
 With your pure equals: Hence! away! away! 
 Or stay. 
 And lose eternity by that delay ! 
 Azaziel. And Thou! if earth be thus forbidden 
 In the decree 
 To us until this moment hidden, 
 Dost thou not err as we 
 In being here? 
 Raphael. I came to call ye back to your fit sphere, 
 In the great name and at the word of God ! 
 IDear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 
 frhat which I came to do: till now we trod 
 Together the eternal space; together 
 JLct us still walk the stars. True, Earth must die! 
 Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 
 lAnd much which she inherits; but oh ! why 
 Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd. 
 Without involving ever some vast void 
 In the immortal ranks? immortal still 
 
 In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
 Our brother Satan fell; his burning will 
 ' Rather than longer worship dared endure! 
 
 But ye who still are pure! 
 »ci aplis ! less mighty than that mightiest one, 
 
 Think how he was undone! 
 Uul think if tempting man can compensate 
 For heaven desired too late? 
 
 Long have I warr'd, 
 Long must I war 
 With him who deem'd it hard 
 To be created, and to acknowledge Him 
 Who 'midst the cherubim 
 lade him as suns to a dependant star, 
 leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 
 I loved him — beautiful he was : oh Heaven ! 
 ave His who made, what beauty and what power 
 Vas ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 
 lu which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 
 'lie wish is impious: but oh ye! 
 ct undcstroy'd, be warn'd ! Eternity 
 With him, or with his God, is in your choice: 
 fe hath not tempted you, he cannot tempt 
 lie angels, from his further snares exempt ; 
 But man hath listen'd to his voice, 
 nd ye to woman's — beautiful she is, 
 lie serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
 
 The snake but vanquish'd dust; but she will draw 
 A second host from heaven, to break Heaven's law. 
 Yet, yet, oh fly ! 
 Ye cannot die; 
 But they 
 Shall pass away, 
 While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky 
 
 For perishable clay, 
 Whose memory in your immortality 
 
 Shall long outlast the sun which gave them day. 
 Think how your essence difiereth from theirs 
 In all but suffering ! Why partake 
 The agony to which they must be heirs — 
 Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with cares, 
 And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil ? 
 Even had their days been left to toil their path 
 Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wratli, 
 Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. 
 
 Aholibamah. Let them fly ! 
 I hear the voice which says that all must die 
 Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died; 
 And -that on high 
 An ocean is prepared, 
 While from below 
 The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 
 
 Few shall be spared, 
 It seems; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
 Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
 Sister ! since it is so, 
 And the eternal Lord 
 I« vain would be implored 
 For the remission of one hour of woe, 
 Let us resign even what we have adored. 
 And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword. 
 
 If not unmoved, yet undismay'd. 
 And wailing less for us than those who shall 
 Survive in mortal or immortal thrall. 
 
 And, w hen the fatal waters are allay'd, 
 Weep for the myriads w ho can weep no more. 
 Fly, Seraphs! to your own eternal shore, 
 Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
 Our portion is to die, 
 And yours to live for ever; 
 But which is best, a dead eternity. 
 Or living, is but known to the great Giver: 
 Obey him, as we shall obey; 
 I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
 An hour beyond His will; 
 Nor see ye lose a portion of His grace, 
 For all the mercy which Seth's race 
 Find still. 
 Fly! 
 And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven, 
 Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, 
 
 Samiasa! 
 And if I look up with a tearless eye, 
 
 'Tis that an angel's bride disdains to weep. 
 Farewell ! Now rise, inexorable deep ! 
 Anah. And must we die? 
 
 And must I lose thee too, 
 Azaziel? 
 
406 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Oh, my heart! my heart! 
 
 Thy prophecies were true! 
 And yet tliou vvert so happy too ! 
 The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new; 
 But yet depart ! 
 Ah, why? 
 Yet let me not retain thee — tly I 
 My pangs can be but brief; but thine would be 
 Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
 
 Too much already hast thou deign'd 
 To one of Adam's race! 
 Our doom is sorrow ; not to us alone, 
 But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
 To love us, cometh anguish with disgrace. 
 The first who taught us knowledge hath been hurl'd 
 From his once archangelic throne 
 Into some unknown world: 
 And thou, Azaziel ! No — 
 Thou shalt not suffer woe 
 Forme. Away! nor weep! 
 
 Thou canst not weep; but yet 
 Mayst suffer more, not weeping: then forget 
 Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling deep 
 - Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
 Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 
 Japhet. Oh say not so ! 
 
 Father ! and thou, archangel, thou! 
 Surely celestial mercy lurks below 
 That pure severe serenity of brow : 
 
 Let them not meet this sea without a shore, 
 Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 
 
 Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace! 
 If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 
 
 Do God no wrong ! 
 Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
 A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 
 
 Cease, or be sorrowful in silence; cease 
 To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint. 
 Wouldst thou have God commit a sin for thee? 
 Such would it be 
 To alter his intent 
 For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
 And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 
 Japhet. Ay, father! but when they are gone, 
 And we are all alone, 
 Floating upon the azure desert, and 
 
 The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 
 And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 
 Buried in its immeasurable breast. 
 Who, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then command? 
 Can we in desolation's peace have rest? 
 Oh God ! be thou a God, and spare 
 Yet while 'tis time! 
 Renew not Adam's fall: 
 
 Mankind were then but twain, 
 But they are numerous now as are the waves 
 
 And the tremendous rain. 
 Whose drops shall be less thick than would their graves, 
 Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 
 Noah. Sileuei". vain boy! each word of thine's a crime! 
 Angell forgive this stripling's fond despair. 
 
 Raphael.Scraphsl these mortals speak in passion: Y 
 Who are, or should be, passionless and pure. 
 May now return with me. 
 Samiasa. It may not be : 
 We have chosen, and will endure. 
 Raphael, Saystthou? 
 Azaziel. He hath said it, and I say. Amen! 
 Raphael. Again! 
 Then from this hour. 
 Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 
 And aliens from your God, 
 Farewell! 
 Japhet. Alas! where shall they dwell? 
 Hark! hark! Deep sounds, and deeper still. 
 Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 
 There's not a breath of wind upon the hill. 
 
 Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom: 
 Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 
 
 Noah. Hark ! hark ! the sea-birds cry ! 
 In clouds they overspread the lurid sky 
 And hover round the mountain, where before 
 Never a white wing, wetted by the wave, 
 
 Yet dared to soar, 
 Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. 
 Soon it shall be their only shore, 
 And then, no more! 
 Japhet, The sun! the sun! 
 He riseth, but his better light is gone; 
 And a black circle, bound 
 
 His glaring disk around. 
 Proclaims earth's last of summer-days hath shone! 
 The clouds return into the hues of night, 
 Save where their brazen-colour'd edges streak 
 The verge where brighter morns were wont to br 
 Noah. Andlo! yon flash of light, 
 The distant thunder's harbinger, appears ! 
 
 It cometh ! hence, away ! 
 Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
 Hence to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears 
 Its safe and wreckless sides ! 
 Japhet. Oh, father, stay ! 
 Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides ! 
 
 Noah. Must we not leave all life to such? Begone ! 
 Japhet. Not I. 
 Noah, Then die 
 
 With them ! 
 How darest thou look on that prophetic sky, 
 And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
 In overwhelming unison 
 
 With just Jeiiovah's wrath? 
 Japhet, Can rage and justice join in the same path 
 Noah, Blasphemer! darest thou murmur even noiifj 
 Raphael, Patriarch, be still a father ! smooth thy bfi( 
 Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink; 
 He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 
 
 With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters; 
 But be, when passion passcth, good as thou. 
 
 Nor perish like Heaven's children with Man's daog 
 
 ters. 
 Aholibamah, The tempest cometh; heaven and eai 
 For the annihilation of all life. [ 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 407 
 
 Unequal is the strife 
 Between our strength and tlic eternal might! 
 
 Samiasa. But ours is with thee: we will bear yc far 
 To some untroubled star, 
 Where thou and Anah shall partake our lot. 
 
 And if tiiou dost not weep for thy lost earth, 
 Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 
 
 Anah. Oh! my dear father's tents, my place of birth ! 
 And mountains, land, and woods, when ye are not. 
 Who shall dry up my tears? 
 Azaziel. Thy spirit-lord. 
 I Fear not; though we are shut from heaven, 
 Yet much is ours, whence we cannot be driven. 
 
 Raphael. Rebel ! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds 
 iShall henceforth be but weak : the flaming sword, 
 IWIiich chased the first-born out of Paradise, 
 {Still flaslies in the angelic hands. 
 
 I Azaziel. It cannot slay us : threaten dust with death, 
 lAnd talk of weapons unto that which bleeds ! 
 jWhat are thy swords in our immortal eyes ? 
 
 Raphael The moment cometh to approve thy strength ; 
 And learn at length 
 
 How vain to war with what thy God commands: 
 Thy former force was in thy faith. 
 
 Enter Mortals, flying for refuge. 
 j Chorns of Mortals. 
 
 IJrhe heavens and earth are mingling — God I oh God ! 
 Iphat have we done ? Yet spare ! 
 'flark ! even the forest-beasts howl forth their prayer! 
 The dragon crawls from out his den, 
 To herd in terror innocent with men ; 
 ,uid the birds scream their agony through air. 
 fcf, yet, Jehovah! yet withdraw thy rod 
 )f wrath, and pity thine own world's despair! 
 lear not man only but all nature plead ! [♦''*}' 
 
 Raphael. Farewell, thou earth! ye wretched sons of 
 cannot, must not aid you. 'Tis decreed! [Exit Raphael. 
 Japhet. Some clouds sweep on, as vultures for their prey, 
 Vhile others, fix'd as rocks, await the word 
 t wliich their wrathful vials shall be pour'd, 
 
 azure more shall robe the firmament, 
 
 or spangled stars be glorious: Death hath risen : 
 
 1 file Sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
 atli wound itself around the dying air. 
 
 Azaziel. Come, Anah! quit this chaos-founded prison, 
 which the elements again repair, 
 turn it into what it was: beneath 
 tic shelter of these wings thou shalt be safe, 
 s was the eagle's nestling once within 
 5 mother's. — Let the coming chaos chafe 
 ith all its elements ! Heed not their din ! 
 brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe 
 hereal life, will we explore: 
 >cse darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 
 
 [Azaziel and Samiasafly off, and disappear with Anah and Aholibamali. 
 
 Japhet. They are gone! They have disappear'd amidst 
 tlie forsaken world; and never more, [the roar 
 
 hcther they live, or die with all earth's life, 
 
 >w near its last, can aught restore 
 
 lah unto these eyes. 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 Oh son of Noah! mercy on thy kind! 
 
 What, wilt thou leave us all — all — a// behind? 
 
 While safe amidst the elemental strife, 
 
 Thou sitst within thy guarded ark ? 
 
 A Mortal (offering her infant to Japhet). 
 
 Oh let this child embark ! 
 I brought him forth in woe. 
 
 But thought it joy 
 To see him to my bosom dinging so. 
 
 Why was he born? 
 
 What hath he done — 
 
 My unwean'd son — 
 To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn? 
 What is there in this milk of mine, that Death 
 Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 
 
 My boy, 
 And roll the waters o'er his placid breath? 
 Save him, thou seed of Seth ! 
 Or cursed be — with Him who made 
 Thee and thy race, for wliich we are betray'd ! 
 
 Japhet. Peace! 'tis no hour for curses, but for prayer! 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 For prayer! ! ! 
 And where 
 Shall prayer ascend. 
 When theswoln clouds unto the mountains bend 
 
 And burst. 
 And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 
 
 Until the very deserts know no thirst? 
 Accursed 
 Be He, who made thee and thy sir* 
 We deem our curses vain; we must expire; 
 
 But, as we know the worst, 
 Why should our hymn be raised, our knees be bent 
 Before the implacable Omnipotent, 
 Since we must fall the same? 
 If He hath made earth, let it be His shame. 
 
 To make a world for torture. — Lo ! they come, 
 
 The loathsome waters in their rage ! 
 And with their roar make wholesome nature dumb ! 
 
 The forest's trees (coeval with the hour 
 When Paradise upsprung. 
 
 Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 
 Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung). 
 
 So massy, vast, yet green in their old age. 
 
 Are overtopp'd, 
 Their summer-blossoms by the surges lopp'd, 
 
 Which rise, and rise, and rise. 
 Vainly we look up to the lowering skies — 
 
 They meet the seas. 
 And shut out God from our beseeching eyes. 
 
 Fly, son of Noah, fly, and take thine ease 
 
 In thine allotted ocean-tent; 
 And view, all floating o'er the clement. 
 The corpses of the world of thy young days: 
 Then to Jehovah raise 
 Thy song of praise! 
 
 A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 
 Who die in the Lord J 
 
408 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 And though the waters be o'er earth outspread^ 
 Yet, as His word, 
 Be the decree adored! 
 He gave me life — He taketh but 
 The breath which is His own : 
 And though these eyes should be for ever shut. 
 Nor longer this weak voice before His throne 
 Be heard in supplicating tone, 
 Still blessed be the Lord, 
 For what is past, 
 
 For that which is : 
 For all are His, 
 From first to last — 
 Time — space — eternity — life — death — 
 
 The vast known and immeasurable unknown. 
 He made, and can unmake; 
 
 And shall /, for a little gasp of breath, 
 Blaspheme and groan? 
 
 No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith. 
 Nor quiver, though the universe may quake! 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 Where shall we fly? 
 Not to the mountains high ; 
 For now their torrents rush with double roar, 
 To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 
 Already grasps each drowning hill, 
 Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 
 
 Enter a Woman. 
 
 Woman. Oh, save me, save! 
 Our valley is no more : 
 My father and my father's tent, 
 My brethren and my brethren's herds. 
 The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent 
 And sent forth evening-songs from sweetest birds. 
 The little rivulet which freshen'd all 
 Our pastures green. 
 No more are to be seen. 
 When to the mountain-clifll climb'd this morn, 
 
 I turn'd to bless the spot, 
 And not a leaf appear'd about to fall ; — 
 
 And now they are not ! 
 Why was I born? 
 
 Japhet. To die ! in youth to die; 
 And happier in that doom. 
 Than to behold the universal tomb 
 Which I 
 
 Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain : 
 Why, when all perish, why must I remain ? 
 
 [The Waters rise: Men fly in every direction; ma 
 are overtaken by the waves; the Chorus of Mori 
 disperses in search of safety up the Mountaii 
 Japhet remains upon a rock , vihile the Ark flo 
 towards him in the distance. 
 
409 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI, 
 
 AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 
 
 Tlie father softens, but tlie governor 's resolved. — Ckitic. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
 Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge, 
 James Loredano, a Patrician. 
 Marco Memmo, a Chief of the Forty. 
 Barbarigo, a Senator. 
 
 Other Senators, the Council of Ten, Guards, Attend- 
 ants, etc. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Marina, Wife of young Foscari. 
 
 Scene — the Ducal Palace, Venice. 
 
 A C T I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hall in tbe Uucul Palace. 
 Enter LoKKUANO and B*ri!Arigo, meeting. 
 
 Loredano, Where is the prisoner? 
 
 Barbarigo. Reposing from 
 The question. 
 
 Loved. The hour's past — fix'd yesterday 
 For tlic resumption of his trial. — Let us 
 Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
 Urge his recall. 
 
 Barb. Nay, let him profit by 
 A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs; 
 He was o'erwrought by the question yesterday, 
 And may die under it if now repeated. 
 
 Lored. Well? 
 
 Barb, I yield not to you in love of justice, 
 Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
 Father and son, and all their noxious race; 
 But the poor wretch has sufler'd beyond nature's 
 Most stoical endurance. 
 
 Lored, Without owning 
 His crime. 
 
 Barb. Perhaps without committing any. 
 But he avow'd the letter to tlie Duke 
 Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
 Such weakness. 
 
 Lored. We shall see. 
 
 Barb. You, Loredano, 
 Pursue hereditary hate too far. 
 
 Lored. How far? 
 
 Barb. To extermination. 
 
 Lored, When they are 
 Extinct, you may say this. — Let's in to council. 
 
 Barb, Yet pause — the number of our colleagues 
 is not 
 Complete yet; two are wanting ere we can 
 Proceed. 
 
 Lored, And the chief judge, the Doge? 
 
 Barb. No — he 
 With more than Roman fortitude is ever 
 First at the board in this unhappy process 
 Against his last and only son. 
 
 Lored. True — true — 
 His last. 
 
 Barb. Will nothing move you? 
 
 Lored. Feels he, think you? 
 
 Barb. He shows it not. 
 
 Lored. I have mark'd that — the wretch! 
 
 Barb, But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
 To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold 
 The old man fainted. 
 
 Lored. It begins to work, then. 
 
 Barb. The work is half your own. 
 
 Lored. And should be all mine — 
 My fatiier and my uncle are no more. 
 
 Barb. I have read their epitaph, which says they died 
 By poison. 
 
 Lored. When the Doge declared that he 
 Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
 
410 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 ACT 
 
 The deatlj of Peter Loredano, both 
 
 The brothers sioken'd shortly : — he w sovereign. 
 
 Barb. A wretched one, 
 
 Lored. What should they be who make 
 Orphans? 
 
 Barb. But did the Doge make you so? 
 
 Lored. Yes. 
 
 Barb. What solid proofs? 
 
 Lored. When princes set themselves 
 To work in secret, proofs and process are 
 Alike made difficult; but I have such 
 Of the first, as shall make tlie second needless. 
 
 Barb. But you will move by law? 
 
 Lored. By all the laws 
 Which he would leave us. 
 
 Barb. They are such in this 
 Our state as render retribution easier 
 Than 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
 That you have written in your books of commerce 
 (The wealthy practise of our highest nobles), 
 "Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
 Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
 My sire and uncle ?" 
 
 Lored. It is written tiius. 
 
 Barb. And will you leave it unerased? 
 
 Lored. Till balanced. 
 
 Barb. And how ? 
 
 (Two Senators pass over the stage, a in their way to 
 "the Hall of the Council of Ten." 
 
 Lored. You see the number is complete. 
 
 Follow me. [Exit Loredano. 
 
 Barb, (solus). Follow thee ! I have followed long 
 Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
 Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
 The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and wretch 
 Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
 The waters through them : but this son and sire 
 Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
 Must I on hardily like them — Oh ! would 
 I could as blindly and remorselessly! — 
 Lo, where he comes ! — Be still, my heart ! they are 
 Thy foes, must be thy victims : wilt thou beat 
 For those who almost broke thee? 
 
 Enter Guards, with young Foscari as prisoner. 
 
 Guard. Let him rest. 
 Signor, take time. 
 
 J. Foscari. I thank thee, friend, I'm feeble; 
 But thou may.st stand reproved. 
 
 Guard. I'll stand the hazard. [mercy ; 
 
 J. Foscari, That's kind : — I meet some pity, but no 
 This is the first. 
 
 Guard. And might be last, did they 
 Who rule behold us. 
 
 Barb, (advancing to the Gnard) There is one who does : 
 Yet fear not ; I will neither be thy judge 
 Nor thy accuser; though the hour is past, 
 Wait their last summons — I am of "the Ten," 
 And waiting for that summons sanction you 
 Even by my presence: when the last call sounds, 
 We'll in together. — Look well to the prisoner ! 
 
 J. Foscari. What voice is that ? — 'tis Barbarigo'i 
 Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. [Al 
 
 Barb. To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
 Thy father sits amongst tl»y judges. 
 
 J. Foscari. True, 
 He judges. 
 
 Barb. Then deem not the laws too harsh 
 Which yield so much indulgence to a sire 
 As to allow his voice in such high matter 
 As the state's safety — 
 
 J. Foscari. And his son's. I'm faint; 
 Let me approach, I pray you, for a breatii 
 Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the waters. 
 
 Enter an Officer, who whispers Bakbakigo. 
 
 Barb, (to the Guard) Let him approach. I must not speaj 
 with him 
 Further than thus; I have transgres.s'd my duty 
 In tills brief parley, and must now redeem it 
 Within the Council-Chamber, [lixit Barbari^ 
 
 [Guard conducting Jacopo Foscari to the windo 
 
 Guard. There sir, 'tis 
 Open — How feel you? 
 
 J. Foscari. Like a boy — Oil Venice! 
 
 Guard. And your limbs? 
 
 J. Foscari. Limbs! how often have they borne me 
 Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I liave skimm'd 
 The gondola along in childish race, 
 And, raasqued as a young gondolier, amidst 
 My gay competitors, noble as I, 
 Raced for our pleasure in the pride of strength, 
 While the fair populace of crowding beauties. 
 Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on 
 With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible, 
 And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands. 
 Even to the goal! — How many a time have I 
 Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring, 
 Tlie wave all rouglien'd; with a swimmer's stroke 
 Flinging tlie billows back from my drencli'd hair. 
 And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, 
 Wliich kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 
 The waves as they arose, and prouder still 
 The loftier they uplifted me; and oft, 
 In wantonness of spirit, plunging down 
 Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 
 My way to shells and sea- weed, all unseen 
 By those above, till they wax'd fearful; then 
 Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 
 As show'd that I had search'd the deep; exulting, 
 With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 
 The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd 
 The foam which broke around me, and pursued 
 My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then. 
 
 Guard. Be a man now: there never was more need 
 Of manhood's strength. 
 
 J. Foscari (looking from the lattice). My beautiful, my ow. 
 My only Venice — this is breath! Thy breeze, 
 Tiiine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face! 
 Tliy very winds feel native to my veins. 
 And cool them into calmness! How unlike 
 The hot gales of the horrid Cyeladcs, 
 
iCT I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 411 
 
 Which howi'd about my Candiote dungeon, and 
 Made my heart sick. 
 
 Guard. I see tlie colour comes 
 Back to your check : Heaven send you strengtli to bear 
 What more may be imposed ! — 1 dread to think on't. 
 
 J. Foscari. They will not banish me again? — No — 
 Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. [no, 
 
 Guard. Confess, 
 And the rack will be spared yoa. 
 
 J. Foscari. I confess'd 
 Once — twice before: both times they exiled me. 
 
 Guard. And the third time will slay you. 
 
 J. Foscari. Let them do so. 
 So I be buried in my birth-place; better 
 Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 
 
 Guard. And can you so much love the soil whinh 
 hates you? 
 
 J. Foscari. The soil ! — Oh no, it is the seed of the soil 
 Which persecutes me; but my native earth 
 Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
 [ ask no more than a Venetian grave, 
 A dungeon, what they will, so it be here. 
 
 Enter srn Officer. 
 
 Officer. Bring in the prisoner ! 
 Guard. Signor, you hear the order. 
 J. Foscari. Ay, I am used to such a summons; .'tis 
 The third time they have tortured me : — then lend me 
 
 Thine arm. [To the Gaard. 
 
 Officer. Take mine, sir; 'tis my duty to 
 Be nearest to your person. 
 
 J. Foscari, You ! — you are he 
 Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
 Away! — I'll walk alone. 
 
 Officer. As you please, signor; 
 The sentence was not of my signing, but 
 [ dared not disobey the Council when 
 They — 
 
 J. Foscari. Badethee stretch meon their horrid engine. 
 [ pray thee touch me not — that is, just now ; 
 The time will come they will renew that order, 
 Bat keep off from me till 'tis issued. As 
 ( look upon thy hands my curdling limbs 
 Quiver with the anticipated wrenching, 
 \nd the cold drops strain through my brow as if — 
 But onward — I have borne it — I can bear it. — 
 3ow looks my father? 
 
 Officer. With his wonted aspect. 
 
 J. Foscari So does the earth, and sky, the blue of 
 ocean, 
 riie brightness of our city, and her domes, 
 The mirth of her Piazza — even now 
 Its merry hum of nations pierces here, 
 Bven here, into these chambers of the unknown 
 VVho govern, and the unknown and the unnumber'd 
 ludgcd and destroy'd in silence, — all things wear 
 The self-same aspect, to my very sire! 
 Vothing can sympathize with Foscari, 
 Vot even a Foscari. — Sir, I attend you. 
 
 [Exeunt Jacopo Foscari, Olficer, etc 
 
 Enter Mzmmo and another Senator. 
 
 Memmo. He's gone — we are too late: — tliink you 
 Will sit for any length of time to-day ? [the Ten 
 
 Senator. They say the prisoner is most obdurate, 
 Persisting in his first avowal; but 
 More I know not. 
 
 Memmo. And that is much ; the secrets 
 Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
 From us, the premier nobles of the state, 
 As from the people. 
 
 Senator. Save the wonted rumours. 
 Which (like the tales of spectres that are rife 
 Near ruin'd buildings) never have been proved, 
 Nor wholly disbelieved: men know as little 
 Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
 Unfathom'd mysteries. 
 
 Memmo. But with length of time 
 We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
 Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 
 
 Senator, Or Doge? 
 
 Memmo. Why, no; not if I can avoid it. 
 
 Senator. 'Tis the first station of the state, and may 
 Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
 Attain'd by noble aspirants. 
 
 Memmo. To such 
 I leave it; though born noble, my ambition 
 Is limited : I'd rather be an unit 
 Of an united and imperial Ten, 
 Than shine a lonely, though a gilded, cipher. — 
 Whom have we here? the wife of Foscari? 
 
 Enter Marina, with a female Attendant. 
 
 Marina. What, no one? — I am wrong, there still are 
 But they are senators, [two ; 
 
 Memmo. Most noble lady. 
 Command us. 
 
 Marina, I command! — Alas ! my life 
 Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 
 
 Memmo. I understand thee, but I must not answer. 
 
 Marina (fiercely). True — none dare answer here save 
 Or question save those — [on the rack, 
 
 i>/emwo (interrupting her). High-born dame! bethink thee 
 Where thou now art. 
 
 Marina. Where I now am ! — It was 
 My husband's father's palace. 
 
 Memmo. The Duke's palace. [it; 
 
 Marina. And his son's prison ; — true, I have not forgot 
 And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
 Remembrances, would thank the illustrious Memmo 
 For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 
 
 Memmo. Be calm ! 
 
 Marina (looking up towards heaven). I am! but oh, thou 
 eternal God! 
 Canst thou continue so, with such a world? 
 
 iWemwo. Thy husband yet may be absolved. 
 
 Marina. He is. 
 In heaven. I pray you, signor senator, 
 Speak not of that ; you are a man of office. 
 So is the Doge: he has a son at stake, 
 Now, at this moment, and I have a husband. 
 Or had: they are there within, or were at least 
 
412 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 An hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit: 
 Will he condemn liim ? 
 
 Memmo, I trust, not, 
 
 Marina. But if 
 He does not, there are those will sentence both. 
 
 Memmo. They can. 
 
 Marina. And with tliem power and will are one 
 In wickedness : — my husband's lost ! 
 
 Memmo. Not so; 
 Justice is judge in Venice. 
 
 Marina. Ifitwereso, 
 There now would be no Venice. But let it 
 Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
 Of nature's summons; but the Ten's is quicker 
 And we must wait on't. Ah ! a voice of wail ! 
 
 [A faint cry witliin. 
 
 Sdnator, Hark! - • 
 
 Memmo. 'Twasacryof — 
 
 Marina. No, no ; not my husband's — 
 Not Foscari's. 
 
 Memmo. The voice was — 
 
 Marina. Not his : no. 
 He shriek ! No; that should be his father's part, 
 Not his — not his — he'll die in silence. 
 
 [A faint groan again witliin. 
 
 Memmo. What! 
 Again ? 
 
 Marina. His voice ! it seem'd so : I will not 
 Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
 To love; but — no — no — no — it must have been 
 A fearful pang which wrung a groan from him. [thou 
 
 Senator. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, wouldst 
 Have him bear more than mortal pain in silence? 
 
 Marina. We all must bear our tortures. I have not 
 Left barren the great house of Foscari, 
 Though they sweep both the Doge and son from life ; 
 I have endured as much in giving life 
 To those who will succeed them as they can 
 In leaving it: but mine were joyful pangs; 
 And yet they wrung me till I could have shriek'd, 
 But did not ; for my hope was to bring forth 
 Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears. 
 
 Memmo. All's silent now. 
 
 Marina. Perhaps all's over, but 
 I will not deem it ; he hath nerved himself, 
 And now defies them. 
 
 Enter an Officer hastily. 
 
 Memmo. How now, friend, what seek you ! 
 Officer. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 
 
 [Kxit Officer. 
 
 Memmo. Lady, 
 'Twerc better to retire. 
 
 Senator (offering to assist her). I pray thee do so. 
 
 Marina. Off I / will tend him. 
 
 Memmo. You! Remember, lady ! 
 Ingress is given to none within those chambers. 
 Except the Ten, and their familiars. 
 
 Marina. Well, 
 I know that none who enter there return 
 
 As they have enter'd — many never ; but 
 They shall not balk my entrance. 
 
 Memmo. Alas ! tiiis 
 Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse. 
 And worse suspense. 
 
 Marina. Who shall oppose me? 
 
 Memmo. They 
 Whose duty 'tis to do so 
 
 Marina. 'Tis their duty 
 To trample on all human feelings, all 
 Ties whicii bind man to man, to emulate 
 The fiends, who will one day requite them in 
 Variety of torturing! Yet I'll pass. 
 
 Memmo. It is impossible. 
 
 Marina. That shall be tried. 
 Despair defies even despotism : there is 
 That in my heart would make its way through hosts 
 With levell'd spears; and think you a few jailors 
 Shall put me from my path? Give me, then, way; 
 This is the Doge's palace; I am wife 
 Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son. 
 And they shall hear this! 
 
 Memmo. It will only serve 
 More to exasperate his judges. 
 
 3Iarina. What 
 \Te judges who give way to anger? they 
 Who do so are assassins. Give me way. [ExitMaviui 
 
 Senator. Poor lady ! 
 
 Memmo. 'Tis mere desperation; she 
 Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. . 
 
 Senator. And, 
 Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
 But see, the officer returns. 
 
 [The oflicer passes over tlie stage with anotlier persoi 
 
 Memmo. I hardly 
 Thought tlxat the Ten had even this touch of pity. 
 Or would permit assistance to this sufferer. 
 
 Senator. Pity ! Is 't pity to recall tofeeling 
 The wretch too happy to escape to death 
 By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 
 Resource against the tyranny of pain? 
 
 Memmo. 1 marvel they condemn him not at once. 
 
 Senator. That's not their policy; they'd have him liv( 
 Because he fears not death ; and banish him, 
 Because all earth, except his native land. 
 To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
 Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison. 
 Consuming but not killing. 
 
 Memmo. Circumstance 
 Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. [written 
 
 Senator. None, save the letter, which he says wa 
 Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 
 That it would fall into the senate's hands. 
 And thus he should be re-convey'd to Venice. 
 
 Memmo. But as a culprit. 
 
 Senator. Yes, but to his country: 
 And that was all he sought, so he avouches. 
 
 3Iemmo. The accusation of the bribes was proved. 
 
 Senator. Not clearly, and tiie charge of homicide 
 Has been aunull'd by the death-bed confession 
 
 I 
 
CT I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 413 
 
 )f Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 
 JhiefofthcTcn. 
 
 Memmo. Then why not clear him ? 
 
 Senator. That 
 'hey ought to answer; for it is well known 
 'hat Almoro Donate, as I said, 
 Vas slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. [than 
 
 Memmo, Tliere must be more in this strange process 
 'he apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
 >ut here come two of the Ten : let us retire. 
 
 [Exeunt Memmo and Senator. 
 Enter Lokeuano and Barbarigo. 
 
 Barb, (addressing Loredano). That were too much : believe 
 
 me, 'twas not meet 
 'he trial should go further at this moment. 
 ! Lored. And so theCouncH must break up, and Justice 
 'ause in her full career, because a woman 
 reaks in on our deliberations? 
 Bark. No, 
 
 hat's not the cause; you saw the prisoner's state. 
 Lored. And had he not recover'd ? 
 Barb. To relapse 
 ■pon the least renewal. 
 Lored. 'Twas not tried. 
 Barb. 'Tis vain to murmur; the majority 
 |i council were against you. 
 Lored. Thanks to you, sir, 
 nd the old ducal dotard, who combined 
 he worthy voices which o'erruled my own. 
 Barb. I am a judge; but must confess that part 
 four stern duty, which prescribes tliC question, 
 nd bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 
 iLakes mc wish — 
 Lored. What? 
 
 Barb. That you would sometimes feel, 
 si do always. 
 
 Lored Go to, you're a child, 
 lifirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
 bout by every breath, shook by a sigh, 
 nd melted by a tear — a precious judge 
 3r Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 
 e partner in my policy ! 
 Barb. He shed 
 tears. 
 
 Lored. He cried out twice. 
 \Barb. A saint had done so, 
 ven with the crown of glory in his eye, 
 tsuch inhuman artifice of pain 
 s was forced on him : but he did not cry 
 )r pity; not a word nor groan escaped him, 
 
 And those two shrieks were not in supplication, 
 But wrung from pangs, and follow'd by no prayers. 
 
 Lored. He mutter'd many times between his teeth, 
 But inarticulately. 
 
 Barb. That I hca/d not; 
 You stood more near him. 
 
 Lored. I did so. 
 
 Barb. Methought, 
 To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy, 
 And were the first to call out for assistance ^ 
 
 When he was failing. 
 
 Lored. I believed that swoon 
 His last. 
 
 Barb. And have I not oft heard thee name 
 His and his father's death your nearest wish? 
 
 Lored. If he dies innocent, that is to say. 
 With his guilt unavow'd, he'll be lamented. 
 
 Barb. What, wouldst thou slay his memory? 
 
 Lored. Wouldst thou have 
 His state descend to his children, as it must. 
 If he die unattainted? 
 
 Barb. War with them too? [nothing. 
 
 Lored. With all their house, till theirs or mine are 
 
 Barb. And the deep agony of his pale wife, 
 And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
 And princely brow of his old father, which 
 Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though rarely, 
 Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
 In stern serenity; these moved you not? [Exit Loredano 
 He's silent in his hate, as Foscari 
 Was in his suffering; and the poor wretch moved me 
 More by his silence than a thousand outcries 
 Could have effected. 'Twas a dreadful sight 
 When his distracted wife broke through into 
 The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 
 What we could scarcely look upon, long used 
 To such sights. I must think no more of this, 
 Lest I forget in this compassion for 
 Our foes their former injuries, and lose 
 The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 
 For him and me; but mine would be content 
 With lesser retribution than he thirsts for. 
 And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 
 To milder thoughts; but, for the present, Foscari 
 Has a short hourly respite, granted at 
 The instance of the elders of the Council, 
 Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 
 The hall, and his own sufl'erings. — Lo! they come: 
 How l^ble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 
 To look'on them again in this extremity : 
 I'll hence, and try to soften Loredano. [Exit Barbarigo. 
 
414 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hall in the Doge's Palace. 
 The Doge and a Senator. 
 
 Senator. Is it your pleasure to sign the report 
 Now, or postpone it till to-morrow ? 
 
 Doge. Now; 
 I overlook'd it yesterday : it wants 
 Merely the signature. Give me the pen — 
 
 [The Doge sits down and signs the paper. 
 
 There, signor. [sigii'd. 
 
 Senator [looking at the paper). You have forgot; it is not 
 Doge. Notsign'd? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 
 
 To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
 
 That I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 
 
 Senator (dipping the pen into the ink, and placing the paper before 
 
 the Doge). Your hand, too, shakes, my lord : 
 allow me, thus — 
 
 Doge. 'Tis done, I thank you. 
 
 Senator. Thus the act confirm'd 
 By you and by the Ten, gives peace to Venice. 
 
 Doge. 'Tis long since she enjoy'd it : may it be 
 As long ere she resume her arms ! 
 
 Senator. 'Tis almost 
 Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 
 With the Turk, or the powers of Italy; 
 The state had need of some repose. 
 
 Doge. No doubt : 
 I found her Queen of Ocean, and I leave her 
 Lady of Lombardy : it is a comfort 
 That I have added to her diadem 
 The gems of Brescia and Ravenna; Crema 
 And Bergamo no less are hers ; her realm 
 By land has grown by thus much in my reign. 
 While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 
 
 Senator. 'Tis most true, 
 And merits all our country's gratitude. 
 
 Doge. Perhaps so. 
 
 Senator. Which should be made manifest. 
 
 Doge. I have not complain'd, sir. 
 
 Senator. My good lord, forgive me. 
 
 Doge. For what? • 
 
 Senator. My heart bleeds for you. 
 
 Doge. For me, signor ? 
 
 Senator. And for your — 
 
 Doge. Stop! 
 
 Senator. It must have way, my lord ! 
 I have too many duties towards you 
 And all your house, for past and present kindness, 
 Not to feel deeply for your son. 
 
 Doge, Was this 
 in your commission ? 
 
 Senator. What, my lord? 
 
 Doge. This prattle 
 
 Of things you know not: but the treaty's signed; 
 Return with it to them who sent you. 
 
 Senator. I obey. I had in charge, too, from theCotin^ 
 That you would fix an hour for their re-union. 
 
 Doge. Say, when they will — now, even at this rnomcnl 
 If it so please them: I am the state's servant, [repostj 
 
 Senator. They would accord some time for youl 
 
 Doge. I have no repose, that is, none which sha 
 The loss of an hour's time unto the state. [causi 
 
 Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 
 Where I should be, and what I have been ever 
 
 [Exit Senatcj 
 [The Doge remains in silenq 
 
 Enter an Attendant 
 Attendant. Prince! 
 Doge, Say on. 
 Attendant, The illustrious lady Foscari 
 Requests an audience. 
 
 Doge. Bid her enter. Poor 
 Marina ! [Exit Atten.^i 
 
 [The Doge remains in silence as befoii 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 
 Marina. I have ventured, father, on 
 Your privacy. 
 
 Doge. I have none from you, my child. 
 Command my time, when not commanded by 
 The state. 
 
 Marina. I wish'd to speak to you of him. 
 
 Doge, Your husband? 
 
 Marina, And your son. 
 
 Doge, Proceed, my daughter ! 
 
 Marina. I had obtained permission from the Ten 
 To attend my husband for a limited number 
 Of hours. 
 
 Doge. You had so. 
 
 Marina. 'Tis revoked. 
 
 Doge, By whom? [ofSigl 
 
 Marina, The Ten. — When we had reach'd the BridJ 
 Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
 The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
 Demurr'd : a messenger was sent back to 
 The Ten; but as the court no longer sate, 
 And no permission had been given in writing, 
 I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
 Until tlmt high tribunal re-assembled 
 The dungeon-walls must still divide us. 
 
 Doge, True, 
 The form has been omitted in the haste 
 With which the court adjourn'd, and till it meets 
 'Tis dubious. 
 
 Marina, Till it meets ! and when it meets, 
 They'll torture him again; and he and I 
 
THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 415 
 
 lust purchase by renewal of the rack 
 
 "he interview of husband and of wife, 
 
 "lie liolicst tie beneath the heavens i — Oh God ! 
 
 )ost thou see this? 
 
 Doffe. Child — child — 
 
 Marina (abruptly). Call me not cliild ! 
 I'ou soon will have no children — you deserve none — 
 [on, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
 n circumstances which would call forth tears 
 ' )f blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
 i?heir boys who died in battle, is it written 
 That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
 itretch'd forth a hand to save them? 
 ( Doge. You behold me: 
 i cannot weep — I would I could; but if 
 flach white hair on this head were a young life, 
 I'his ducal cap the diadem of earth, 
 J'his ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
 It talisman to still them — I'd give all 
 *'or him. 
 
 j Marina. With less he surely might be saved. 
 ! Doge. That answer only shows you know not Venice. 
 iilas! how should you? she knows not herself, 
 n all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
 Lt Foscari, aim no less at his father; 
 ;'lie sire's destruction would not save the sou ; 
 ^hey work by diflcrent means to the same end, 
 Lnd that is — but they have not conquer'd yet. 
 I Marina. But they have crush'd. 
 ; Doije. N^or crush'd as yet — I live. 
 
 Marina. And your son, — how long will he Jive ? 
 
 Doge. I trust, 
 'or all that yet is past, as many years 
 knd happier than his father. The rash boy, 
 Vith womanish impatience to return, 
 jlath ruin'd all by that detected letter ; 
 i\ high crime, which I neither can deny 
 'iot palliate, as parent or as duke: 
 lad he but borne a little, little longer 
 {lis Candiote exile, I had hopes — he has quench'd them — 
 jle must return. 
 I Marina. To exile? 
 
 Doge. I have said it. 
 1 Marina. And can I not go with him? 
 I Doge. You well know 
 riiis prayer of yours was twice denied before 
 jjy the assembled Ten, and hardly now 
 {•Vill be accorded to a third request, 
 j5ince aggravated errors on the part 
 )f your lord render them still more austere. 
 
 Marina. Austere? Atrocious! The old human fiends, 
 liVith one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange 
 I'd tears save drops of dotage, with long white 
 ind scanty hairs, and sliaking hands, and heads 
 lis palsied as their hearts arc hard, they council, 
 pabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
 Vere no more than the feelings long extinguish'd 
 n their accursed bosoms. 
 
 Doge. You know not — 
 
 Marina. I do — I do— and so should you, methinks — 
 irhat these are demons: could it be else that 
 
 Men, who have been of women born and suckled — 
 Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love — have given 
 Their hands in sacred vows — have danced their babes 
 Upon their knees, perhaps have mourn'd above them - 
 In pain, in peril, or in death — who are, 
 Or were at least in seeming human, could 
 Do as they have done by yours, and you yourself, 
 You, who abet them? 
 
 Doge. I forgive this, for 
 You know not what you say. 
 
 Marina. You know it well. 
 And feel it nothing. 
 
 Doge. I have borne so much. 
 That words have ceased to shake me. 
 
 Marina. Oh, no doubt! [shook not; 
 
 You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 
 And, after that, what are a woman's words? 
 No more than woman's tears, that theyshouldshakeyou. 
 
 iJo^c. Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, I tell thee, 
 Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that 
 Which — but I pity thee, my poor Marina! 
 
 Marina. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me; 
 Pity thy son ! Thou pity ! — 'tis a word 
 Strange to thy heart — how came jt on thy lips ? [me. 
 
 Doge. I must bear these reproaches, though they wrong 
 Couldst thou but read — 
 
 Manna. 'Tis not upon thy brow, 
 Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where then 
 Should I behold this sympathy? or shall? 
 
 Doge (pointing downwards). Thcrc! 
 
 Marina. In the earth ? 
 
 D(v/e. To which I am tending: when 
 It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though 
 Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which press it 
 Now, you will know me better. 
 
 Marina. Are you, then, 
 Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 
 
 Doge. Pitied! None 
 Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
 Cloke their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
 To mingle with my name; that name shall be, 
 As far as /have borne it, what it was 
 When I received it. 
 
 Marina. But for the poor children ' 
 Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save, 
 Y'ou were the last to bear it. 
 
 Doge. Would it were so ! 
 Better for him be never had been born; 
 Better for me. — I have seen our house dishonour'd. 
 
 Marina. That's false! A truer, nobler, trustier heart. 
 More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
 Within a human breast. I would not change 
 My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
 Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush'd, overwhelm'd. 
 Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 
 I |In story or in fable, with a world 
 
 To back his suit. Dishonour'd! — he dishonour'd! 
 I tell thee. Doge, 'tis Venice is di.shonour'd; 
 His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach. 
 For wliat he suflers, not for what he did. 
 'Tis ye who are all traitors, tyrant I — ye ! 
 
416 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Did you but love your country like this vietiin, 
 Wlio totters back in chains to tortures, and 
 Submits to all things rather than to exile, 
 You'd tting yourselves before liim, and implore 
 .His grace for your enormous guilt. 
 
 Doffe. He was 
 ludeed all you have said. I better bore 
 The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me 
 Than Jacopo's disgrace. 
 
 Marina. That word again? 
 
 Doge. Has he not been condemn'd? 
 
 Marina. Is none but guilt so ? 
 
 Doge. Time may restore his memory — I would hope so. 
 He was my pride, my — but 'tis useless now — 
 I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
 When he was born : those drops were ominous. 
 
 Marina. I say he's innocent: and were he not so, 
 Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us 
 In fatal moments? 
 
 Doge, I shrank not from him : 
 But I have other duties tlian a father's ; 
 The state would not dispense me from those duties ; 
 Twice I demanded it, but was refused; 
 They must then be fulfiU'd. 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Attendant. A message from 
 The Ten. 
 
 Doge. Who bears it? 
 
 Attendant. Noble Loredano. 
 
 Doge. He! — but admit him. [Exit Attendant. 
 
 Marina. Must I then retire ? 
 
 Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 
 Concerns your husband, and if not — Well, signer, 
 
 Your pleasure ! [To Loredano entering. 
 
 Lored. I bear that of the Ten. 
 
 Doge, They 
 Have chosen well their envoy. 
 
 Lored. 'Tis their choice 
 Which leads me here. 
 
 Doge. It does their wisdom honour. 
 And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 
 
 Lored. We have decided. 
 
 Doge. We? 
 
 Lored. The Ten in council. 
 
 Doge. What! have they met again, and met without 
 Apprizing me? 
 
 Lored. They wish'd to spare your feelings. 
 No less than age. 
 
 Doge. That's new — when spared they either? 
 I thank them, notwithstanding. 
 
 Lored. You know well 
 That they have power to act at their discretion. 
 With or without the presence of the Doge. 
 
 Doge. 'Tis some years since I learn'd this, long before 
 I became Doge, or dream'd of such advancement. f 
 
 You need not school me, signor: I sate in 
 That council when you were a young patrician. [and 
 
 Lored. True, in my father's time; I have heard him 
 The admiral, his brother, say as much. 
 
 Your Highness may remember them : they both 
 Died suddenly. 
 
 Doge. And if they did so, better 
 So die than live on lingcringly in pain. [ou 
 
 Lored. No doubt ! yet most men like to live their daj 
 
 Doge. And did not they? 
 
 Lored. The grave knows best: they died, 
 As I said, suddenly. 
 
 Doge. Is that so strange 
 That you repeat the word emphatically ? 
 
 Lored. So far from strange, that never was there dca 
 In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
 Think If ou not so? 
 
 Doge. What should I think of mortals? 
 
 Lored. That they have mortal foes. 
 
 Doge, I understand you; 
 Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 
 
 Lored. You best know if I should be so. 
 
 Doge. I do. 
 Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
 Foul rumours were abroad ; I have also read 
 Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 
 To poison. 'Tis perhaps as true as most 
 Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
 A fable. 
 
 Lored. Who dares say so? 
 
 Doge. I! — 'Tis true 
 Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
 ,4s their son e'er can be, and I no less 
 Was theirs; but I was openly their foe: 
 I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
 Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 
 Of practice against life by steel or drug. 
 The proof is, your existence. 
 
 Lored. I fear not. 
 
 Doge. Youhavenocause, being what lam; butwe 
 That you would have me thought, you long ere now 
 Were past the sense of fear. Hate on ; I care not. 
 
 Lored, I never yet knew that a noble's life 
 In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 
 That is, by open means. 
 
 Doge, But I, good signor. 
 Am, or at least was, more than a mere duke, 
 In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they know 
 Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 
 Striven all they dare to weigh me down: be sure, 
 Before or since that period, had I held you 
 At so much price as to require your absence, 
 A word of mine had set such spirits to work 
 As would have made you nothing. But in all thinj 
 I have observed the strictest reverence; 
 Not for the laws alone, for those you have strain'd 
 (I do not speak oiyou but as a single 
 Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 
 I could enforce for my authority, 
 Were I disposed to brawl; but, as I said, 
 I have observed with veneration, like 
 A priest's for the high altar, even imto 
 The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet, 
 Safety, and all save honour, the decrees, 
 
ACT II. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 417 
 
 The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
 And now, sir, to your business. 
 
 Lored. 'Tis decreed, 
 ji That, without farther repetition of 
 JThe question, or continuance of the trial, 
 ' iWliicli only tends to sliow how stubborn guilt is — 
 j(TheTen,dispensing with the stricter law 
 ijWhich still prescribes the question till a full 
 ^Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
 IfAvow'd liis crime in not denying that 
 ,^ Irhe letter to the Duke of Milan 's his) — 
 James Foscari return to banishment. 
 And sail in the same galley which convcy'd him. [more 
 
 Marina. Thank God! At least they will not drag him 
 Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 
 But think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 
 Sot he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
 Desire, were to escape from such a land. 
 
 Doge. That is not a Venetian thought, my daughter. 
 
 Marina. No, 'twas too human. May I share his exile? 
 
 Lored. Of this the Ten said nothing. 
 
 Marina. So I thought: 
 That were too human, also. But it was not 
 [nhibited? 
 
 Lored. It was not named. 
 
 Marina (to the Doge). Then, father, 
 Sorely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 
 
 [To Loredano. 
 ind you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
 Permitted to accompany my husband. 
 
 Dogs. I will endeavour. 
 
 Marina. And you, signor? 
 
 Lored. Lady! - 
 Tis not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
 Df the tribunal. 
 
 Marina. Pleasure ! what a word 
 iTo use for the decrees of — 
 
 Doge. Daughter, know you 
 n wliat a presence you pronounce these things? 
 
 Marina. A prince's and his subject's. 
 
 Lored. Subject! 
 
 Marina. Oh ! 
 [t galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 
 Sfou think ; but that you are not, nor would be, 
 Were he a peasant; — well, then, you're a prince, 
 V princely noble; and what then am I? 
 
 Lored. The offspring^pf a noble house. 
 
 Marina. And wedded 
 To one as noble. What, or whose, then, is 
 riic presence that should silence my free thoughts? 
 
 Lored. The presence of your husband's judges. 
 
 Doge. And 
 The deference due even to the lightest word 
 That falls from those who rule in Venice. 
 
 Marina. Keep 
 Those maxims for your mass of scared mechanics, 
 i'our merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves, 
 i'our tributaries, your dumb citizens, 
 \nd mask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 
 S^oux spies, your galley and your other slaves, 
 
 To whom your midnight carryings-off and drownings, 
 Your dungeons next the palace-roofs, or under 
 The water's level, your mysterious meetings, 
 And unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 
 Your Bridge of Sighs, your strangling chamber, and 
 Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 
 The beings of another and worse world ! 
 Keep such for them: I fear ye not. I know ye, 
 Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 
 Process of my poor husband! Treat me as 
 Ye treated him : — you did so, in so dealing 
 With him. Then what have I to {car from you. 
 Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
 I trust lam not? 
 
 Doge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 
 
 Marina. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 
 
 Lored. Lady! words 
 Utter'd within these walls, 1 bear no further 
 Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
 Between the Duke and me on the state's service. 
 Doge ! have you aught in answer ? 
 
 Doge. Something from 
 The Doge; it may be also from a parent. 
 
 Lored. My mission here is to the Doge. 
 
 Doye. Then say 
 The Doge will choose hisown embassador. 
 Or state in person what is meet; and for 
 The father — 
 
 Lored. 1 remember mine — Farewell ! 
 I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady, 
 And bow me to the Duke. [Exit Loredano. 
 
 Marina. Are you content? 
 
 Doge. I am what you behold. 
 
 Marina. And that's a mystery. 
 
 Doge. All things are so to mortals; who can read them 
 Save he who made? or, it they can, the few 
 And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
 That loathsome volume — man, and pored upon 
 Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain. 
 But learn a magic which recoils upon 
 The adept who pursues it: all the sins 
 We find in others, nature made our own; 
 All our advantages are those of fortune; 
 Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents. 
 And when we cry out against Fate, 'twere well 
 We should remember Fortune can take nought 
 Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness. 
 And lusts, and appetites, and vanities. 
 The universal heritage, to battle 
 With as we may, and least in humblest stations, 
 Where hunger swallows all in one low want. 
 And the original ordinance, that man 
 Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passions 
 Aloof, save fear of famine! All is low. 
 And false, and hollow — clay from first to last, 
 The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
 Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon 
 Less than their breath ; our durance upon days. 
 Our days on seasons; our whole being on 
 Something which is not us ! — So, we are slaves, 
 
 27 
 
418 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 AC! 
 
 The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 
 TJpon our will; the will itself no less 
 Depends upon a straw than on a storm; 
 And when we think we lead, we are most led, 
 • And still towards death, a thing which comes as much 
 Witliout our act or choice, as birth ; so that 
 Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world, 
 And this is hell: the best is, that it is not 
 Eternal. 
 
 Marina. These are things we cannot judge 
 ' On earth. 
 
 Doye. And how then shall we judge each other, 
 Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd upon 
 To judge my son? I have admlnister'd 
 My country faithfully — victoriously — 
 I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
 She was and is: my reign has doubled realms; 
 And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
 Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 
 
 Marina. AndFoscari? I do not think of such things. 
 So I be left with him. 
 
 Doye, You shall be so ; 
 Thus much they cannot well deny. 
 
 Marina. And if 
 They should, I will fly with liira. 
 
 Doge. That can ne'er be. 
 And whither would you fly? 
 
 Marina. I know not, reck not — 
 To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
 Any where, where we might respire unfcttcr'd, 
 And live nor girt by spies, nor liable 
 To edicts of inquisitors of state. 
 
 i>o^e.What, wouldstthouhavearenegadeforhusband. 
 And turn him into traitor? 
 
 Marina. He is none! 
 The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
 Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
 Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
 None rebels except subjects? The prince who 
 Neglects or violates his trust is more 
 A brigand than the robber-chief. 
 
 Doye. I cannot 
 Charge me with such a breach of faith. 
 
 Marina. No; thou 
 Observ'st, obey'st, such laws as make old Draco's 
 A code of mercy by comparison. 
 
 Doye. I found the law ; I did not make it. Were I 
 A subject, still I might find parts and portions 
 Fit for amendment ; but as prince, I never 
 Would change, for the sake of my house, the charter 
 Left by our fathers. 
 
 Marina. Did they make it for 
 The ruin of their children ? 
 
 Doye. Under such laws Venice 
 Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
 In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add. 
 In glory (for we have had Roman spirits 
 Amongst us), all that history has bcqucath'd 
 Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, wlien 
 The people sway'd by senates. 
 
 Marina. Ratlicr say, 
 Groan'd under the stern oligarchs. 
 
 Doye Perhaps so ; 
 But yet subdued the world; in such a state 
 An individual, be he richest of 
 Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest. 
 Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
 The policy, irrevocably tending 
 To one great end, must be maintain'd in vigour, [fathe 
 
 Marina. This means that you are more a Doge ths 
 
 Doye. It means, I am more citizen than either. 
 If we had not for many centuries 
 Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
 I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 
 
 Marina. Accursed be the city where the laws 
 Would stifle nature's! 
 
 Doye. Had I as many sons 
 As I have years, I would have given them all. 
 Not without feeling, but I would have given tJiem 
 To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes 
 On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 
 As it, alas! has been, to ostracism. 
 Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
 She might decree. 
 
 Marina. And this is patriotism? 
 To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
 Let me seek out my husband: the sage Ten, 
 Witli all their jealousy, will hardly war 
 So far with a weak woman as deny me 
 A moment's access to his dungeon. 
 
 Doye. I'll 
 So far take on myself, as order that 
 You may be admitted. 
 
 Marina. And what shall I say 
 To Foscari from his father? 
 
 Doye. That he obey 
 The laws. 
 
 Marina. And nothing more? ♦Vill you not see hira 
 Ere he depart? It may be the last time. 
 
 Doye. The last! — my boy ! — the last time I shall sc 
 My last of children ! Tell him I will come. [Exeni 
 
ACT III 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 419 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Prison of Jacopo Foscabi. 
 
 ft 
 
 ^■^ Foscari (solus). No light, save yon faint gleam, which 
 '^ shows me walls 
 
 Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds, 
 The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
 Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 
 Of deathj^the imprecation of despair ! 
 And j-et for this I have return'd to Venice, 
 With some faint hope, 'tis true, that time, which wears 
 The marble down, had worn away the hate 
 Of men's hearts : but I knew them not, and here 
 Must I consume my own, which never beat 
 For Venice but with such a yearning as 
 The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling 
 High in the air on her return to greet 
 Her callow brood. What letters are these which 
 
 [Approaching the wall. 
 
 Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall ? 
 
 Will the gleam let me trace them? Ah! the names 
 
 [)f my sad predecessors in this place, ; 
 
 The dates of their despair, the brief words of 
 
 A grief too great for many. This stone-page 
 
 Holds like an epitaph their history; 
 
 \nd the poor captive's tale is graven on 
 
 His dungeon-barrier, like the lover's record 
 
 Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
 
 lis own and his beloved's name. Alas ! 
 
 ' recognize some names familiar to me, 
 
 Vnd blighted like to mine, which I will add, 
 
 fittest for such a chronicle as this, 
 
 liVhich only can be read, as writ, by wretches. 
 
 [He engraves his name. 
 
 Enter a Familiar of the Ten. 
 
 Familiar. I bring you food. 
 
 J. Foscari, I pray you set it down ; 
 am past hunger; but my lips are parch'd — 
 The water ! 
 
 Familiar. There. 
 
 J. Foscari (after drinking). I thank you : I am better. 
 
 Familiar. I am commanded to inform you that 
 ifour further trial is postponed. 
 
 J. Foscari. Till when ? 
 
 Familiar. I know not. — It is also in my orders 
 That your illustrious lady be admitted. [hope it : 
 
 J. Foscari. Ah ! they relent, then — I had ceased to 
 Twas time. 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 
 MaAna. My best beloved ! r 
 
 •/. /^>*can (embracing her). My true Wife, 
 
 jlnd only friend ! What happiness ! 
 
 Marina. We'll part 
 No more. 
 
 J. Foscari. How ! wouldst thou share a dungeon? 
 
 Marina. Ay, 
 The rack, the grave, all — any thing with thee, 
 But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
 Be ignorant of each other: yet I will 
 Siiare that — all tilings except new separation; 
 It is too much to have survived the first. 
 How dost thou? How are those worn limbs? Alas! 
 Why do I ask? Thy paleness — 
 
 J. Foscari. 'Tisthejoy 
 Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
 Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
 Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine, 
 For thou art pale too, my Marina.' 
 
 Marina. 'Tis 
 The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
 Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
 Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
 To darkness more than light, by lending to 
 The dungeon-vapours its bituminous smoke. 
 Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes — 
 No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how they sparkle! 
 
 J. Foscari. And tliine ! — but I am blinded by the torch. 
 
 Marina. As I had been without it. Couldst thou see 
 here? [taught me 
 
 J. Foscari. Nothing at first; but use and time had 
 Familiarity with what was darkness; 
 And the gray twilight of such glimmerings as 
 Glide tlirougli the crevices made by the winds 
 Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun, 
 When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
 Save those of Venice: but a moment ere 
 Thou camest hither I was busy writing. 
 
 Marina. What? 
 
 J. Foscari. My name : look, 'tis there, recorded next 
 The name of him who here preceded me. 
 If dungeon-dates say true. 
 
 Manna. And what of him? [o!»ly 
 
 J. Foscari. These walls are silent of men's ends; they 
 Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls 
 Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, 
 Or those who soon must be so. — What of him? 
 TIiou askest. — What of me? may soon be ask'd, 
 With the like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise — 
 Unless thou tellst my tale. 
 
 Marina. I speak oiiheel [of me: 
 
 J. Foscari. And wherefore not? All then shall speak 
 The tyranny of silence is not lasting. 
 And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
 Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's! 
 I do not doubt my memory, but my life; 
 And neither do I fear. 
 
420 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Marina. Thy life is safe. 
 
 J.Foscari. And liberty? 
 
 Marina. The mind should make its own. 
 
 J, Foscari. That has a noble sound ; but 'tis a sound, 
 A music most impressive, but too transient: 
 The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
 Hatii nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
 And torture positive, far worse tlian death 
 (If death be a deep sleep), without a groan, 
 Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
 Than me; but 'tis not all, for there are things 
 More woful — such as this small dungeon, where 
 I may breathe many years. 
 
 Marina. Alas ! and this 
 Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
 Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 
 
 J. Foseari. That thought would scarcely aid me to 
 endure it. 
 My doom is common, many are in dungeons. 
 But none like mine, so near their father's palace; 
 But then my heart is sometimes higli, and hope 
 Will stream along those moted rays of light 
 Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
 Our only day; for, save the jailor's tore!). 
 And a strange firefly, which was quickly caught 
 Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
 I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas ! 
 I know if mind may bear us up, or no. 
 For Ihave such, and shown it before men; 
 It sinks in solitude: my soul is social. 
 
 Marina. I will be with thee. 
 
 J. Foscari. Ah! ifit were sol 
 But that they never granted — nor will grant. 
 And 1 shall be alone : no men — no books — 
 Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
 I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind. 
 Which they term annals, history, what you will, 
 Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
 Refused me; so these walls have been my study, 
 More faithful pictures of Venetian story. 
 With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
 The hall not far from hence, which bears on high 
 Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. 
 
 Marina. I come to tell thee the result of their 
 Last council on thy doom. 
 
 J. Foscari, I know it — look ! 
 
 [He points to his limbs, as referring to the 
 tortures which he had undergone. 
 
 Marina. No — no — no more of that: even they relent 
 From that atrocity. 
 
 J.Foscari. What then? 
 
 Marina. That you 
 Return to Candia. 
 
 J. Foscari. Then my last hope's gone. 
 I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice; 
 I bould support the torture, there was something 
 In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up. 
 Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms, 
 But proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
 And holding on its course; but there, afar, 
 In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives, 
 
 And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck, 
 
 My very soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom. 
 
 And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 
 
 Marina. And here? 
 
 J. Foscari. At once — by better means, as briefer. 
 What! would they even deny me my sires' sepulchre 
 As well as home and heritage? 
 
 Marina. My husband ! 
 I have sued to accompany thee hence. 
 And not so hopelessly. This love of thine 
 For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 
 Is passion, and not patriotism : for me. 
 So I could see thee with a quiet aspect. 
 And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, 
 I would not cavil about climes or regions. it 
 
 This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
 A paradise; its first inhabitants • 
 
 Were wretched exiles. 
 
 J. Foscari. Well I know how wretched ! 
 
 Marina. And yet you see how from their banishmei 
 Before the Tartar into these salt isles. 
 Their antique energy of mind, all that 
 Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance, 
 Created by degrees an Ocean-Rome ; 
 And shall an evil, which so often leads 
 To good, depress thee thus? 
 
 J. Foscari. Had I gone forth 
 From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking 
 Another region, with their flocks and herds; 
 Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion, 
 Or, like our fathers, driven by Attila 
 From fertile Italy to barren islets, 
 I would have given some tears to my late country. 
 And many thoughts; but afterwards address'd 
 Myself, with those about me, to create 
 A new home and fresh state: perhaps I could 
 Have borne this — though I know not. 
 
 Marina. Wherefore not? 
 It was the lot of millions, and must be 
 The fate of myriads more. 
 
 J. Foscari. Ay — we but hear 
 Of the survivors' toil in their new lands. 
 Their numbers and success ; but who can number 
 The hearts which broke in silence of that parting. 
 Or after their departure ; of that malady 
 Which calls up green and native fields to view 
 From the rough deep, with such identity 
 To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 
 Can scarcely be restrain'd from treading them ? 
 That melody, which out of tones and tunes 
 Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 
 Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 
 From his snow -canopy of clifls and clouds. 
 That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous, thought, 
 And dies. You call this toeakness ! It is strength, 
 I say, — the parent of all honest feeling. 
 He who loves not his country, can love nothing. 
 
 Marina. Obey her, then ; 'tis she that puts thee fortff 
 
 J. Foscari, Ay, there it is: 'tis like a mother's curse j 
 Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
 Tiie exiles you speak of went forth by nations. 
 
I ACT III. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 421 
 
 Their hands upheld each other by the way, 
 Tlieir tents were pitclied together - I'm alone. 
 
 Marina. You shall be so no more — I will go with thee. 
 
 J, Foscari, My best Marina ! — and our children? 
 
 Marina. They, 
 I fear, by, the prevention of the state's 
 Abljorrent policy (which holds all ties 
 As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure) 
 Will not be sufl'er'd to proceed with us. 
 
 J. Foscari. And canst thou leave them? 
 
 Marina. Yes. With many a pang: 
 But — I can leave them, children as they are, 
 To teach you to be less a child. From this 
 Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 
 By duties paramount; and 'tis our first 
 On earth to bear. 
 
 J. Foscari. Have I not borne? 
 
 Marina. Too much 
 From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
 To teach you not to shrink now from a lot 
 Wiiich, as compared with what you have undergone 
 Of late, is mercy. 
 
 J. Foscari. Ah ! you never yet 
 Were far away from Venice, never saw 
 Her beautiful towers in the receding distance. 
 While every furrow of the vessel's track 
 Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart ; you never 
 Saw day go down upon your native spires 
 'So calmly with its gold and crimson glory, 
 I And, after dreaming a disturbed vision 
 j Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 
 
 Marina. I will divide this wiih you. Let us think 
 jOf our departure from this much -loved city 
 1 (Since you must love it, as it seems), and this 
 'Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you. 
 lOur children will be cared for by the Doge, 
 And by my uncles: we must sail ere night. 
 
 J. Foscari. That's sudden. Shall I not behold mf 
 father? 
 
 Marina. You will. 
 
 J. Foscari. Where? 
 I Marina. Here or in the ducal chamber — 
 He said not which. I would that you could bear 
 lYour exile as he bears it. 
 j J. Foscari. Blame him not. 
 jl sometimes murmur for a moment; but 
 iHe could not now act otherwise. A show 
 iOf feeling or compassion on his part 
 Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
 puspicion from the Ten, and upon mine 
 Accumulated ills. 
 
 Marina. Accumulated! 
 What pangs are those they have spared you? 
 
 J. Foscari. That of leaving 
 Venice without beholding him or you, 
 Which might have been forbidden now, as 'twas 
 Upon my former exile. 
 
 Marina. That is true, 
 ^nd thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
 ]\nd shall be more so when I see us both 
 ,; floating on the fr«e%avcs — away — away — 
 
 J3e it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd. 
 Unjust, and — 
 
 J. Foscari. Curse it not. If I am silent, 
 Who dares accuse my country? 
 
 Marina. Men and angels! 
 The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven. 
 The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dungeons, 
 Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and subjects, 
 Held in the bondage often bald-heads ; and 
 Though last, not least, thy silence. Cofldst thou say 
 Aught in its favour, who would praise like thee? 
 
 J. Foscari. Let us address us then, since so it must be. 
 To our departure. Who comes here? 
 
 Enter Lokeoano, attended by Familiars. 
 Lored. (to the Familiars). Retire, 
 
 But leave the torch. [Exeunt the two Familiai-3. 
 
 J. Foscari. Most welcome, noble signor. 
 I did not deem this poor place could have drawa 
 Such presence hither. 
 
 Lored. 'Tis not the first time 
 I have visited these places. 
 
 Marina. Nor would be 
 The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
 Came you here to insult us, or remain 
 As spy upon us, or as hostage for us? 
 
 Lored. Neither are of my office, noble lady, 
 I am sent hither to your husband, to 
 Announce the Ten's decree. 
 
 Marina. That tenderness 
 Has been anticipated : it is known. 
 
 Lored. As how? 
 
 Marina. I have inform'd him, not so gently, 
 Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe. 
 The indulgence of your colleagues ; but he knew it. 
 If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence ! 
 The dungeon - gloom is deep enough without you, 
 And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
 Their sting is honester. 
 
 J. Foscat i. I pray you, calm you: 
 What can avail such words ? 
 
 Marina. To let him know 
 That he is known. 
 
 Lored. Let the fair dame preserve 
 Her sex's privilege. 
 
 Marina. I have some sons, sir. 
 Will one day thank you better. 
 
 Lored. You do well 
 To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
 Your sentence, tiicn? 
 
 J. Foscari, Return to Candia ? 
 
 Lored. True — 
 For life. 
 
 J. Foscari. Not long. 
 
 Lored. I said — for life. 
 
 J. Foscari. And I 
 Repeat — not long. 
 
 Lored. A year's imprisonment 
 In Canea — afterwards the freedom of 
 The whole isle. 
 
 J. Foscari. Both the same to me: the after - 
 
422 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
 Is't true m}' wife accompanies me? 
 
 Lorcd. Yes, 
 If she so wills it. 
 
 Marina. Who obtain'd that justice? 
 Lored. One who wars not with women. 
 Marina. But oppresses 
 Men ; howsoever, let him have my thanks 
 • For the onl}' boon I would have ask'd or taken 
 From him or sucl^as he is. 
 Lored. He receives them 
 As they are ofter'd. 
 
 Marina. May they thrive with him 
 So much! — no more. 
 
 J. Foscari. Is this, sir, your whole mission? 
 Because we have brief time for preparation, 
 And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
 This lady, of a house noble as yours, — 
 Marina. Nobler 1 
 Lored. How nobler? 
 Marina. As more generous! 
 We say the "generous steed" to express the purity 
 Of his high blood. Thus much I've learnt, althougli 
 Venetian (who see few steeds save of bronze). 
 From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coasts 
 Of Egypt, and her neiglibour Araby: 
 And wiiy not say as soon ^'ihe generous man?" 
 If race be auglit, it is in qualities 
 More than in years; and mine, which is as old 
 As yours, is better in its product, nay — 
 Look not so stern — but get you back, and pore 
 Upon your genealogic tree's most green 
 Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 
 Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd 
 For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater! 
 J. Foscari. Again, Marina ! 
 Marina. Again! s^zY/, Marina. 
 See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
 With a last look upon our misery ? 
 Let him partake it ! 
 
 J. Foscari. That were difficult. 
 Marina. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now - 
 Ay, he may veil beneath a marble -brow 
 And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 
 A few brief words of truth shame the devil's servants 
 No less than master; I have probed his soul 
 A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long, 
 Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me! 
 With death, and chains, and exile in his hand 
 To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit; 
 They are his weapons, not his armour, for 
 I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart. 
 I care not for his frowns ! We can but die. 
 And he but live, for him the very worst 
 Of destinies: each day secures him more 
 His tempter's. 
 
 J. Foscari. This is mere insanity. 
 Marina. It may be so; and k;/<o made us wiadi' 
 Lored. Let her go on ; it irks not me. 
 Marina. That's false ! 
 You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
 
 Of cold looks upon manifold griefs ! You came 
 To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears. 
 And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the wreck 
 Which you have made a prince's son — my husband ; 
 In siiort, to trample on the fallen — an office 
 The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him! 
 How have you sped? We are wretched, signor, as 
 Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire 
 And how feel you? 
 
 Lored. As rocks. 
 
 Marina. By thunder blasted : 
 They feel not, but no less are shiver'd. Come, 
 Foscari; now let us go, and leave this felon, 
 The sole fit habitant of such a cell. 
 Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
 Till he himself shall brood in it alone. 
 
 Enter the Dogb. 
 
 J. Foscari. My father! 
 
 Doge, (tmbiachig him). Jacopo! my SOU — my son! 
 
 J. Foscari. My father still! How long it is since I 
 Have heard thee name my name — our name ! 
 
 Doge. My boy ! 
 Couldst thou but know — • 
 
 J. Foscari. I rarely, sir, have murmur'd. 
 
 Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. 
 
 Marina, Doge, look there ! [She points to Loh; 
 
 Doge. I sec the man — what mcanst thou ? 
 
 Marina. Caution! 
 
 Lored. Being 
 The virtue which this noble lady most 
 May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 
 
 Marina. Wretch ! 'tis no virtue, but the policy 
 Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice: 
 As such I recommend it, as I would 
 To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 
 
 Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous; I have long 
 Known Loredano. 
 
 Lored. You may know him better. 
 
 Marina. Yes ; worse he could not. 
 
 J. Foscari. Father, let not these 
 Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
 Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it, 
 Indeed, our last of meetings ? 
 
 Doge. You behold 
 These white hairs! 
 
 J. Foscari. And I feel, besides, that mine 
 Will never be so white. Embrace me, father! 
 I loved you ever — never more than now. 
 Look to my children — to your last child's children : 
 Let them be all to you which he was once. 
 And never be to you what I am now. 
 May I not see them also? 
 
 Marina. No — not here. 
 
 J. Foscari. They might behold their parent any w he 
 
 Marina. I would tliat they beheld their father in 
 A place which would not mingle fear with love, 
 To freeze their young blood in its natural current. 
 They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that 
 Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well 
 I know his fate may one day be theiftiwritage. 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 423 
 
 But let it only be their heritage, 
 
 And not tlicir present fee. Their senses, though 
 
 Alive to love, are yet awake to terror; 
 
 And these vile damps, too, and yon thickgreen wave 
 
 Whiclj floats above the place where we now stand — 
 
 A cell so far below the water's level. 
 
 Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
 
 Miglit strike them : this is not their atmosplierc, 
 
 However you — and you — and, most of all, 
 
 As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano ! 
 
 May breathe it without prejudice. 
 
 J. Foscari. I had not 
 Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
 I shall depart, then, without meeting them? 
 
 Doge. Not so : tliey shall await you in my chamber. 
 
 J. Foscari. And must I leave them all? 
 
 Lored. You must. 
 
 J. Foscari. Not one? 
 
 Lored. They are tiie state's. 
 
 Marina. I thought they had been mine. 
 
 Lored. They are, in all maternal things. 
 
 Marina. That is, 
 In all things painful. If they're sick, they will 
 Be left to me to tend them ; should they die, 
 To me to bury and to mourn ; but if 
 They live, they'll make you soldiers, senators, 
 Slaves, exiles — what^ow will ; or if they are 
 Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles! 
 Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers ! 
 
 Lored. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 
 
 J. Foscari. How know you that here, where the genial 
 Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom? [wind 
 
 Lored. 'Twas so 
 When I came here. The galley floats within 
 A bow -shot of the Riva di Schiavoni. 
 
 J. Foscari. Father ! I pray you to precede me, and 
 Prepare me children to behold their father. 
 
 Doge. lie firm, my son ! 
 
 J, Foscari. I will do my endeavour. 
 
 Marina. Farewell! at least to this detested dungeon, 
 And him to whose good offices you owe 
 In part your past imprisonment. 
 
 Lored. And present 
 Liberation. 
 
 Doge. He speaks truth. 
 
 J. Foscari. No doubt : but 'tis 
 Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. 
 He knows this, or he had not sought to change them. 
 But I reproach not. 
 
 Lored, The time narrows, signor. 
 
 J. Foscari. Alas ! I little thought so lingeringly 
 To leave abodes like this : but when I feel 
 That every step I take, even from this cell, 
 Is one away from Venice, I look back 
 Even on these dull damp walls, and — 
 
 Doge. Boy! no tears. 
 
 Marina, Let them flow on: he wept not on the rack 
 To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 
 They will relieve his heart — that too kind heart — 
 And I will find an hour to wipe away 
 Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now, 
 Bnt would not gratify yon wretch so far. 
 Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 
 
 J[.orc(/. (to the Familiar) Tlic torcii, there ! 
 
 Marina. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre, 
 With Loredano mourning like an heir. 
 
 Doge. My son, you are feeble: take this hand. 
 
 J, Foscari. Alas! 
 Must youth support itself on age, and I 
 Who ought to be the prop of yours ? 
 
 Lored. Take mine. 
 
 Marina, Touch it not, Foscari ; 'twill sting you. Signor, 
 Stand off! be sure, that if a grasp of yours 
 Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are plunged, 
 No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
 Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you; 
 It could not save, but will support you ever. [Exeuut. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 A Hall in the ducal Paluce. 
 Enter Lobrda.no and Barrarigo. 
 
 Barb, And have you confidence in such a project? 
 
 Lored. I have. 
 
 Barb, 'Tis hard upon his years. 
 
 Lored. Say rather 
 wind to relieve him from the cares of state. 
 
 Barb. 'Twill break his heart. 
 
 Lored. Age has no heart to break, 
 le has seen his son's half broken, and, except 
 |i start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
 •werved. 
 
 Barb. In his countenance, I grant you, never ; 
 But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
 So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
 Had nought to envy him within. Where is he? 
 
 Lored, In his own portion of the palace, with 
 His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 
 
 Barb. Bidding farewell? 
 
 Lored. A last. As soon he shall 
 Bid to his dukedom. 
 
 Barb. When embarks the son ? [*Tis 
 
 Lored. Forthwith — when this long leave is taken. 
 Time to admonish them again. 
 
 Barb. Forbear; 
 Retrench not from their moments. 
 
424 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Lored. Not I, now 
 We have higher business for our own. This day 
 Shall be tlic last of the old Doge's reign, 
 As the first of his son's last banishment, 
 And that is vengeance. 
 
 Barb. In my mind, too deep. 
 
 Lored. 'Tis moderate — not even life for life, the rule 
 Denounced of retribution from all time; 
 They owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 
 
 Barb. Did not the Doge deny this strongly? 
 
 Lored. Doubtless. 
 
 Barb. And did not this shake your suspicion ? 
 
 Lored. No. 
 
 Barb. But if this deposition should take place 
 By our united influence in the council, 
 It must be done with all the deference 
 Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 
 
 Lored. As much of ceremony as you will. 
 So that the tiling be done. You may, for aught 
 I care, depute the Council on their knees, 
 (Like Barbarossa to the Pope) to beg him 
 To have the courtesy to abdicate. 
 
 Barb. What, if he will not? 
 
 Lored. We'll elect another, 
 And make him null. 
 
 Barb. But will the laws uphold us? [were not, 
 
 Lored. What laws? — The Ten are laws; and if they 
 I will be legislator in this business. 
 
 Barb. At your own peril? 
 
 Lored. Tlierc is none, I tell you. 
 Our powers are such. 
 
 Barb. But he has twice-already 
 Solicited permission to retire, 
 And twice it was refused. 
 
 Lored. The better reason 
 To grant it the third time. 
 
 Barb. Unask'd? 
 
 Lored. It shows 
 The impression of his former instances : 
 If they were from his heart, he may be thankful; 
 If not, 'twill punish his hypocrisy. 
 Come, they are met by this time; let us join them, 
 And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 
 I have prepared such arguments as will not 
 Fail to move tliem, and to remove him : since 
 Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, do not 
 You, with your wonted scruples, teach us pause, 
 And all will prosper. 
 
 Barb. Could I but be certain 
 This is no prelude to such persecution 
 Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
 I would support you. 
 
 Lored. He is safe, I tell you: 
 His fourscore years, and five may linger on 
 As long as he can drag them: 'tis his throne 
 Alone is aim'd at. 
 
 Barb. But discarded princes 
 Arc seldom long of life. 
 
 Lored. And men of eighty 
 More seldom still. 
 
 Barb. And why not wait these few years? 
 
 Lored. Because we have waited long enough, and 1 
 Lived longer than enough. Hence! In to council! 
 
 [Exeunt Loredaiio and Bai b.u 
 Enter Memmo and a Senator. 
 
 Senator. A summons to the Ten! Why so? 
 
 Memmo. The Ten 
 Alone can answer; they are rarely wont 
 To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
 By previous proclamation. We are summon'd — 
 That is enough. 
 
 Senator. For them, but not for us; 
 I would know why. 
 
 Memmo. You will know why anon, 
 If you obey; and, if not, you no less 
 Will know why you should have obey'd. 
 
 Senator. I mean not 
 To oppose them, but — 
 
 31emmo. In Venice ''But" 's a traitor. 
 But me no "buts," unless you would pass o'er 
 The Bridge which few repass. 
 
 Senator. 1 am silent. 
 
 Memmo. Why 
 Thus hesitate? — The Ten have call'd in aid 
 Of their deliberation five and twenty 
 Patricians of the senate — you are one. 
 And I another; and it seems to me 
 Both honour'd by the choice or chance which leads u 
 To mingle with a body so august. 
 
 Senator. Most true. I say no more. 
 
 Memmo. As we hope, signor, 
 And all may honestly (that is, all those 
 Of noble blood may) one day hope to be - 
 Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 
 Chosen delegates a school of wisdom, to 
 Be thus admitted, though as novices, 
 To view the mysteries. 
 
 Senator. Let us view them : they. 
 No doubt, are worth it. 
 
 Memmo. Being worth our lives 
 If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
 Something, at least to you or me. 
 
 Senator. I sought not 
 A place within the sanctuary ; but being 
 Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
 I shall fulfil my oJRce. 
 
 Memmo. Let us not 
 Be latest in obeying the Ten's summons. 
 
 Senator. All are not met, but I am of your thought 
 So far — let's in. 
 
 Memmo. The earliest are most welcome 
 In earnest councils — lye will not be least so. [E» 
 
 Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscari, and Marina. 
 
 J. Foscari. Ah, father ! though I must and will dcpi 
 Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
 That I once more return unto my home, 
 Howe'er remote the period. Let there be 
 A point of time as beacon to my heart. 
 With any penalty annex'd they please, 
 But let me still return. 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 425 
 
 Doge. Son Jacopo, 
 Go and obey our country's will : 'tis not 
 For us to look beyond. 
 
 J. Foscari. But still I must 
 Look back. I pray you think of me. 
 
 Doge. Alas! 
 You ever were my dearest ofl'spring, when 
 They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
 Now you are last ; but did the state demand 
 The exile of the disinterred ashes 
 Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth, 
 And their desponding shades came flitting round 
 To impede the act, I must no less obey 
 k duty paramount to every duty. 
 
 Marina. My husband! let us on: this but prolongs 
 Our sorrow. 
 
 J. Foscari. But we are not summon'd yet; 
 The galley's sails are not unfurl'd : — who knows? 
 The wind may change. 
 
 Marina. And if it do, it will not 
 Change their hearts, or your lot: the galley's oars 
 Will quickly clear the harbour. 
 J. Foscari. Oh, ye elements! 
 Where are your storms? 
 
 Marina. In human breasts. Alas! 
 Will nothing calm you? 
 
 J. Foscari. Never yet did mariner 
 Put up to patron-saint such prayers for prosperous 
 \nd pleasant breezes, as I call upon you, 
 i'e tutelar saints of my own city! which 
 fe love not witli more holy love than I, 
 To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, 
 Vnd waken Auster, sovereign of the tempest! 
 rill the sea dash me back on my own shore 
 ^ broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
 iVhere I may mingle with the sands which skirt 
 The land I love, and never shall see more! 
 Marina. And wish you this with me beside you? 
 J. Foscari. No — 
 ^0 — not for thee, too good, too kind ! — Mayst thou 
 jjive long to be a mother to those children 
 jrhy fond fidelity for a time deprives 
 Dfsucli support! But for myself alone, 
 jtlay all the winds of heaven howl down the gulf, 
 indtear the vessel, till the mariners, 
 ippaird, turn their despairing eyes on rae, 
 IS the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 
 'ast me out from amongst them, as an offering 
 'o appease the waves. The billow which destroys me 
 Vill be more merciful than man, and bear me, 
 !)ead, but still hear me to a native grave, 
 >om fisher's hands upon the desolate strand, 
 Vhicli, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 
 >ne lacerated like the heart which then 
 Vill be — But wherefore breaks it not? why live I? 
 Marina. To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master 
 uch useless passion. Until now thou wert 
 suflFerer, but notaloud one: why, 
 Vhat is this to the things thou hast borne in silence — 
 nprisonment and actual torture ? 
 J. Foscari. Double, 
 
 Triple, and tenfold torture! But you are right. 
 It must be borne. Father, your blessing. 
 
 Doge. Would 
 It could avail thee! but no less thou hast it. 
 
 J. Foscari. Forgive — 
 
 Doge. What? 
 
 J. Foscari. My poor mother for my birth. 
 And me for having lived, and you yourself 
 (As I forgive you) for the gift of life. 
 Which you bcstow'd upon me as my sire. 
 
 Marina. What hast thou done? 
 
 J. Foscari. Nothing. I cannot charge 
 My memory with much save sorrow : but 
 I have been so beyond the common lot 
 Chasten'd and visited, I needs must think 
 That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
 What I have undergone here keep me from 
 A like hereafter. 
 
 Marina. Fear not : that's reserved 
 For your oppressors 
 
 J. Foscari. Let me hope not 
 
 Marina. Hope not? 
 
 J. Foscari. I cannot wish them all they have inflicted. 
 
 Marina. All! the consummate fiends! A thousand fold! 
 May the worm which ne'er dieth feed upon them! 
 
 J. Foscari. They may repent. 
 
 Marina. And if they do, Heaven will not 
 Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 
 
 Enter an Officer and Guards. 
 
 Officer. Signor ! the boat is at the shore — the wind 
 Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 
 
 J. Foscari. And I to be attended. Once more, father. 
 Your hand! 
 
 Doge. Take it. Alas! how thine own trembles ! 
 
 J. Foscari. No — you mistake! 'tis yours that shakes. 
 Farewell ! [my father. 
 
 Doge. Farewell ! Is there aught else? 
 
 J. Foscari. No — nothing. [To the Officer. 
 
 Lend me your arm, good signor. 
 
 Officer. You turn pale — 
 Let me support you — paler — ho! some aid there! 
 Some water! 
 
 Marina. Ah, he is dying! 
 
 J. Foscari. Now, I'm ready — 
 My eyes swim strangely — where's the door? 
 
 Marina. Away ! 
 Let me support him — my best love ! Oh, God ! 
 How faintly beats this heart — this pulse ! 
 
 J. Foscari. The light! 
 Is it the light? — I am faint [Officer presents him with water. 
 
 Officer. He will be better, 
 Perhaps, in the air. 
 
 J. Foscari. I doubt not. Father — wife — 
 Your hands! 
 
 Marina. There's death in that damp clammy grasp. 
 Oh God ! — My Foscari, how fare yon ? 
 
 J. Foscari. Well ! [He dies. 
 
 Officer. He's gone. 
 
 Doge. He's free. 
 
 Marina. No — no, he is not dead; 
 27* 
 
426 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 AC I' 
 
 There must be life yet in that heart — he could not 
 Thus leave me. 
 
 Doge. Daugljter ! 
 
 Marina. Hold thy peace, old man ! 
 I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
 Oh, Foscari! 
 
 Officer. We must remove the body. [base office 
 
 Marina, Touch it not, dungeon -miscreants! your 
 Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder, 
 Even by your murderous laws. Leave his remains 
 To those who know to honour them. 
 
 Officer. I must 
 Inform tlie signory, and learn their pleasure. 
 
 Doge. Inform the signory from me, tlie Doge, 
 Tliey have no further power upon those ashes: 
 While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a subject — 
 Now he is mine — my broken-hearted boy! [Exit Officer. 
 
 Marina. And I must live! 
 
 Doge. Your children live, Marina. [live 
 
 Marina My children! true — they live, and I must 
 To bring them up to serve the state, and die 
 As died their father. Oh! what best of blessings 
 Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
 Had been so ! 
 
 Doge. My unhappy children ! 
 
 Marina, What! 
 Yon feel it tlien at last — you! — Where is now 
 The Stoic of the state? 
 
 Doge (throwing liimself down by the body). Here! 
 
 3Iarina. Ay, weep on ! 
 I thought you had no tears — you hoarded them 
 Until they are useless; but weep on! he never 
 Shall weep more — never, never more. 
 
 Enter Lobedano and Bariurico. 
 
 Lored. What's here? 
 
 Marina, Ah! the devil, come to insult the dead !Avaunt I 
 Incarnate Lucifer! 'tis holy ground. 
 A martyr's ashes now lie there, which make it 
 A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of torment! 
 
 Barb. Lady, we knew not of this sad event. 
 But pass'd here merely on our path from council, 
 
 Marina. Pass on. 
 
 Lored. We sought the Doge. [son's body). 
 
 3Iarina (pointing to the Doge, who is still on the ground by his 
 
 He's busy, look, 
 
 About the business yoM provided for him. 
 
 Are ye content ? 
 
 Barh. We will not interrupt 
 A parent's sorrows. 
 
 Marina, No, ye only make them, 
 Then leave them. 
 
 Doge (rising). Sirs, I am ready. 
 
 Barb. No — not now. 
 
 Lored, Yet 'twas important. 
 
 Doge. If 'twas so, I can 
 Only repeat — I am ready. 
 
 Barb. It shall not be 
 Just now, though Venice totter'd o'er the deep 
 Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 
 
 Doge. I thank you. If the tidings which you bring 
 
 Are evil, you may say them; nothing further 
 Can touch me more than him thou lookst on there 
 If they be good, say on ; you need not/ear 
 That they can comfort me. 
 
 Barb. I would they could! 
 
 Doge. I spoke not to you, but to Loredano. 
 He understands me. 
 
 Marina, Ah! I tiiought it would be so. 
 
 Doge. What mean you? 
 
 Marina, Lo ! there is the blood beginning 
 To flow through the dead lips of Foscari — 
 The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. [To Loreda 
 Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
 How death itself bears witness to thy deeds ! 
 
 Doge. My child! this is a phantasy of grief. [yi , 
 
 Bear hence the body. [To his Attendants.] Signors, if it plei ; 
 Within an hour I'll hear you. 
 
 [Exeunt l)oge, Marina, and Attendants with the bo | 
 [Manent Loredano and Barbai 
 
 Barb, He must not 
 Be troubled now. 
 
 Lored, He said himself that nought 
 Could give him trouble farther. 
 
 Barb, These are words; 
 But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
 Upon it barbarous. 
 
 Lored, Sorrow preys upon 
 Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
 From its sad visions of the other world 
 Than calling it at moments back to this; 
 The busy have no time for tears. 
 
 Barb, And therefore 
 You would deprive this old man of all business? 
 
 Lored. The thing's decreed. The Giunta ard the ' 
 Have made it law : who shall oppose that law? 
 
 Barb. Humanity! 
 
 Lored, Because his son is dead? 
 
 Barb. And yet unburied. 
 
 Lored. Had we known tliis when 
 The act was passing, it might have suspended 
 Its passage, but impedes it not — once past. 
 
 Barb. I'll not consent. 
 
 Lored. You have consented to 
 All that's essential — leave tlie rest to me. 
 
 Barb. Why press his abdication now ? 
 
 Lored. The feelings 
 Of private passion may not interrupt 
 The public benefit; and what the state 
 Decides to-day must not give way before 
 To-morrow for a natural accident. 
 
 Barb. You have a son. 
 
 Lored. I have — and had a father. 
 
 Barb. Still SO inexorable? 
 
 Lored. Still. 
 
 Barb, But let him 
 Inter his son before we press upon him 
 This edict. 
 
 Lored. Let him call up into life 
 My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
 Even aged men, be, or appear to be, 
 Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 427 
 
 Aa atom of their ancestors from earth. 
 The victims are not equal : he has seen 
 His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
 My sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
 I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
 Of the destructive art of healing', to 
 Shorten the patli to the eternal cure. 
 His sons, and he had four, are dead, without 
 My dabbling in vile drugs. 
 
 Barb. And art thou sure 
 tjilHe dealt in such ? 
 
 Lored. Most sure. 
 
 Barb. And yet he seems 
 ^jjAll openness. 
 
 Lored. And so he seem'd not long 
 Ago to Carmagnuola. 
 
 Barb. The attainted 
 And foreign traitor? 
 
 Lored. Even so : when he. 
 After the very night in wliich the Ten 
 [Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruction, 
 Met the great Duke at daybreak with a jest. 
 Demanding whether he should augur him 
 'The good day or good night? " his Dogeshlp answcr'd, 
 'That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil, 
 [n which (he added with a gracious smile) 
 There often has been qu?stion about you." 
 Twas true; the question was the death resolved 
 Df Carmagnuola, eight montiis ere he died; 
 And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, smiled on him 
 With deadly cozenage, eight long months beforehand — 
 Eight months of such hypocrisy as is 
 H Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
 Is dead ; so is young Foscari and his brethren — 
 never smiled on them. 
 
 Barb. Was Carmagnuola 
 5f our friend? 
 
 Lored. He was the safeguard of the city, 
 n early life its foe, but, in his manhood. 
 Its saviour first, then victim. 
 Barb. Ah ! that seems 
 The penalty of saving cities. He 
 IVhom we now act against not only saved 
 Dur own, but added others to her sway. 
 
 Lored. Tlie Romans (and we ape them) gave a crown 
 To him who took a city; and they gave 
 \. crown to him who saved a citizen 
 n battle: the rewards are equal. Now, 
 [f we should measure forth the cities taken 
 8y the Doge Foscari, with citizens 
 Dcstroy'd by him, or throuyh him, the account 
 Were fearfully against him, although narrow'd 
 To private havoc, such as between him 
 Vnd my dead father. 
 
 Barb. Are you then thus fix'd ? 
 
 Lored. Why, what should change me? 
 
 Barb, That which changes me; 
 But you, I know, are marble to retain 
 A feud. But when all is accomplish'd, when 
 The old man is deposed, his name degraded. 
 His sons all dead, his family depress'd, 
 And you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep? 
 
 Lored. More soundly. 
 
 Barb. That's an error, and you'll find it 
 Ere you sleep with your fathers. 
 
 Lored. They sleep not 
 In their accelerated graves, nor will, 
 Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them 
 Stalk frowning round my couch, and, pointing towards 
 The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 
 
 Barb. Fancy's distemperature! There is no passion 
 More spectral or fantastical than hate; 
 Not even its opposite, love, so peoples air 
 With phantoms, as this madness of the heart. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Lored. Where go you, sirrah ? 
 
 Officer. By the ducal order 
 To forward the preparatory rites 
 For the late Foscari's interment. 
 
 Barb. Their 
 Vault has been often open'd of late years. 
 
 Lored. 'Twill be full soon, and may be closed for ever. 
 
 Officer. May I pass on? 
 
 Lored. You may. 
 
 Barb. How bears the Doge 
 This last calamity? 
 
 Officer, With desperate firmness. 
 In presence of another he says little, 
 But I perceive his lips move now and then ; 
 And once or twice I heard him, from the adjoining 
 Apartment, mutter forth the words — "My son !" 
 Scarce audibly. I must proceed. , [Exit oniter. 
 
 Barb. This stroke 
 Will move all Venice in his favour. 
 
 Lored. Right! 
 We must be speedy : let us call together 
 The delegates appointed to convey 
 The Council's resolution. 
 
 Barb. I protest 
 Against it at this moment. 
 
 Lored. As you ple^ase — 
 I'll take their voices on it ne'erthelcss, 
 And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine. 
 
 [Exeunt Burbari^o and Lorcdano. 
 
 I 
 
428 
 
 THE TWO FOSCaRI. 
 
 ACT 
 
 ACT 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Doge's Apartment. 
 The Doge and Attendants. 
 
 Attendant. My lord, the deputation is in waiting; 
 But add, that if another hour would better 
 Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 
 
 Doffe. To me all hours are like. Let them approach. 
 
 [Exit Attendant. 
 
 An Officer. Prince! I have done your bidding. 
 
 Doge. What command? 
 
 Officer. A melancholy one — to call the attendance 
 Of— 
 
 Doge. True — true — true: I crave your pardon. I 
 Begin to fall in apprehension, and 
 Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
 Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
 To overtake me. 
 
 Enter the Deputation, consisting of six Of the Signory, and the Chief 
 of the Ten. 
 
 Noble men, your pleasure ! [condole 
 
 Chief of the Ten. In the first place, the Council doth 
 With the Doge on his late and private grief. 
 
 Doge. No more — no more of that. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Will not the Duke 
 Accept the homage of respect? 
 
 Doge. I do 
 Accept it as 'tis given — proceed. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. The Ten, 
 With a selected Giunta from the senate 
 Of twcnty-tive of the best-born patricians, 
 Having deliberated on the state 
 Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 
 Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 
 Your years, so long devoted to your country, 
 Havejudged it fitting, with all reverence, 
 Now to solicit from your wisdom (which 
 Upon reflection must accord in this) 
 The resignation of the ducal ring. 
 Which you have worn so long and venerably; 
 And, to prove that they are not ungrateful nor 
 Cold to your years and services, they add 
 An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
 Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
 Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 
 
 Doge. Did I hear rightly? 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Need I say again? 
 
 Doge. No. — Have you done? 
 
 Chief of the Ten. I have spoken. Twenty-four 
 Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 
 
 Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We 
 Will now retire. 
 
 Doge. Stay ! Four and twenty hours 
 Will alter nothing which I have to say. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Speak! 
 
 Doge. When I twice before reiterated 
 My wish to abdicate, it was refused me; 
 And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
 An oath from me that I would never more 
 Ilcnew this instance. I have sworn to die 
 In full exertion of the functions which 
 My country call'd me here to exercise. 
 According to my honour and my conscience — 
 I cannot break my oath. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Reduce us not 
 To the alternative of a decree, 
 Instead of your compliance. 
 
 Doge. Providence • 
 
 Prolongs my days to prove and chasten me ; 
 But ye have no right to reproach my length 
 Of days, since every hour has been the country's 
 I am ready to lay down ray life for her, 
 As I have laid down dearer things than life : 
 But for my dignity — I hold it of 
 The whole republic; when the general will 
 Is manifest, then you shall all be answer'd. [canr 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We grieve for such an answer ; bir 
 Avail you aught. 
 
 Doge. I can submit to all things. 
 But notliing will advance; no, not a moment. 
 What you decree — decree. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. With this, then, must we 
 Return to those who sent us ? 
 
 Doge. You have heard me. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. With all due reverence wc retire. 
 
 [Exeunt the Deputation 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 Attendant. My lord. 
 The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 
 Doge. My time is hers. 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 
 Marina. My lord, if I intrude — , 
 
 Perhaps you fain would be alone ? 
 
 Doge. Alone! 
 Alone, come all the world around me, I 
 Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. 
 
 Marina. We will; and for the sake of those who ari 
 Endeavour — Oh my husband ! 
 
 Doge. Give it way; 
 I cannot comfort thee. 
 
ACT V. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 429 
 
 Marina, He might have lived, 
 So form'd for gentle privacy of life, 
 So loving, so beloved, the native of 
 Another land; and who so blest and blessing 
 As my poor Foscari? Nothing was wanting 
 Unto his happiness and mine save not 
 To be Venetian. 
 
 Doge. Or a prince's son. 
 
 Marina. Yes; all things which conduce to other men's 
 Imperfect happiness or high ambition. 
 By some strange destiny to him proved deadly. 
 The country and the people whom he loved, 
 The prince of whom he was the elder born. 
 And — 
 
 Doge. Soon may be a prince no longer. 
 
 Marina. How? 
 
 Doge. They have taken my son from me, and now aim 
 At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
 Let them resume the gewgaws! 
 
 Marina. Oil the tyrants! 
 In such an hour too! 
 
 Doge. 'Tis the fittest time: 
 An hour ago I should have felt it 
 
 Marina. And 
 Will you not now resent it? — Oh for vengeance ! 
 But he, w ho, had he been enough protected. 
 Might have repaid protection in this moment, 
 Cannot assist his father. 
 
 Doge. Nor should do so 
 Against liis country, had he a thousand lives 
 Instead of that — 
 
 Marina. They tortured from him. This 
 May be pure patriotism. I am a woman : 
 To me my husband and my children were 
 m Ilountry and home. I loved kim — how I loved him! 
 
 have seen him pass through such ordeal as 
 Che old martyrs would have shrunk from: he is gone, 
 Vnd I, who would have given my blood for him, 
 lave nought to give but tears ! But could I compass 
 The retribution of his wrongs! — Well, well; 
 
 have sons who shall be men. 
 
 Doge. Your grief distracts you. [him 
 
 Marina. I thought I could have borne it, when I .saw 
 lOw'd down by such oppression; yes, I thought 
 
 hat I would rather look upon his corse 
 'han Iiis prolong'd captivity: I am punish'd 
 'or that thought now. Would I were in his grave! 
 
 Doge. I must look on him once more. 
 
 Marina. Come with me! 
 
 Doge. 1.S he — 
 
 Marina. Our bridal bed is now his bier. 
 
 Doge. And he is in his shroud t 
 
 Marina. Come, come, old man ! 
 
 [Exeunt the Doge and Marina. 
 
 Enter Barbarigo and Lorbda.no. 
 
 Barh. (to an Attendant). Where is the Doge? 
 
 Attendant. This in.stant retired hence 
 i^^ith the illu.strious lady, his son's widow. 
 { Lored. Where? 
 
 Attendant. To the chamber where the body lies. 
 
 Barb. Let us return then. 
 
 Lored. You forget, you cannot. 
 We have the implicit order of the Giunta 
 To await their coming here, and join them in 
 Their office : they'll be here soon after us. 
 
 Barb. And will they press their answer on the Doge? 
 
 Lored. 'Twas his own wish that all should be done 
 promptly. 
 He answer'd quickly, and must so be answer'd ; 
 His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
 Cared for — what would he more? 
 
 Barb. Die in his robes. 
 He could not have lived long; but I have done 
 My best to save his honours, and opposed 
 This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
 Why would the general vote compel me hither? 
 
 Lored. 'Twas fit that some one of such different thoughts 
 From ours should be a witness, lest false tongues 
 Should whisper that a harsh majority 
 Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 
 
 Barb. And not less, I must needs think, for the sake 
 Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 
 You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
 Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 
 A very Ovid in the art oi hating ; 
 'Tis thus (although a secondary object, 
 Yet hate has microscopic eyes) to you 
 I owe, by way of foil to the more zealous, 
 This undesired association in 
 Your Giunta's duties. 
 
 Lored. How ! — my Giunta ! 
 
 Barb. Yours! 
 They speak your language, watch your nod, approve 
 Your plans, and do your work. Are they not yours 1 
 
 Lored. You talk unwarily. 'Twere best they hear not 
 This from you. 
 
 Barb. Oh! they'll hear as much one day 
 From louder tongues than mine : they have gone beyond 
 Even their exorbitance of power; and when 
 This happens in the most contemn'd and abject 
 States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 
 
 Lored. You talk but idly. 
 
 Barb. That remains for proof. 
 Here come our colleagues. 
 
 Enter the Deputation as before. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Is the Duke aware 
 We seek his presence? 
 
 Attendant. He .shall be inform'd. [Exit Attendant 
 
 Barb. The Duke is with his son. , 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Kit be so. 
 We will remit him till the rites are over. 
 Let us return. 'Tis time enough to-morrow. 
 
 Lored. (aside to Barb.) No w the rich man's hell -fire upon 
 your tongue, 
 Unquench'd, unquenchable! I'll have it torn 
 From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
 Nothing but sobs tlirough blood, for this ! Sage signors, 
 I pray ye be not hasty. [Aloud to the othera. 
 
 Barb. But be human ! 
 
 Lored. See, the Duke comes! 
 
430 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Knter the Doge. 
 
 Doye. I have obey'd your summons. [re<juest. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We come once more to urge our past 
 
 Doge. And I to answer. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. What? 
 
 Doge, My only answer. 
 You have heard it. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Hear j/oM then the last decree, " 
 Definitive and absolute! 
 
 Doge. To the point — 
 To the point! I know of old the forms of office, 
 And g-entle preludes to strong acts — Go on ! [released 
 
 Chief of the Ten. You are no longer Doge; you arc 
 From your imperial oath as sovereign; 
 Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
 Your services, the state allots the appanage 
 Already mention'd in our former congress. 
 Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
 Under the penalty to see confiscated 
 All your own private fortune. 
 
 Doge. That last clause, 
 I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke! 
 
 Lored. Your answer, Francis Foscari ! 
 
 Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old age 
 Was prejudicial to the state, the chief 
 Of the republic never would have shown 
 Himself so far ungrateful as to place 
 His own high dignity before his country; 
 But this life having been so many years 
 Isot useless to that country, I would fain 
 Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
 But the decree being render' d, I obey. 
 
 Chief of the Ten, If you would have the three days 
 named extended. 
 We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
 As sign of our esteem. 
 
 Doge. Not eigiit hours, signor. 
 Nor even eight minutes. — There's the ducal ring, 
 
 [Taking off his ring and cap. 
 
 And there the ducal diadem. And so 
 The Adriatic's free to wed another. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Yet go not forth SO quickly. 
 
 Doge. I am old, sir, 
 And even to move but slowly must begin 
 To move betimes. Methinks I see amongst you 
 A face I know not — Senator! your name, 
 You, by your garb. Chief of the Forty ! 
 
 Memmo. Signor, 
 I am the son of Marco Memmo. 
 
 Doge. Ah! 
 Your father was my friend, — But sons aad fathers! — 
 What, ho ! my servants there ! 
 
 Attendant, My prince ! 
 
 Doge. No prince — 
 There are the princes of the prince ! 
 
 [Pointing to the Ten's Deputation. 
 
 Prepare 
 
 To part from hence upon the instant. 
 
 Chief of the Ten Why 
 So rashly? 'twill give scandal. 
 
 Doge, Answer that; [TotheT* 
 
 It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves ! 
 
 [To the Seivs 
 
 There is one burthen which I beg you bear 
 With care, although 'tis past all farther harm — 
 But I will look to that myself. 
 
 Barb. He means 
 The body of his son. 
 
 Doye. And call Marina, 
 My daughter ! "^ 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 
 Doge. Get thee ready, we must mourn 
 Elsewhere. 
 
 Marina, And every where. 
 
 Doge. True; but in freedom. 
 Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
 Signors, you may depart: what would you more? 
 We are going; do you fear that we shall bear 
 The palace with us? Its old walls, ten times 
 As old as I am, and I'm very old. 
 Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
 Could tell a tale; but I invoke them not 
 To fall upon you! else they would, as erst 
 The pillars of stone Dagoii's temple on 
 The Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
 Such power I do believe there might exist 
 In such a curse as mine, provoked hy such 
 As you; but I curse not. Adieu, good signors! 
 May the next duke be better than the present ! 
 
 Lored. T\\c present duke is Paschal Malipiero. 
 
 Doge. Not till I pass the threshold of these doors. 
 
 Lored. Saint Mark's great bell is soon about to tol 
 For his inauguration. 
 
 Doge. Earth and heaven ! 
 Ye will reverberate this peal; and I 
 Live to hear this ! — the first doge who e'er heard 
 Such sound for his successor! Happier he. 
 My attainted predecessor, stern Faliero — 
 This insult at the least was spared him. 
 
 Lored. What! 
 Do you regret a traitor? 
 
 Doge. No — I merely 
 Envy tlie dead. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
 Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
 Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
 By the private staircase, which conducts you towardij 
 The landing-place of the canal. 
 
 Doge. No. I 
 Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
 To sovereignty — the Giant's Stairs, on whose 
 Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
 My services have call'd me up those steps, 
 The malice of my foes will drive me down them. 
 Tliere five and thirty years ago was I 
 Install'd, and traversed these same lialls from which 
 I never thought to be divorced except 
 A corse — a corse, it might be, fighting for them — 
 But not push'd hence by fellow -citizens. 
 
ACT V. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 431 
 
 But, come; my son and I will go together — 
 He to liis grave, and I to pray for mine. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. What, thus in public? 
 
 Doge. I was publicly 
 Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
 Marina! art thou willing? 
 
 Marina. Here's my arm ! 
 
 Doi/e. And here my staff: thus propp'd will I go forth. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. It must not be — the people will 
 perceive it. [know it, 
 
 Doge. The people! — There's no people, you well 
 Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
 Tliere is a populace, perhaps, whose looks 
 May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse you, 
 Save with their hearts and eyes. 
 
 Chief of the T*in. You speak in passion. 
 Else — 
 
 Doge. You have reason. I have spoken much 
 More than my wont: it is a foible which 
 Was not of mine, but more excuses you, 
 Inasmuch as it shows that I approacli 
 A dotage which may justify this deed 
 Of yours, although the law does not, nor will. 
 Farewell, sirs! 
 
 Barb. You shall not depart without 
 An escort fitting past and present rank. 
 We will accompany, with due respect. 
 The Doge unto his private palace. Say! 
 My brethren, will we not? 
 
 Different Voices. Ay ! — Ay ! 
 
 Doge. You shall not 
 '3tir — in my train, at least. I entcr'd liere 
 \s sovereign — I go out as citizen, 
 By the same portals, but as citizen, 
 yi these vain ceremonies are base insults, 
 i^Vhich only ulcerate the heart the more, 
 [Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
 Pomp is for princes — I am none! — That's false, 
 am, but only to these gates. — Ah ! 
 
 Lored. Hark! [1 lie great bell of St. Mark's toils. 
 
 Barb. The bell! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. St. Mark's, which tolls for the election 
 )fMalipiero. 
 
 Doge. Well I recognize 
 'he sound I I heard it once, but once before, 
 ind that is five and thirty years ago ; 
 5ven then I was not young. 
 
 Barb. Sit down, my lord! 
 Tou tremble. 
 
 Doge. 'Tis the knell of my poor boy ! 
 ly heart aches bitterly. 
 
 Barb. I pray you sit. 
 
 Doge. No; my scat here has been a throne till now. 
 tarina! Ictus go. 
 
 Marina. Most readily. 
 
 Doge (walks a few steps, then stops). 
 
 feel athirst — will no one bring me here * 
 cup of water? 
 Barb. I — 
 Marina. And I — 
 
 Lored. And I — 
 
 [The Doge takes a goblet from the hand of Loredano. 
 
 Doge. I take yours, Loredano, from the hand 
 Most fit for such an hour as this. 
 
 Lored. Why so ? 
 
 Doge. 'Tis said that our Venetian crystal has 
 Such pure antipathy to poisons, as 
 To burst if aught of venom touches it. 
 You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 
 
 Lored. Well, sir! 
 
 Doge. Then it is false, or you are true. 
 For my own part, I credit neither; 'tis 
 An idle legend. 
 
 Marina. You talk wildly, and 
 Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
 Depart. Ah! now you look as look'd my husband! 
 
 Barb. He sinks! — support him! — quick — a chair 
 — support him! [on fire! 
 
 Doge. The bell tolls on ! — let's hence — my brain's 
 
 Barb. I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 
 
 Doge, No ! 
 A sovereign should die standing. My poor boy! 
 
 Oft' with your arms !— That bell! [TheDoge drops down and dies. 
 
 Marina. My God! My God! 
 
 Barb, (to Lored.) Echold ! your work's completed ! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Is there then 
 No aid? Call in assistance ! 
 
 Attendant. 'Tis all over. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his obsequies 
 Shall be such as befits his name and nation, 
 His rank and his devotion to the duties 
 Of the realm, while his age permitted him 
 To do himself and them full justice. Urethrcn, 
 Say, shall it not be so? 
 
 Barb. He has not had 
 The misery to die a subject where 
 He reign'd : then let his funeral rites be princely. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then? 
 
 [All, except Loredano, answer 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with him ! 
 
 Marina. Signors, your pardon : this is mockery. 
 Juggle no more w ith that poor remnant, which, 
 A moment since, while yet it had a soul 
 (A soul by whom you have increased your empire, 
 And made your power as proud as was his glory). 
 You banish'd from his palace, and tore down 
 From his high place with such relentless coldness ; 
 And now, when he can neither know these honours, 
 Nor would accept them if lie could, you, signors, 
 Purpose, with idle and superfluous pomp. 
 To make a pageant over what you trampled. 
 A princely funeral will be your reproach. 
 And not his honour. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Lady, we revoke not 
 Our purposes so readily. 
 
 Marina. I know it. 
 As far as touches torturing the living. 
 I thought the dead had been beyond even you, [may 
 
 Though (some, no doubt,) consign'd to powers which 
 
432 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Resemble that you exercise on earth. 
 
 Leave him to me; you would have done so for 
 
 His dregs of life, which you have kindly shorten'd: 
 
 It is my last of duties, and may prove 
 
 A dreary comfort in my desolation. 
 
 Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, 
 
 And the apparel of the grave. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Do you 
 Pretend still to this office? 
 
 Marina. I do, signor. 
 Though his possessions have been all consumed 
 In the state's service, I have still my dowry, 
 Which shall be consecrated to his rites. 
 
 And those of — [She stops with agitation. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Best retain it for your children, 
 
 Marina. Ay, they are fatherless, I thank you. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We 
 Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
 Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and follow'd 
 Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
 As Doge, but simply as a senator. 
 
 Marina. I have heard of murderers, who have interr'd 
 Their victims; but ne'er heard, until this hour, 
 
 Of so much splendour in hypocrisy 
 
 O'er those they slew. I've heard of widows' tears — 
 
 Alas ! I have shed some — always thanks to you! 
 
 I've heard of heirs in sables — you have left none 
 
 To the deceased, so you would act the part 
 
 Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done! as one day, 
 
 I trust. Heaven's will be done too ! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Know you, lady, 
 To whom ye speak, and perils of such speech? 
 
 Marina. I know the former better than yourselves; 
 The latter — like yourselves; and can face both. 
 Wish you more funerals? 
 
 Barb. Heed not her rash words ; 
 Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We will not note them down. 
 
 Barb, (tumlug to Loredano, who is writing upon his tablets) 
 
 What art thou writing. 
 
 With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets? 
 
 Lored. (pointing to the Doge's body). 
 
 That he has paid me! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe you ? 
 Lored. A long and just one; Nature's debt and min 
 
 [Curtain fag 
 
433 
 
 . '<i : 3«0^ 
 
 SARDANAPALUS, 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOTHE. 
 
 A STRANGKK PKESUMES TO OFFER THB HOMAUE OF A LITKRARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEOE-LORU, THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, WHO HAS CREATED THE 
 LITEBATURE OF HIS OWN COLNTRYj AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OP EOKOPE. THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO 
 
 HIM IS ENTITLED 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I.N publishing the Tragedies of Sardanapalus, and of 
 ATlie Two Foscari, I have only to repeat, that they were 
 not composed with the most remote view to tlje stage. 
 
 On the attempt made by the Managers in a former in- 
 stance, the public opinion has been already expressed. 
 
 With regard to my own private feelings, as it seems 
 that they are to stand for nothing, I shall say nothing. 
 
 For the historical foundation of the compositions in 
 ijucstion, the reader is referred to the Notes. 
 
 The Author has in one instance attempted to preserve, 
 ind in the other to approach the unities; conceiving that 
 with any very distant departure from them, there may be 
 joetry, but can be no drama. He is aware of the unpo- 
 
 pularity of this notion in present English literature ; but 
 it is not a system of his own, being merely an opinion, 
 which, not very long ago, was the law of literature 
 throughout the world, and is still so in the more civilized 
 parts of it. But "Nous avons change tout cela," and are 
 reaping the advantages of the change. The writer is far 
 from conceiving that anj^ thing he can adduce by per- 
 sonal precept or example can at all approach his regular, 
 or even irregular, predecessors: he is merely giving a 
 reason why he preferred the more regular formation of a 
 structure, however feeble, to an entire abandonment of 
 all rules whatsoever. Where he has failed, the failure is 
 in the architect, — and not in the art. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 5AKDANAPAHJS, King of Nineveh and Assyria. 
 ^RBACES, the Mede who aspired to the Throne. 
 Jeleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 
 >ALEMENES, the King's Brother-in-law. 
 kLTADA, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 
 *ANIA. 
 ^AMES. 
 iFERO. 
 
 Ialea. 
 
 WOMEN 
 
 Zarina, the Queen. 
 
 Myrrha, an Ionian female Slave, and the Favourite of 
 
 Sardanapalus. 
 Women composing the Harem 0/ SARDANAPALUS, Guards, 
 
 Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes. 
 
 Scene — a Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh. 
 
 A C T I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hall ill the Palace. 
 
 Salemenes (solus). He hath wrong'd his queen , but still 
 he is her lord; 
 le hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother ; 
 le hath wrong'd his people, still he is their sovereign, 
 ^nd I must be his friend as well as subject: 
 le must not perish thus. I will not sec 
 
 The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis 
 Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
 Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale; 
 He must be roused. In his efleminate heart 
 There is a careless courage which corruption 
 Has not all quench'd, and latent energies, 
 Represt by circumstance, but not destroy'd — 
 Steep'd. but not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness. 
 If born a peasant, he had been a man 
 
 28 
 
434 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 To have reach'd an empire; to an empire born, 
 
 He will bequeath none; nothing but a name, 
 
 Which his sons will not prize in heritage: — 
 
 Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
 
 His slotli and shame, by only being that 
 
 Which he should be, as easily as the thing 
 
 He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
 
 To sway his nations than consume his life? 
 
 To Iiead an army than to rule a harem? 
 
 He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul, 
 
 And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield not 
 
 Health like tiie chase, nor glory like the war — 
 
 He must be roused. Alas! there is no sound 
 
 [Sound of soft music heard from within. 
 
 To rouse him short of thunder. Hark! thelute, 
 The lyre, the timbrel; the lascivious tinklings 
 Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
 Of women, and of beings less than women, 
 Must chime in to the echo of his revel, 
 While tlie great king of all we know of earth 
 Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
 Lies negligently by to be caught up 
 By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it. 
 Lo, where they come! already I perceive 
 The reeking odours of the perfumed trains. 
 And see the bright gems of the glittering girls. 
 Who are his comrades and his council, llash 
 Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels. 
 As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female, 
 The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. 
 He comes ! Sliall I await him? yes, and front him, 
 And tell him what all good men tell each other. 
 Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves, 
 Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 
 
 SCENE IL 
 
 Enter Sahdasapalus effeminately dressed, his head crowned with flowers, 
 
 and bis robe negligently flowing, attended by a train of Women and 
 
 young Slaves. 
 
 Sardanapalus (speaking to some of his Attendants). 
 
 Let the pavilion over the Euphrates 
 
 Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish'd forth 
 
 For an especial banquet; at the hour 
 
 Of midnight we will sup there: see nought wanting. 
 
 And bid the galley be prepared. There is 
 
 A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river: 
 
 We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign 
 
 To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
 
 We'll meet again in that the sweetest hour, 
 
 Wiien we shall gather like the stars above us, 
 
 And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs; 
 
 Till then, let each be mistress of her time. 
 
 And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha, choose, 
 
 Wilt thou along with them or me? 
 
 Myrrha. My lord — 
 
 Sard. My lord ! my life, why answcrest thou so coldly? 
 It is the curse of kings to be so answered. [thou 
 
 Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine — say, wouldst 
 Accompany our guests, or charm away 
 The moments from me ? 
 
 Myrrha. The king's choice is mine. 
 
 I 
 
 Sard. I pray thee say not so : my chicfest joy 
 Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
 I do not dare to breathe my own desire, 
 Lest it should clash with thine; for thou art still 
 Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. 
 
 Myrrha. I would remain: I have no happiness 
 Save in beholding thine; yet — 
 
 Sard. Yet, what yet? 
 Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
 Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 
 
 Myrrha. I think the present is the wonted hour 
 Of council; it were better I retire. [let iier reti 
 
 Sal. (comes forward and says) The Ionian slave says we 
 
 Sard. Who answers? How now, brother? 
 
 Sal. The queen's brother. 
 And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. [their hoi 
 
 Sard, (addressing his train) As I havc Said, let all dispG 
 Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 
 
 [The court retie 
 
 (To Myrrha, who is going.) Myrrha! I thought thou wouti 
 
 Myrrha, Great king, [rema 
 
 Thou didst not say so. 
 
 Sard. But thou lookedst it; 
 I know each glance of those Ionic eyes. 
 Which said thou wouldst not leave me. 
 
 Myrrha. Sire! your brother — 
 
 Sal. His consort's brother, minion of Ionia! 
 How darest thou name me and not blush? 
 
 Sard. Not blush! 
 Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make ber crim; 
 Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
 Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows. 
 And then reproach her with thine own cold blindness,*] 
 Which will not see it. What, in tears, my Myrrha? 
 
 Sal. Let them flow on ; she weeps for more than oi 
 And is herself tiie cause of bitterer tears. 
 
 Sard. Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow 
 
 Sal. Curse not thyself — millions do that already 
 
 Sard. Thou dost forget thee : make me not reme 
 I am a monarch. .^ 
 
 Sal. Would thou couldst! 
 
 Myrrha. My sovereign, 
 I pray, and tliou, too, prince, permit my absence. 
 
 Sard. Since it must be so, and this cliurl has chec 
 Thy gentle spirit, go; but recollect 
 That we must forthwith meet: I had rather lose 
 An empire than thy presence. [Exit M; 
 
 Sa/. It may be, 
 Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever! 
 
 Sard Brother, 
 I can at least command myself, who listen 
 To language such as this; yet urge me not 
 Beyond my easy nature. 
 
 Sal. 'Tis beyond 
 Tiiat easy, far too easy, idle nature, 
 Whieii I would urge tl)ep. Oil that I could rouse thei 
 Though 'twere against myself. 
 
 Sard. By tlie god Baal ! 
 The man would make me tyrant. 
 
 Sal. So thou art. 
 Thinkst thou there is no tyranny but that 
 
ACT I. 
 
 SARD ANAPA LUS. 
 
 435 
 
 Of blood and chains ? The despotism of vice — 
 
 The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — 
 
 Tlie negligence — the apathy — the evils 
 
 Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants, 
 
 Whose delegated cruelty surpasses 
 
 The worst acts of one energetic master, 
 
 However harsh and hard in liis own bearing. 
 
 The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
 
 Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
 
 In the same moment all thy pageant power 
 
 And those who should sustain it; so that whether 
 
 A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
 
 Distract within, both will alike prove fatal: 
 
 The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer; 
 
 The last they rather would assist than vanquish. 
 
 Sard. Why, what makes thee the mouth -piece of the 
 people? 
 
 Sal. Forgiveness of the queen my sister's wrongs; 
 A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
 Faitli to the king, a faith he may need shortly. 
 In more than words; respect for Nimrod's line; 
 Also, another thing thou knowest not. 
 
 Sard. What's that? 
 
 Sal. To thee an unknown word. 
 
 Sard. Yet speak it; 
 Hove to learn. 
 
 Sal. Virtue. 
 
 Sard. Not know the word! 
 Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 
 Worse than the rabble's shoiit, or splitting trumpet; 
 I've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 
 , Sal. To change the irksome theme, then, hear of vice. 
 
 Sard. From whom? 
 
 Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen 
 Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 
 
 Sard. Come, I'm indulgent, as thou knowest, patient. 
 As thou hast often proved — speak out, what moves thee ? 
 
 Sal. Thy peril. 
 
 Sard. Say on. 
 
 Sal. Thus, then: all the nations, 
 For they are many, whom thy father left 
 In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. 
 
 Sard. 'Gainst me! What would the slaves? 
 
 Sal. A king. 
 
 Sard. And what 
 Am I then? 
 
 Sal. In their eyes a nothing; but 
 fn mine a man who might be something still. [have? 
 
 Sard. The railing drunkards ! why, what would they 
 Have they not peace and plenty? 
 
 Sal. Of the first, 
 IVIorc tiiau is glorious ; of the last, far less 
 riian the king recks of. 
 
 Sard. Whose then is the crime, 
 I5ut the false satraps, who provide no better? 
 
 Sal. And somewhat in the monarch who ne'er looks 
 Ucyond his palace -walls, or if he stirs 
 liejond tliem, 'tis but to some mountain -palace, 
 nil summer -heats wear down. O glorious Baal ! 
 kVho built up this vast empire, and wert made 
 V^ god, or at the least shinest like a god 
 
 Through the long centuries of thy renown, 
 This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
 As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero, 
 Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril! 
 For what? to furnish imposts for a revel. 
 Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 
 
 Sard. I understand thee — thou wouldst have me go 
 Forth as a conqueror^By all the stars 
 Which the Chaldeans read! the restless slaves 
 Deserve that I should curse them with their wishes, 
 And lead them forth to glory. 
 
 Sal. Wherefore not? 
 Semiramis — a woman only — led 
 These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
 Of Ganges. 
 
 Sard. 'Tis most true. And /toto return'd ? 
 
 Sal. Why, like a maw — a hero; baffled, but 
 Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, she made 
 Good her retreat to Bactria. 
 
 Sard. And how many 
 Left she behind in India to the vultures? 
 
 Sal, Our annals say not. 
 
 Sard. Then I will say for them — 
 That she had better woven within her palace 
 Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards 
 Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens, 
 And wolves, and men — the fiercer of the three, — 
 Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this gloryl 
 Then let me live in ignominy ever. 
 
 Sal. All warlike spirits have not the same fate. 
 Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
 A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
 Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the realm 
 Which she once sway'd — and thou mightst sway. 
 
 Sard. I sway them — 
 She but subdued them. 
 
 Sal. It may be ere long 
 That they will need her sword more than your sceptre. 
 
 Sard. There was a certain Bacchus, was there not? 
 I've heard my Greek girls speak of such — they say 
 He was a god, that is, a Grecian god, 
 An idol foreign to Assyria's worship. 
 Who conquer'd this same golden realm of Ind 
 Thou prat' st of, where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 
 
 Sal. I have heard of such a man; and thou perceivest 
 That he is deem'd a god for what he did. 
 
 Sard. And in his godship I will honour him — 
 Not much as man. Wliat, ho ! ray cupbearer! 
 
 Sal. What means the king? 
 
 Sard. To worship your new god 
 And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 
 
 Enter Cupbearer, 
 Sard, (addressing the Cupbearer) 
 
 Bring me the golden goblet thick with gems, 
 Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence ! 
 Fill full, and bear it quickly. [Exit Cupbearer. 
 
 Sal. Is this moment 
 A fitting one for the resumption of 
 Thy yet unslept-ofi' revels? 
 
436 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Re-enter Cupbearer, with wine, 
 r Sard, (taking the cup from him) Noble kiiismaii. 
 If these barbarian Greeks of the far sliores 
 And skirts of these our realms lie not, this Bacchus 
 Conquer'd the whole of India, did he not? 
 
 Sal. He did, and thence was deem'd a deity. 
 
 Sard. Not so : — of all his conquests a few columns, 
 Which may be his, and miglit be mine, if I 
 Thought them worth purchase and conveyance, are 
 The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed. 
 The realms he wasted, and the hearts he broke. 
 But here, here in this goblet is his title 
 To immortality — the immortal grape 
 From which he first express'd the soul, and gave 
 To gladden that of man, as some atonement 
 For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 
 Had it not been for this, he would have been 
 A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 
 And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 
 A sort of semi-glorious human monster. 
 Here's that which deified him — let it now 
 Humanize thee; my surly, chiding brother, 
 Pledge me to the Greek god! 
 
 Sal. For all thy realms 
 I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 
 
 Sard. That is to say, thou thinkest him a hero, 
 That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god, 
 Because he turn'd a fruit to an enchantment, 
 Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 
 The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, 
 And Fear her danger ; opens a new world 
 When this, the present, palls. Well, then, /pledge thee 
 And him as a true man, who did his utmost 
 In good or evil to surprise mankind. [Drinks. 
 
 Sal. Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour? 
 
 Sard. And if I did, ^tvvere better than a trophy, 
 Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
 My present purpose : since thou wilt not pledge me, 
 Continue what thou pleasest. 
 
 (To the Cupbearer) Boy, retire. [Exit Cupbearer. 
 
 Sal. I would but have recall'd thee from thy dream : 
 Better by me awaken'd than rebellion. 
 
 Sard. Who should rebel? or why ? what cause? pretext? 
 lam the lawful king, descended from 
 A race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
 What have I done to thee, or to the people, 
 That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up against me? 
 
 Sctl. Of what thou hast done to me, I speak not. 
 
 Sard. But 
 Thou thinkst that I have wrong'd the queen : is't not so? 
 
 Sal. Think! Thou hast wrong'd her! 
 
 Sard, Patience, prince, and hear me. 
 She has all power and splendour of her station. 
 Respect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs. 
 The homage and the appanage of sovereignty. 
 I married her as monarchs wed — for state, 
 And loved her as most husbands love their wives. 
 If she or thou supposedst I could link me 
 Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate. 
 Ye knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 
 
 Sal. I pray thee, change the theme; my blood disdains 
 
 Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 
 Reluctant love even from Assyria's lord! 
 Nor would she deign to accept divided passion 
 With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 
 The queen is silent. 
 
 Sard. And why not her brother? 
 
 Sal. 1 only echo thee the voice of empires, 
 Which he who long neglects not long will govern. 
 
 Sard. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! thr 
 murmur 
 Because I have not shed their blood, nor led them 
 To dry into the desert's dust by myriads. 
 Or whiten with their bones the banks of Ganges; 
 Nor decimated them with savage laws. 
 Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 
 Or Babylonian walls. i 
 
 Sal. Yet these are trophies 
 More worthy of a people and their prince 
 Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concubines. 
 And lavish'd treasures, and contemned virtues. 
 
 Sard. Now, for my trophies I have founded cities : 
 There's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
 In one day — what could that blood-loving beldame, i 
 My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 
 Do more, except destroy them? 
 
 Sal. 'Tis most true: 
 I own thy merit in those founded cities, 
 Built for a whim, recorded with a verse 
 Which shames both them and thee to coming ages. 
 
 Sard. Shame me! By Baal, the cities, though \V( 
 Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say what [b 1 1 i 
 Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of life or rule. 
 But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief record. 
 Why, those few lines contain the history 
 Of ail things liuman; hear — "Sardanapalus 
 The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
 In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
 Eat, drink, and love; the rest's not worth a fillip." 
 
 Sal. A worthy moral, and a wise inscription. 
 For a king to put up before his subjects ! [edicts 
 
 Sard. Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless set i 
 "Obey the king, contribute to his treasure — 
 Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at bidding — 
 Fall down and worship, or get up and toil." 
 Or thus — "Sardanapalus on this spot 
 Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
 These are their sepulchres, and this his trophy." 
 I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
 For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
 The weiglit of human misery less, and glide 
 UngToaning to the tomb; I take no licence 
 Whit-h I deny to them. We all are men. 
 
 Sal. Thy sires have been revered as gods — 
 
 Sard. In dust 
 And death, where they are neither gods nor men. 
 Talk not of such to me ! The worms are gods; 
 At least they banqueted upon your gods, 
 And died for lack of farther nutriment. 
 Tliose gods were merely men ; look to their issue — 
 I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 
 But nothing godlike, unless it may be 
 
ACT I. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 437 
 
 Tlie thing wliicli you condemn, a disposition 
 To love and to be merciful, to pardon 
 The follies of my species, and (that's human) 
 To be indulgent to my own. 
 
 Sal. Alas! 
 The doom of Nineveh is seal'd. — Woe — woe 
 To the unrivall'd city ! 
 
 Sard. What dost dread? 
 
 Sal. Thou art guarded by thy foes : in a few hours 
 The tempest may break out which overwhelms thee, 
 And thine and mine ; and in another day 
 What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 
 
 Sard. What must we dread? 
 : Sal. Ambitious treachery, 
 Which has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
 riiere is resource : empower me with thy signet 
 To quell the machinations, and I lay 
 The heads of thy chief foes before thy feet. 
 
 Sard. The heads — how many ? 
 
 Sal. Must I stay to number 
 When even thine own's in peril ? Let me go ; 
 jive me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 
 
 Sard. I will trust no man with unlimited lives. 
 iVlieu we take those from others, we nor know 
 PVhat we have taken, nor the thing we give. [thine ? 
 
 Sal. Wouldst thou not take their lives wlio seek for 
 
 Sard. That's a liard question. — But, I answer Yes. 
 annot the tiling be done without? Who are they 
 iVhom thou suspectest? — Let them be arrested, [ment 
 
 Sal. I would thou wouldst not ask me; the next mo- 
 »Vill send my answer tijrough thy babbluig troop 
 )f paramours, and thence fly o'er tlie palace, 
 ilven to the city, and so baffle all. — 
 I'rust me. 
 
 ( Sard. Thou knowest I have done so ever ; 
 pke tliou the signet. . [Gives the Signet. 
 
 Sal. I have one more request. 
 
 Sard. Name it. 
 
 Sal. That thou this niglit forbear the banquet 
 n the pavilion over the Euphrates. 
 
 Sard. Forbear the banquet! Not for all the plotters 
 'hat ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come, 
 .nd do their worst: 1 shall not blench for them; 
 for rise the sooner ; nor forbear the goblet ; 
 
 or crown me with a single rose the less; 
 lior lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not, [needful ? 
 )| Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, if 
 
 Sard. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armour, and 
 
 sword of such a temper; and a bow 
 
 nd javelin, Avhich might furnish Nimrod forth: 
 
 little lieavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
 
 nd now 1 tiiink ou't, 'tis long since I've used them, 
 
 ven in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brotiier? 
 
 Sal. Is this a time for such fantastic trifling? — 
 
 need be, wilt thou wear them? 
 
 Sard. Will I not? — 
 
 Ii ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
 
 till not be ruled with less, I'll use tlie sword 
 
 ill they shall wish it turn'd into a distafl. 
 
 Sal. Tiiey say, thy sceptre "s turn'd to that already. 
 I Sard. That's false! but let them say so: the old Greeks, 
 
 Of whom our captives often sing, related 
 The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
 Because he loved a Lydiaii queen ; thou seest 
 The populace of all the nations seize 
 Each calumny they can to sink their sovereigns. 
 
 Sal. They did not speak thus of thy fathers. 
 
 Sard. No; 
 They dared not. They were kept to toil and combat. 
 And never changed their chains but for their armour; 
 Now they have peace and pastime, and the licence 
 To revel and to rail; it irks me not. 
 I would not give the smile of one fair girl 
 For all the popular breath that e'er divided 
 A name from nothing. What are tlie rank tongues 
 Of this vile herd, grown insolent with feeding. 
 That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread 
 Their noisome clamour? 
 
 Sal. You have said they are men ; 
 As such their hearts are something. 
 
 Sard, So my dogs' are; 
 And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed : 
 Thou hast my signet : — since they are tumultuous, 
 Let them be temper'd, yet not roughly, till 
 Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain, 
 Given or received ; we have enough within us. 
 The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch. 
 Not to add to eac^h other's natural burthen 
 Of mortal misery, but ratlier lessen, 
 By mild reciprocal alleviation, 
 The fatal penalties imposed on life; 
 But thi.s they know not, or they will not know. 
 I have, by Baal I done all I could to soothe tliem: 
 I made no wars, I added no I'ew imposts, 
 1 interfered not with their civic lives, 
 I let them pass llieir days as best might suit them. 
 Passing my own as .suited me. 
 
 Sal. Thou stopp'st 
 Short of the duties of a king; and therefore 
 They say thou art unfit to be a monarch, 
 
 Sard. They lie, — Unhappily, I am unfit 
 To be aught save a monarch ; else, for me, 
 The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 
 
 Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who seeks to be so, 
 
 Sard. What meanst thou? — 'tis thy secret; thou 
 Few questions, and I'm not of curious nature, [desirest 
 Take the fit steps ; and, since necessity 
 Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne'er 
 Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
 The peaceful only ; if they rouse me, better 
 They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his ashes, 
 ''The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 
 To one wide desert-chase of brutes, who were, 
 But would no more, by their own choice, be human. 
 What they have found me, tliey belie ; that which 
 They yet may find me — shall defy their wish 
 To speak it worse; and let them thank themselves, 
 
 Sal. Then thou at least canst feel ? 
 
 Sard. Feel ! who feels not 
 Ingratitude ? 
 
 Sal. I will not pause to answer 
 With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake that energy 
 
438 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee, 
 
 And thou mayst yet be glorious in thy reign, 
 
 As powerful in thy realm. Farewell! [Exit Saiemenes. 
 
 Sard, (solus) Farewell! 
 He's gone; and on his finger bears my signet, 
 Which is to him a sceptre. He is stern 
 As I am heedless ; and the slaves deserve 
 To feel a master. What may be the danger, 
 1 know not: — he hath found it, let him quell it. 
 Must I consume my life — this little life — 
 In guarding against all may make it less? 
 It is not worth so much ! It were to die 
 Before my hour, to live in dread of death, 
 Tracing revolt; suspecting all about me, 
 Because they are near; and all who are remote. 
 Because they are far. But if it should be so — 
 If they sliould sweep me oflfrom earth and empire. 
 Why, what is earth or empire of the earth? 
 I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image; 
 To die is no less natural than those — 
 Acts of this clay ! 'Tis true I have not shed 
 Blood, as I might have done, in oceans, till 
 My name became the synonyme of death — 
 A terror and a trophy. But for this 
 I feel no penitence; my life is love: 
 If I must siied bh)od, it shall be by force. 
 Till now no drop from an Assyrian vein 
 Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 
 Of Nineveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish'd 
 On objects which could cost her sons a tear: 
 If then they hate me, 'tis because I hate not; 
 If they rebel, it is because I oppress not. 
 Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, not sceptres, 
 And mow'd down like the grass, else all we reap 
 Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
 Of discontents infecting the fair soil, 
 Making a desert of fertility. — 
 I'll think no more. — Within there, ho ! 
 
 Kilter an Attendant. 
 Sard. Slave, tell 
 The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presence. 
 Attendant. King, she is here. 
 
 Myrrha enters. 
 Sard, (apart to Attendant) A way ! 
 (Addressing Myrrlia) Bcautiful being! 
 
 Thou dost almost anticipate my heart ; 
 
 It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comest : let me 
 
 Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet oracle, 
 
 Communicates between us, though unseen, 
 
 In absence, and attracts us to each other. 
 
 Myrrha. There doth. 
 
 Sard. I know there doth, but not its name; 
 What is it? 
 
 Myrrha, In my native land a God, 
 And in my heart a feeling like a God's, 
 Exalted; yet I own 'tis only mortal, 
 For what I feel is humble, and yet happy — 
 That is, it would be happy ; but — [M.vrri.a pau.-c>. 
 
 Sard. There comes 
 
 For ever something between us and what 
 We deem our happiness : let me remove 
 The barrier which that hesitating accent 
 Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 
 
 Myrrha. My lord ! — [is 
 
 Sard. My lord — my king — sire — sovereign ! thu^f 
 For ever thus, address'd with awe. I ne'er 
 Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 
 Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 
 Have gorged themselves up to equality, 
 Or I have quafl'd me down to their abasement. 
 Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these names, [the 
 Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was I priz 
 That is, I sufler'd them — from slaves and nobles; 
 But when they falter from the lips I love, 
 The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
 Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
 Of this my station,, which represses feeling 
 In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me 
 Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara. 
 And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
 With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers. 
 
 Myrrha. Would tiiat we could ! 
 
 Sard. And dost thou feel this? — Why? 
 
 Myrrha. Then thou wouldst know what thou ca) 
 
 Sard. And that is — [never ki«l 
 
 Myrrha. The true value of a heart ; 
 At least, a woman's. 
 
 Sard. I have proved a thousand — 
 A thousand, and a thousand. 
 
 Myrrha. Hearts? 
 
 Sard. I think so. 
 
 Myrrha. Not one! the time may come thou mayst 
 
 Sard. It will. 
 Hear, Myrrha; Saiemenes has declared — 
 Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
 Who founded our great realm, knows more than I — 
 But Saiemenes has declared my throne 
 In peril. 
 
 Myrrha. He did well. 
 
 Sard. And sayst thou so ? 
 Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared 
 Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, 
 And made thee weep and blush? 
 
 Myrrha. I should do both 
 More frequently, and he did w ell to call me 
 Back to my duty. But thou spakest of peril — 
 Peril to thee — 
 
 Sard. Ay, from dark plots and snares 
 From Medes — and discontented troops and nations, 
 
 I know not what — a labyrinth of things 
 
 A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries: 
 Thou knowst the man — it is his usual custom. 
 But he is honest. Come, we'll tliink no more on't — | 
 But of the midnight-festival. g 
 
 Myrrha. 'Tis time ? 
 
 To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
 Spurn'd his sage cautions? 
 
 Sard. What ! — and dost tliou fear ? [deal 
 
 Myrrha. Fear ! — I'm a Greek, and how should 1 1( 
 A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom? 
 
ACT I. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 439 
 
 qSard. Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale? 
 
 Myrrha, I love. 
 
 Sard. And do not I? I love thee far — far more 
 Than either the brief life or the wide realm, 
 Which, it may be, are menaced ; — j'et I blench not, 
 
 Myrrha. That means thou lovest nor thyself nor me; 
 For he who loves another loves himself, 
 Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
 Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost, 
 
 Sard. Lost! — why, who is the aspiring chief who dared 
 Assume to win them? 
 
 Myrrha. Who is he should dread 
 To try so much ? When he who is their ruler 
 'PorgetsJiimself, will they remember him ? 
 
 Sard, Myrrha! 
 
 Myrrha. Frown not upon me: you have smiled 
 Too often on me not to make those frowns 
 Uittcrer to bear than any punishment 
 Which they may augur. — King, I am your subject ! 
 Vlaster, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved you ! — 
 liOved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
 Vltliougii a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — 
 V. slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
 Ind, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
 )egraded by that passion than by chains ! 
 Hill I have loved you. If that love were strong 
 ilnough to overcome all former nature, 
 Shall it not claim the privilege to save you? 
 
 Sard. Save me, my beauty! Thou art very fair, 
 ind what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 
 
 Myrrha. And witliout love where dwells security? 
 
 Sard. I speak of woman's love. 
 
 Myrrha. The very first 
 >f human life must spring from woman's breast, 
 
 our first small words are taught you from her lips, 
 
 our first tears queuch'd by her, and your last sighs 
 'oo often breathed out in a woman's hearing, 
 IV^hen men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
 •f watching the last hour of him who led them. 
 
 Sard. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speakst music; 
 
 he very chorus of the tragic song 
 
 have heard thee talk of as the favourite pastime 
 
 f thy far fatherland. Nay, weep not — calm thee. 
 
 Myrrha. I weep not. — But I pray thee, do not speak 
 
 bout my fathers or their land. 
 
 Sard. Yet oft 
 
 liou speakest of them. 
 
 Myrrha. True — true: constant thought 
 
 f\\\ overflow in words unconsciously; 
 
 ut when another speaks of Greece, it wounds me. 
 
 Sard. Well, then, how wouldst thou save me, as thou 
 saidst? 
 
 Myrrha. By teaching thee to save thyself, and not 
 
 liysclf alone, but these vast realms, from all 
 
 lie rage of the worst war — the war of brethren. 
 
 Sard. Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors; 
 , ivc in peace and pleasure: what can man 
 
 omore? 
 
 Myrrha. Alas! my lord, with common men 
 *> {lere needs too oft the show of war to keep 
 
 [W 
 
 
 le substance of sweet peace ; and, for a king. 
 
 'Tis sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 
 
 Sard. And I have never sought but for the last. 
 
 Myrrha. And now art neither. 
 
 Sard. Dost thou say so, Myrrha? 
 
 Myrrha. I speak of civic popular love, self-loyc. 
 Which means that men are kept in awe and law, 
 Yet not oppress'd — at least they must not think so ; 
 Or if they think so, deem it necessary. 
 To ward off worse oppression, their own passions. 
 A king offcasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel. 
 And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 
 
 Sard. Glory! what's that? 
 
 Myrrha. Ask of the gods thy fathers. [for them, 
 
 Sard. They cannot answer; when the priests speak 
 'Tis for some small addition to the temple. 
 
 Myrrha. Look tothe annals of thine empire's founders. 
 
 Sard. They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 
 But what wouldst have? the empire has been founded. 
 I cannot go on multiplying empires. 
 
 Myrrha. Preserve thine own. 
 
 Sard. At least, I will enjoy it. 
 Come, Myrrha, let us on to the Euphrates ; 
 The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
 And the pavilion, deck'd for our return, 
 In fit adornment for the evening-banquet. 
 Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
 It seems unto the stars which are above us 
 Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 
 Crown'd with fresh flowers like — 
 
 Myrrha. Victims. 
 
 Sard. No, like sovereigns, 
 The shepherd-kings of patriarchal times. 
 Who knew no brighter gems than summer- wreatlis, 
 And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 
 
 Enter Pania. 
 
 Pania. May the king live for ever ! 
 
 Sard. Not an hour 
 Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
 This language, which makes life itself a lie. 
 Flattering dust with eternity. Well, Pania! 
 Be brief. 
 
 Pania. I am charged by Salemenes to 
 Reiterate his prayer unto tiie king. 
 That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
 The palace : when the general returns. 
 He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
 riis daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
 Of his presumption. 
 
 Sard. What! am I then coop'd? 
 Already captive ? can I not even breathe 
 The breath of heaven? Tell prince Salemenes, 
 Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
 In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 
 
 Pania. I must obey, and yet — 
 
 Myrrha. Oh, monarch, listen ! 
 How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 
 Within these palace-walls in silken dalliance, 
 And never shown thee to thy people's longing; 
 Leaving thy subjects' eyes ungratified. 
 The satraps uncontroll'd, the gods unworshipp'd, 
 
440 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 ACT. 
 
 And all thing's in the anarchy of sloth, 
 
 rill all, save evil, slumber'd through the realm! 
 
 And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, 
 
 A day whinh may redeem thee? Wilt thou not 
 
 yield to the few still faithful a few hours, 
 
 For tliem, for thee, for thy past fathers' race, 
 
 And for thy sons' inheritance? 
 
 Pania. 'Tis true! 
 From the deep urgency with which the prince 
 Despatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
 Must dare to add my feeble voice to that 
 Which now has spoken. 
 
 Sard. No, it must not be. 
 
 Myrrha. For the sake of thy realm ! 
 
 Sard. Away! 
 
 Pania. For that 
 Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
 Round thee and thine. 
 
 Sard. These are mere phantasies; 
 There is no peril : — 'tis a sullen scheme 
 Of Salemenes, to approve his zeal. 
 And show himself more necessary to us. [counsel ! 
 
 Myrrha. By all that's good and glorious, take this 
 
 Sard. Business to-morrow. 
 
 Myrrha. Ay, or death to-night. 
 
 Sard. Why, let it come, then, unexpectedly, 
 'Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and love; 
 So let me fall like the pluck'd rose! — far better 
 Thus than be wither'd. 
 
 Myrrha. Then thou wilt not yield, 
 Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
 A monarch into action, to forego 
 A trifling revel? 
 
 Sard. No. 
 
 Myrrha. Then yield for mine ; 
 For my sake ! 
 
 Sard. Thine, my Myrrha? 
 
 Myrrha. 'Tis the first 
 Boon w hich I e'er ask'd Assyria's king. [granted. 
 
 Sard. That's true ; and were't my kingdom, must be 
 Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence ! 
 Thou hearst me. 
 
 Pania. And obey. [Exit Pania. 
 
 Sard. I marvel at thee. 
 What is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me ? 
 
 Myrrha. Thy safety ; and the certainty that nought 
 Could urge the prince, thy kinsman, to require 
 Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 
 
 Sard. And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou ? 
 
 Myrrha. Because thou dost not fear, I fear for thee. 
 
 Sard. To-morrow thou wiltsmile at these vain fancies. 
 
 I 
 
 Myrrha. If the worst come, I shall be where none weef 
 And that is better than the power to smile. 
 And thou? 
 
 Sard. I shall be king, as heretofore. 
 
 Myrrha. Where? 
 
 Sard. With Baal, Nimrod, and Scmiramis, 
 Sole in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. 
 Fate made we what I am — may make me nothing 
 But either that or nothing must I be: 
 I will not live degraded. 
 
 Myrrha. Hadst thou felt 
 Thus always, none would ever dare degrade thee. 
 
 Sard. And who will do so now? 
 
 Myrrha. Dost thou suspect none? 
 
 Sard. Suspect ! — that's a spy's office. Oh! we lose 
 Ten thousand precious moments in vain words, 
 And vainer fears. Within there ! Ye slaves, deck 
 The hall of Nimrod for the evening-revel : 
 If I must make a prison of our palace, 
 At least we'll wear our fetters jocundly; 
 If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
 The summer-dwelling on its beauteous border, 
 Here we are Still unmenaced. Ho! within there! 
 
 [Kxit Sardanapal 
 
 Myrrha, (sola) Why do I love this man? My ccuntrj 
 daughters 
 Love none but heroes. But I have no country ! 
 The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love him ; 
 And that 's the heaviest link of the long chain — 
 To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 
 1 he hour is coming when he'll need all love. 
 And find none. To fall from him now were baser 
 Than to have stabb'd him on his throne when highest 
 Would have been noble in my country's creed ; 
 I was not made for either. Could I save him, 
 I should not love him better, but myself; 
 And I have need of the last, for I have fallen 
 In my own thoughts, by loving this soft stranger : 
 And yet, methinks, I love him more, perceiving 
 That he is hated of his own barbarians. 
 The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 
 Could I but wake a single thought like those 
 Which even the Phrygians felt, when battling long 
 'Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart, 
 He would tread downthe barbarous crowds, andtriuiBi 
 He loves me, and I love him ; the slave loves 
 Her master, and woujd free him from his vices. 
 If not, I have a means of freedom still, >•'; 
 
 And if I cannot teach him how to reign, i 
 
 May show him how alone a king can leave H 
 
 His throne. I must not lose him from my sight. .@l 
 
ACT II. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS, 
 
 441 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Portal of the same Hall of the Palace. 
 
 dieses, (solus) The sun goes down: methinks he sets 
 akiiig' liis last look of Assyria's empire, [more slowly, 
 JHow red he glares amongst those deepening clouds, 
 
 Like the blood he predicts ! If not in vain, 
 
 Thou sun that siakest, and ye stars which rise, 
 
 |l have outwatch'd ye, reading ray by ray 
 he edicts of your orbs, which make Time tremble 
 or \vhat he brings tJie nations, 'tis tlie furthest 
 
 dour of Assyria's years. And yet how calm ! 
 
 ^a earthquake should announce so great a fall — 
 
 I summer's sun discloses it. You disk. 
 
 To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 
 
 .is everlasting page tiie end of what 
 
 Jeem'd everlasting; but oh ! thou true sun! 
 
 The burning oracle of all that live, 
 
 Ls fountain of all life, and symbol of 
 
 iim who bestows it, Avherefore dost thou limit 
 
 rhy lore'unto calamity? Why not 
 
 Jnfold the rise of days more worthy thine 
 
 Lll-glorious burst from ocean? why not dart 
 
 k beam of hope athwart the future's years, 
 
 isof wrath to its days? Hear me! oh! hear me! 
 am thy w orshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 
 have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall, 
 
 Lnd bow'd my head beneath thy mid-day beams, 
 Vhen my eye dared not meet thee. I have watch'd 
 'or thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee, 
 md sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd thee, 
 lud ask'd of thee, and thou hast answer'd - but 
 >nly to thus much : while I speak, he sinks — 
 3 gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowledge, 
 'o the delighted west, which revels in 
 ts hues of dying glory. Yet what is 
 >eath, so it be glorious? 'Tis a sunset j 
 ^ad mortals may be happy to resemble 
 'he gods but in decay. 
 
 Enter Arbaces, by an inner door. 
 
 Arhaces. Beleses, why 
 orapt in thy devotions? Dost thou stand 
 dazing to trace thy disappearing god 
 ate some realm of undiscover'd day ? 
 'ftr business is with night — 'tis come. 
 
 Beleses. But not 
 one. 
 
 Arhaces. Let it roll on — wc are ready. 
 
 Beleses. Yes. 
 Vould it were over ! 
 
 
 Arbaces. Does the prophet doubt, 
 To whom the very stars shine victory? 
 
 Beleses. I do not doubt of victory — but the victor. 
 
 Arbaces. Well, let thy science settle that. Meantime, 
 I have prepared as many glittering spears 
 As will out-sparkle our allies — your planets. 
 There is no more to thwart us. The she-king, 
 That less than woman, is even now upon 
 The waters with his female mates. The order 
 Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
 The first cup which he drains will be the last 
 Quaff 'd by the line of Nimrod. 
 
 Beleses. 'Twas a brave one. [mend it. 
 
 Arbaces. And is a weak one — 'tis worn out — we'll 
 
 Beleses. Art sure of that? 
 
 Arbaces. Its founder was a hunter — 
 I am a soldier — what is there to fear ? 
 
 Beleses. The soldier. 
 
 Arbaces. And the priest, it may be; but 
 If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
 Your king of concubines? why stir me up? 
 Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
 No less than mine ? 
 
 Beleses, Look to the sky ! 
 
 Arbaces. I look. 
 
 Beleses. What seest thou? 
 
 Arbaces. A fair summer's twilight, and 
 The gathering of the stars. 
 
 Beleses. And midst them, mark 
 Yon earliest, and the brightest, which so quivers. 
 As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 
 
 Arbaces. Well? 
 
 Beleses. 'Tis thy natal ruler — thy birth-planet. 
 
 Arbaces (toucbing his scabbard). 
 
 My star is in this scabbard: when it shines. 
 
 It shall out-dazzle comets. Let us think 
 
 Of what is to be done to justify 
 
 Thy planets and their portents. When we conquer. 
 
 They shall have temples — ay, and priests — .and thou 
 
 iShalt be the pontiff' of — what gods thou wilt; 
 
 For I observe that they are ever just. 
 
 And own the bravest for the most devout. [hast not 
 
 Beleses. Ay, and the most devout for brave — thou 
 .Seen me turn back from battle. 
 
 Arbaces. No; I own thee 
 As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain, 
 As skilful in Chaldea's worship; now. 
 Will it but please thee to forget the priest, 
 And be the warrior ? 
 
 Beleses. Why not both? 
 
 ^riace*. The better ; 
 
 28* 
 
442 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And yet it almost shames me, we sliall have 
 So little to effect. This woman's warfare 
 Degrades the very conqueror. To have pluck'd 
 A bold and bloody despot from his throne, 
 And grappled with him, clashing steel with steel, 
 That were heroic or to win or fall ; 
 But to upraise my sword against this silkworm, 
 And hear him whine, it may be — 
 
 Beleses. Do not deem it : 
 He has that in, him which may make you strife yet; 
 And were he all you think, his guards are hardy, 
 And headed by the cool, stern Salemenes. 
 
 Arhaces. They'll not resist. 
 
 Beleses. Why not? they are soldiers. 
 
 Arbaces. True, 
 And therefore need a soldier to command them. 
 
 Beleses. That Salemenes is. 
 
 Arbaces, But not their king. 
 Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that governs, 
 For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you not 
 He keeps aloof from all the revels? 
 
 Beleses. But 
 Not from tlie council — there he is ever constant, ("more 
 
 Arbaces. And ever thwarted; what would you have 
 To make a rebel out of? A fool reigning, 
 His blood dishonour'd, and himself disdaiu'd; 
 Why, it is his revenge we work for. 
 
 Beleses. Could 
 He but be brought to think so : this I doubt of. 
 
 Arbaces. What, if we sound him ? 
 
 Beleses. Yes — if the time served. 
 
 Enter Balba. 
 
 Balea. Satraps ! the king commands your presence at 
 The feast to-night. 
 
 Beleses. To hear is to obey. 
 In the pavilion? 
 
 Balea. No; here in the palace. 
 
 Arbaces. How ! in the palace? it was not tlius ordcr'd. 
 
 Balea. It is so order'd now. 
 
 Arbaces. Andwhy? 
 
 Balea. I know not. 
 May I retire? 
 
 Arbaces, Stay. 
 
 Beleses. (to Arbaces aside) Hush! let him go his way. 
 (Alternately to Balea.) Ycs, Balea, thank the monarch, kiss 
 Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves [the hem 
 
 Will take the crums he deigns to scatter from 
 His royal table at the hour — was't midnight? 
 
 Balea. It was; the place, the Hall of Nimrod. Lords, 
 I humble me before you, and depart. [Exit Balea- 
 
 Arbaces. I like not this same sudden change of place; 
 There is some mystery ; wherefore should he change it ? 
 
 Beleses. Doth he not change a thousand times a day ? 
 Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
 And moves more parasangs in its intents 
 Than generals in their marches, when they seek 
 To leave their foe at fault. - Why dost thou muse ? 
 
 Arbaces. He loved that gay pavilion — it was ever 
 His summer-dotage. 
 
 Beleses. And he loved his queen — 
 
 And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
 And he has loved all things by turns, except 
 Wisdom and glory. 
 
 Arbaces. Still — I like it not. 
 If he has changed — why, so must we : the attack 
 Were easy in the isolated bower. 
 Beset witli drowsy guards and drunken courtiers; 
 But in the Hall of Nimrod — 
 
 Beleses. Is it so? 
 Methought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
 A throne too easily; does it disappoint thee 
 To find there is a slipperier step or two 
 Than what was counted on? 
 
 Arbaces. When the hour comes. 
 Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. > 
 
 Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily play'd for 
 But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 
 
 Beleses. I have foretold already — thou wilt win it : 
 Then on, and prosper. 
 
 Arbaces. Now, were I a soothsayer, 
 I would have boded so much to myself. 
 But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
 With them, nor their interpreter. Who's here? 
 
 Enter Silemenks. 
 
 Sal. Satraps! 
 
 Beleses. My prince ! 
 
 Sal. Well met — I sought ye both, 
 But elsewhere than the palace. 
 
 Arbaces. Wherefore so ? 
 
 Sal. 'Tis not the hour. 
 
 A rbaces. The hour — what hour ? 
 
 Sal. Of midnight. 
 
 Beleses. Midnight, mj^ lord ! 
 
 Sal. What, are you not invited? 
 
 Beleses. Oh ! yes — we had forgotten. 
 
 Sal. Is it usual 
 Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation ? 
 
 Arbaces. Wiiy — we but now received it. 
 
 Sal. Then wiiy here? 
 
 Arbaces. On duty. 
 
 Sal. On what duty? 
 
 Beleses. On the state's. 
 We have the privilege to approach the presence. 
 But found the monarch absent. 
 
 Sal. And I too 
 Am upon duty, 
 
 Arbaces. May we crave its purport ? 
 
 Sal. To arrest two traitors. Guards! within there!. 
 
 Enter Guards. 
 
 Sal. (continaing) Satraps, 
 Your swords. 
 
 Beleses. (delivering his) My lofd, behold my scimitar. 
 Arbaces. (drawing his sword) Take mine. 
 
 Sal. (advancinc) I will. 
 
 Arbaces. But in your heart the blade — 
 The hilt quits not this hand. 
 
 Sal. (drawing) How ! dost thou brave me? 
 'Tis well — this saves a trial and false mercy. 
 Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 
 
ACT II. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 443 
 
 Arbaces. Soldiers! Ay — 
 Alone you dare not. 
 
 Sal. Alone! foolish slave — 
 What is there in thee that a prince should shrink from 
 Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
 riiy strength : thy tooth is nought without its venom — 
 The serpent's, not the lion's. Cut him down. 
 
 Beleses, (interposing) Arbaces ! are you mad? Have I 
 • not render'd 
 
 My sword? Then trust like me our sovereign's justice. 
 
 Arbaces. No — I will sooner trust the stars thou prat'st 
 \iid this slight arm, and die a king at least [of 
 
 Df my own breath and body — so far that 
 ?iIone else shall chain them. 
 
 Sal. (to tiie Guards) You hear him, and me. 
 Take him not — kill. 
 
 [Tiie Guards attack Arbaces, ■who defends blinself valiantly 
 and denterously till tlicy waver. 
 Sal. Is it even so; and must 
 do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! see 
 low you should fell a traitor. [Salemenes attacks Arbaces. 
 
 Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 
 
 Sard. Hold your hands — 
 Jpon your lives, I say. What, deaf or drunken ? 
 ly sword! Oh fool, I wear no sword: here, fellow, 
 Jive me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 
 
 [Sardanapalus snatches a sword from one of the soldiers, and 
 rushes between the combatants — they separate. 
 
 Sard. In my very palace ! 
 Vhat hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
 
 udacious brawlers? 
 
 Beleses. Sire, your justice. 
 
 Sal. Or - 
 Tour weakness. 
 
 Sard, (raising the sword) How ? 
 
 Sal. Strike ! so the blow's repeated 
 
 pon yon traitor - whom you spare a moment) 
 
 trust, for torture — I'm content. i 
 
 Sard. What — him! 
 Vho dares assail Arbaces? 
 
 Sal. I! 
 
 Sard. Indeed! 
 rincc, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant? 
 
 Sal. (showing the signet) Thine. 
 
 Arbaces. (confused). The king's ! 
 Sal. Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 
 Sard. I parted not from this for such a purpose. 
 Sal. You parted with it for your safety — I 
 mploy'd it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
 ere I am but your slave — a moment past 
 was your representative. 
 Sard. Then sheathe 
 our swords. 
 
 [Arbaces and Salemenes return their swords to the scabbards. 
 
 Sal. Mine's sheathed : I pray you sheathe not yours ; 
 'is the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 
 
 Sard. A heavy one; the hilt, too, hurts my hand. 
 oaGuard) Here, fellow, take thy weapon back. Wei I, sirs, 
 ''hat doth this mean? 
 
 Beleses. The prince must answer that. 
 
 Sal, Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 
 
 Sard. Treason — Arbaces ! . treachery and Btleses ! 
 That were an union I will not believe. 
 
 Beleses. Where is the proof? 
 
 Sal. I'll answer that, if once 
 The king demands your fellow-traitor's sword. 
 
 Arbaces. (to Salemenes) A sword which hath been drawn 
 i^ gainst his foes. [as oft as thine 
 
 Sal. And now against his brother, 
 And in an hour or so against himself. 
 
 Sard, That is not possible: he dared not; no — 
 No — I'll not Ivpar of such things. These vain bickerings 
 Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues and baser 
 Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's lives. 
 You must have been deceived, my brother. 
 
 Sal. First 
 Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
 Proclaim himself your subject by that duty, 
 And I will answer all. 
 
 Sard. Why, if I thought so — 
 But no, it canflot be ; the Mede Arbaces — 
 The trusty, rough, true soldier — the best captain 
 Of all who discipline our nations — No, 
 I'll not insult him thus, to bid him render 
 The scimitar to me he never yielded 
 Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. [signet. 
 
 Sal. (delivering bacit the signet) Monarch, take back your 
 
 Sard. No, retain it; 
 But use it with more moderation. 
 
 Sal. Sire, 
 I used it for your honour, and restore it, 
 Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
 Bestow it on Arbaces. 
 
 Sard. So I should: 
 He never ask'd it. 
 
 Sal. Doubt not, he will have it 
 Without that hollow semblance of respect. 
 
 Beleses. I know not what hath prejudiced the prince 
 So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom none 
 Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 
 
 Sal. Peace, factious priest and faithless .soldier! thou 
 Uuit'st in thy own person the worst vices 
 Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
 Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 
 For those who know thee not. Tliy fellow's sin 
 Is, at the least, a bold one, and not temper'd 
 By the tricks taught thee in Chaldea. 
 
 Beleses. Hear him. 
 My liege — the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
 The worship of the land which bows the knee 
 Before your fathers. 
 
 Sard. Oh ! for that I pray you 
 Let him have absolution. I dispense with 
 The worship of dead men; feeling that I 
 Am mortal, and believing that the race 
 From whence I sprung are — what I see them — ashes. 
 
 Beleses. King! Do not deem so: they are with the 
 And — , [stars, 
 
 Sard. You shall join them there ere they will rise. 
 If you preach farther. — Why, this is rank treason. 
 
 Sal. My lord ! 
 
446 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 How many satraps in his fatlicr's time — 
 For he I own is, or at least was, bloodless — 
 
 Seleses, But will not, can not be so now. 
 
 Arbaces. I doubt it. 
 How many satraps have I seen set out 
 Li iiis sire's day for mighty vice-royalties. 
 Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not how, 
 But they all sicken'd by the way, it was 
 So long and heavy. 
 
 Beleses. Let us but regain 
 The free air of the city, and we'll shorten 
 The journey. 
 
 Arbaces. 'Twill be shorten'd at the gates, 
 It may be. 
 
 Beleses. No; they hardly will risk that. 
 They mean us to die privately, but not 
 Within the palace or tlie city-walls. 
 Where we are known and may have partisans: 
 If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
 No longer with the living. Let us hence. 
 
 Arbaces. If I but thought he did not mean my life — 
 
 Beleses. Fool ! hence — ■ what else should despotism 
 alarm'd 
 Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 
 
 Arbaces. Towards our provinces? 
 
 Beleses. No; towards your kingdom. [means. 
 
 There's time, there's heart, and hope, and power, and 
 Which their half-measures kave us in full scope. — 
 Away ! 
 
 Arbaces. And I, even yet repenting, must 
 Relapse to guilt ! 
 
 Beleses. Self-defence is a virtue, 
 Sole bulwark of all right. Away, 1 say! 
 Let's leave this place, the air grows thick and dioking, 
 And the walls have a scent of night-shade ; hence ! 
 Let us not leave them time for further council. 
 Our quick departure proves our civic zeal ; 
 Our quick departure hinders our good escort, 
 The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
 The orders of some parasangs from hence ; 
 Nay, there's no other choice but — hence, I say. 
 
 [Exit with Arbaces, who follows reluctantly. 
 
 Enter Sardanaimlus and Sale.^e.nes. 
 
 Sard. Well, all is remedied, and witliout bloodshed, ' 
 That worst of mockeries of a remedy ; 
 We are now secure by these men's exile. 
 
 Sal. Yes, 
 As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 
 Twined round their roots. 
 
 Sard. Why, what wouldst have me do? 
 
 Sal. Undo what you have done. 
 
 Sard. Revoke my pardon ? 
 
 Sal. Replace the crown now tottering on your temples. 
 
 Sard. That were tyrannical. 
 
 Sal. But sure. 
 
 Sard. We are so. 
 What danger can they work upon the frontier? 
 
 Sal. They are not there yet — never should they be so, 
 Were I well iisten'd to. 
 
 Sard. Najj I have Iisten'd 
 
 Impartially to thee — why not to them? 
 
 Sal. You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
 I take my leave, to order forth the guard. 
 
 Sard. And you will join us at the banquet? 
 
 Sal. Sire, 
 Dispense with me — I am no wassailer : 
 Command me in all service save the Bacchant's. 
 
 Sard. Nay, but 'tis fit to revel now and then. 
 
 Sal. And lit that some should watch for those who re i 
 Too oft. Am I permitted to depart ? 
 
 Sard. Yes — Stay a moment, my good Salemenes. 
 My brother, my best subject, better prince 
 Than I am king. You should have been the monarch, 
 And 1 — I know not what, and care not; but 
 Think not I am insensible to all 
 Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough, yet kind, 
 Though oft reproving, suflerance of my follies. 
 If I have spared these men against thy counsel. 
 That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 
 The advice was sound ; but, let them live: we will not 
 Cavil about tiieir lives — so let them mend them. 
 Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, 
 Which their death had not left me. 
 
 Sal. Thus you run 
 The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors — 
 A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 
 Still let ihem be made quiet. 
 
 Sard. Tempt mc not: 
 My word is past. 
 
 Sal. But it may be recall'd. 
 
 Sard. 'Tis royal. 
 
 Sal. And should therefore be decisive. 
 This half-indulgence of an exile serves 
 But to provoke — a pardon should be full, 
 Or it is none. 
 
 Sard. And who persuaded me 
 After I had repeal'd them, or, at least. 
 Only dismiss'd tliem from our presence, who 
 . Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 
 
 Sal. True; that I had forgotten; that is, sire, 
 [f they e'er reach their satrapies — why, then, 
 Reprove me more for my advice. 
 
 Sard. And if 
 They do not reach them — look to it ! — in safety, 
 In safety, mark me — and security — 
 Look to thine own. 
 
 Sal. Permit mc to depart; 
 Their safety shall be cared for. 
 
 Sard. Get thee hence, then; 
 And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother. 
 
 Sal. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 
 
 [Exit Salen 
 
 Sard, (soiu-) That man is of a temper too severe: 
 Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
 From all the taints of common earth, while I 
 Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers : 
 But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
 If I have err'd this time, 'tis on the side 
 Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
 I know not what to call it; but it reckons 
 With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes pleasure; 
 
ACT II. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 445 
 
 And I should blush far more to take the grantor's! 
 , Beleses. Thou mayst endure whate'er thou wilt, the 
 iHavc written otherwise. [stars 
 
 j Arhacus. Though they came down, 
 JAnd marshall'd me the way in all their brightness, 
 il would not follow, 
 ! Beleses. This is weakness — worse 
 [Than a soared beldam's dreaming of the dead, 
 jAnd waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 
 ! Arbaccs. Metlioughthelook'd likeNimrodas bespoke, 
 JEven as the proud imperial statue stands 
 {Looking the monarch of the kings around it, 
 IVnd sways, while they but ornament, the temple, [him, 
 I Beleses. I told you that you had too much despised 
 j\nd that there was some royalty within him. 
 [What tiien ? he is the nobler foe. 
 I Arbaces. But we 
 
 jThe meaner : — would he had not spared us ! 
 \ Beleses. So — 
 
 jiVouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 
 j Arbaces. No — but it had been better to have died 
 l^han live ungrateful. 
 j Beleses. Oh, the souls of some men! 
 I hiou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
 I 'ools treatihery — and, behold, upon the sudden, 
 . ftecause, for something or for nothing, tliis 
 'ash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
 Tvvixt thee and Salcmenes, thou art turn'd 
 ito — w hat shall I say ? — Sardanapalus ! 
 know no name more ignominious. 
 Arbaces. But 
 
 n hour ago, who dared to term me such 
 [ad held his life but lightly — as it is, 
 must forgive you, even as he forgave us — 
 emiramis herself would not have done it. [dom, 
 
 Beleses. No — the queen liked no sharers of the king- 
 ol even a husband. 
 Arbaces. I must serve him truly — 
 Beleses, And humbly .' 
 Arbaces. No, sir , proudly — being honest, 
 ^liall be nearer thrones than you to heaven; 
 t'ld if not f|uite so hauglity, yet more lofty. 
 ou may do your own deeming — you have codes, 
 jiid mysteries, and corollaries of 
 light and wrong, which I lack for my direction, 
 id must pursue but what a plain heart teaches. 
 id now you know me. 
 Beleses. Have you finish'd? 
 Arbaces. Yes — 
 ith you. 
 
 Beleses. And would, perliaps, betray as well 
 i (|uit me ? 
 
 Arbaces. That's a sacerdotal thought, 
 id not a soldier's. 
 Beleses. Be it what you will — 
 ure with these wranglings, and but hear me. 
 Arbaces. No — 
 
 icre is more peril in your subtle spirit 
 lan in a phalanx. 
 Beleses. If it must be so — 
 on alone. 
 
 Arbaces. Alone! 
 
 Beleses. Thrones hold but one. 
 
 Arbaces. But this is fill'd. 
 
 Beleses. With worse than vacancy — 
 A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces : 
 I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and urged you ; 
 Wa*? willing even to serve you, in the hope 
 To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
 Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly, 
 Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
 Into a shallow softness ; but now, rather 
 Than see my country languish, I will be 
 Her saviour or the victim of her tyrant, 
 Or one or both, for sometimes both are one : 
 And if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 
 
 Arbaccs. Yowr servant! 
 
 Beleses. Why not? better than be slave, 
 T\\G pardon' d slave oishe Sardanapalus. 
 
 Enter Pania. 
 
 Pania. My lords, I bear an order from the king. 
 
 Arbaces. It is obey'd ere spoken. 
 
 Beleses. Notwithstanding, 
 Let's hear it. 
 
 Pania. Forthwith, on tliis very night. 
 Repair to your respective satrapies 
 Of Babylon and Media. 
 
 Beleses. With our troops ? 
 
 Pania. My order is unto the satraps and 
 Their household-train. 
 
 Arbaces. But — 
 
 Beleses. It must be obey'd ; 
 Say, we depart. 
 
 Pania. My order is to see you 
 Depart, and not to bear your answer. 
 
 Beleses. (aside) Ay ! 
 Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 
 
 Pania. I will retire to marshal forth the guard 
 Of honour which befits your rank, and wait 
 Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. [Exit Pania. 
 
 Beleses. iVow then obey ! 
 
 Arbaces. Doubtless. 
 
 Beleses. Yes, to the gates 
 That grate the palace, which is now our prison. 
 No further. 
 
 Arbaces. Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed ! 
 The realm itself, in all its wide extension, 
 Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 
 
 Beleses, Graves! 
 
 Arbaces. If I thought so, this good sword should dig 
 One more than mine. 
 
 Beleses. It shall have work enough : 
 Let me hope better than thou augurest ; 
 At present let us hence as best we may. 
 Thou dost agree with me in understanding 
 This order as a sentence ? 
 
 Arbaces. Why, what other 
 Interpretation should it bear? it is 
 The very policy of orient-monarchs — 
 Pardon and poison — favours and a sword — 
 A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
 
446 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 How many satraps in his father's time — 
 For he I own is, or at least was, bloodless — 
 
 Beleses. But «;/// not, caw not be so now. 
 
 Arbaces. I doubt it. 
 How many satraps have I seen set out 
 Li his sire's day for mighty vice-royalties, 
 Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not how, 
 But they all sicken'd by the way, it w as 
 So long and heavy. 
 
 Beleses. Let us but regain 
 The free air of the city, and we'll shorten 
 The journey. 
 
 Arbaces, 'Twill be shorten'd at the gates. 
 It may be. 
 
 Beleses. No ; they hardly will risk that. 
 They mean us to die privately, but not 
 Within the palace or tlie city-walls, 
 Where we are known and may have partisans: 
 If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
 No longer with the living. Let us hence. 
 
 Arbaces. If I but thought he did not mean my life — 
 
 Beleses. Fool! hence — what else should despotism 
 alarm'd 
 Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 
 
 Arbaces. Towards our provinces? 
 
 Beleses. No; towards your kingdom. [means. 
 
 There's time, there's heart, and hope, and power, and 
 Which their half-measures leave us in full scope. — 
 Away ! 
 
 Arbaces. And I, even yet repenting, must 
 Relapse to guilt 1 
 
 Beleses. Self-defence is a virtue. 
 Sole bulwark of all right. Away, I say ! 
 Let's leave this place, the air grows thick and choking, 
 And the walls have a scent of night-shade ; hence ! 
 Let us not leave them time for further council. 
 Our quick departure proves our civic zeal ; 
 Our quick departure hinders our good escort, 
 The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
 The orders of some parasangs from hence; 
 Nay, there's no other choice but — hence, I say. 
 
 [Exit with Arbaces, who I'ollowj rcluctantl.v . 
 Enter Sardanai'alus and Salemb.nes. 
 
 Sard. Well, all is remedied, and witliout bloodshed, ' 
 That worst of mockeries of a remedy ; 
 We are now secure by these men's exile. 
 
 Sal. Yes, 
 As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 
 Twined round their roots. 
 
 Sard. Why, what wouldst have me do? 
 
 Sal. Undo what you have done. 
 
 Sard. Revoke my pardon ? 
 
 Sal. Replace tlie crown now tottering on your temples. 
 
 Sard. That were tyrannical. 
 
 Sal. But sure. 
 
 Sard. We are so. 
 What danger can they work upon the frontier? 
 
 Sal. They are not there yet — never should tiiey be so, 
 Were I well listen'd to. 
 
 Sard. Nayj I have listen'd 
 
 Impartially to thee — why not to them? 
 
 Sal. You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
 I take my leave, to order forth the guard. 
 Sard. And you will join us at the banquet? 
 Sal. Sire, 
 Dispense with me — I am no wassailer: 
 Command me in all service save the Bacchant's. 
 
 Sard. Nay, but 'tis fit to revel now and then. 
 
 Sal. And fit that some should watch for those who rc^ 
 Too oft. Am I permitted to depart? 
 
 Sard. Yes — Stay a moment, my good Salemenes. 
 .My brother, my best subject, better prince 
 Than I am king. You should have been the monanli, 
 And I — I know not what, and care not; but 
 Think not I am insensible to all 
 Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough, yet kind. 
 Though oft reproving, sutlerance of my follies. 
 If I have spared these men against thy counsel, 
 That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 
 The advice was sound ; but, let them live: we will not 
 Cavil about their lives — so let them mend tliem. 
 Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, 
 Which their death had uot left me. 
 
 Sal. Thus you run 
 The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors — 
 A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 
 Still let ihem be made quiet. 
 
 Sard. Tempt me not : 
 My word is past. 
 
 Sal. But it may be recall'd. 
 
 Sard, 'Tis royal. 
 
 Sal. And should therefore be decisive. 
 This half-indulgence of an exile serves 
 But to provoke — a pardon should be full, 
 Or it is none. 
 
 Sard. And who persuaded me 
 After I had repeal'd them, or, at least. 
 Only dismiss'd tliem from our presence, who 
 . Urged me to send tliem to tlieir satrapies ? 
 
 Sal. True; that I had forgotten; that is, sire, 
 If they e'er reach their satrapies — why, then, 
 Reprove me more for my advice. 
 
 Sard. And if 
 Tiiey do not reach them — look to it ! — in safety, 
 In safety, mark me — and security — 
 Look to thine own. 
 
 Sal. Permit mc to depart ; 
 Their safety shall be cared for. 
 
 Sard. Get thee lience, then; 
 And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother. 
 
 Sal. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 
 
 [Exit Sale 
 
 Sard, (soiu^) That man is of a temper too severe: 
 Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
 From all the taints of common earth, while I 
 Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers: 
 But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
 If I have err'd this time, 'tis on the side 
 Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
 I know not what to call it; but it reckons 
 With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes pleasure; 
 
ACT II. 
 
 A. spirit which seems placed about my heart 
 To count its throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
 Questions which mortal never dared to ask me, 
 Sot Baal, though an oracular deity — 
 \lbeit his marble-face majestical 
 Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
 His brows to changed expression, till at times 
 I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
 Vway with these vain thoughts, I will be joyous — 
 '" Vnd here comes Joy's true herald. 
 
 Enter Mvrrhi. 
 
 Myrrlia. King! the sky 
 s overcast, and musters muttering thunder, 
 n clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
 n forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
 iVill you then quit the palace? 
 
 Sard. Tempest, sayst thou ! 
 
 Myrrha. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Sard. For my own part, I should be 
 Jot ill content to vary the smooth scene, 
 ind watch the warring elements ; but this 
 Vould little suit the silken garments and 
 imooth faces of our festive friends. Say, Myrrha, 
 jt thou of those who dread the roar of clouds? 
 
 Myrrha. In my own country we respect their voices 
 
 s auguries of Jove. 
 
 Sard. Jove — ay, your Baal — 
 >urs also has a property in thunder, 
 
 nd ever and anon some falling bolt 
 'roves his divinity, and yet sometimes 
 
 trikes his own altars. 
 [ Myrrha. That were a dread omen. 
 'Sard. Yes — for the priests. Well, we will not go forth 
 
 eyond the palace-walls to-night, but make 
 
 ur feast within. 
 
 Myrrha Now, Jove be praised! that he 
 
 ath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. The gods 
 
 re kinder to thee than thou to thyself, 
 
 nd flash this storm between thee and thy foes, 
 
 rt shield thee from them. 
 Sard. Child, if there be peril, 
 
 cthinks it is the same within these walls 
 
 s on the river's brink. 
 Myrrha. Not so, these walls 
 
 re higli and strong, and guarded. Treason has 
 
 la penetrate through many a winding way, 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 447 
 
 Sili^ 
 
 And massy portal! but in the pavilion 
 There is no bulwark. 
 
 Sard. No, nor in the palace, 
 Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
 Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle sits 
 Nested in pathless clefts, if treachery be : 
 Even as the arrow finds the airy king, 
 The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm: 
 The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
 Banish'd, and far upon their way. 
 
 Myrrha. They live, then? 
 
 Sard. So sanguinary? Tliou! 
 
 Myrrha. I would not shrink 
 From just infliction of due punishment 
 On those who seek your life : wer't otherwise, 
 I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
 The princely Salemenes. 
 
 Sard. This is strange; 
 The gentle and the austere are both against me, 
 And urge me to revenge. 
 
 Myrrha. 'Tis a Greek virtue. 
 
 Sard. But not a kingly one — I'll none on't; or. 
 If ever I indulge in 't, it shall be 
 With kings — my equals. 
 
 Myrrha. These men sought to be so. 
 
 Sard. Myrrha, this is too feminine, and springs 
 From fear — 
 
 Myrrha. For you. 
 
 Sard. No matter - still 'tis fear. 
 I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath, 
 Are timidly vindictive to a pitcsh 
 Of perseverance, which I would not copy. 
 1 thought you were exempt from this, as from 
 The childish helplessness of Asian women. 
 
 Myrrha. My lord, 1 am no boaster of my love, 
 Nor of my attributes; I have shared )'Our splendour. 
 And will partake your fortunes. You may live 
 To find one slave more true than subject myriads ; 
 But this the gods avert ! I am content 
 To be beloved on trust for what I feel. 
 Rather than prove it to you in your griefs, 
 Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 
 
 Sard. Grief cannot come where perfect love exists. 
 Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
 That which it could not scare away. Let's in — 
 The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
 To meet the invited guests who grace our feast. [Exenat 
 
448 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 ACT i; 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The Hall of the Palace Illuminated — Saruanapalus and his Guests nt 
 
 Table. — A storm without, and thunder occasionally heard during 
 
 the Banquet. 
 
 Sard. Fill full! Why this is as it should be : here 
 Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
 Happy as fair! Here sorrow cannot reach. [sparkles. 
 
 Zames. Nor elsewhere — where the king is, pleasure 
 
 Sard. Is not this better now than Nimrod's huntings, 
 Or my wild grandam's chase in search of kingdoms 
 She could not keep when conquer'd ? 
 
 Altada. Mighty though 
 They were, as all thy royal line have been, 
 Yet none of those who went before have reach'd 
 The acme of Sardanapalus, who 
 Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true glory. 
 
 Sard. And pleasure, good Altada, to which glory 
 Is but the path. What is it that we seek? 
 Enjoyment ! We have cut the way short to it. 
 And not gone tracking it through human ashes, 
 Making a grave with every footstep. 
 
 Zames. No; 
 All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
 The king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 
 
 Sard. Art sure of that ? I have heard otherwise; 
 Some say tliatthere be traitors. 
 
 Zames. Traitors they 
 Who dare to say so! — 'Tis impossible. 
 What cause? 
 
 Sard. What cause? true, — fill the goblet up ; 
 We will not think of them : there are none such, 
 Or if there be, they are gone. 
 
 Altada. Guests, to my pledge! 
 Down on your knees, and drink a measure to 
 The safety of the king — the monarch, say I? 
 The god Sardanapalus ! 
 
 [Zames and the Guests kneel, and exclaim — 
 
 Mightier than 
 His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus ! 
 
 [It thunders as they kneel ; some start up in confusion. 
 
 Zames. Why do ye rise, my friends ? In that strong 
 His father-gods consented. [peul 
 
 Myrrha. Menaced, rather. 
 King, wilt tliou bear this mad impiety ? 
 
 Sard. Impiety ? — nay, if the sires who reign'd 
 Before me can be gods, I'll not disgrace 
 Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends ; 
 Hoard your devotion for the thunderer there : 
 I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 
 
 Altada. Both - 
 Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 
 
 1 
 
 Sard. Methinks the thunders still increase: it is 
 An awful night. 
 
 Myrrha. Oh yes, for those who have 
 No palace to protect their worshippers. 
 
 Sard. That's true, my Myrrha ; and could I converj 
 My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
 I'd do it. 
 
 Myrrha. Thou'rt no god, then, not to be 
 Able to work a will so good and general, 
 As thy wish would imply. 
 
 Sard. And your gods, then. 
 Who can, and do not ? 
 
 Myrrha. Do not speak of that. 
 Lest we provoke them. 
 
 Sard. True, tliey love not censure \ 
 
 Better than mortals. Friends, a thought has struck me; 
 Were there no temples, would there, think ye, be 
 Air-worshippers — that is, when it is angry. 
 And pelting as even now ? 
 
 Myrrha. The Persian prays 
 Upon his mountain. 
 
 Sard. Yes, when the sun shines. 
 
 Myrrha. And I would ask if this your palace were 
 Unroof'd and desolate, how many flatterers 
 Would lick (he dust in w liich the king lay low ? 
 
 Altada. The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 
 Upon a nation whom she knows not well ; 
 The Assyrians know no pleasure but their king's, 
 And homage is their pride. 
 
 Sard. Nay, pardon, guests. 
 The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 
 
 Altada. Pardonl sire: 
 We honour her of all things next to thee. 
 Hark! what Avas that? 
 
 Zames. That! nothing but the jar 
 Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 
 
 Altada. It sounded like the clash of — hark again ! 
 
 Zames. The big rain pattering on the roof. 
 
 Sard. No more. 
 Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in order ? 
 Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou kiiowst. 
 Who in thy country threw — 
 
 Enter Pania, with bis sword and garments bloody, and disordered. 1 
 Guests rise in confusion. 
 
 Pania (to the guards). Look to the portals ; 
 
 And with your best speed to the walls without. , 
 Your arms ! To arms ! The king's in danger. Monarcj 
 
 Excuse this haste — 'tis faith. ' 
 
 Sard. Speak on. 
 
 Pania. It is : 
 
 As Salemenes fear'd ; the faithless satraps — ' 
 
ACT in. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 449 
 
 Sard. You are wounded — give some wine. Take 
 
 breath, good Pania. 
 Pania. 'Tis nothing — a mere flesh-wound. I am worn 
 More with my speed to warn my sovereign, 
 Than hurt in his defence, 
 
 Myrrha. Well, sir, the rebels? 
 Pania. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach'd 
 Their stations in the city, they refused 
 To march : and on my attempt to use the power 
 Which I was delegated with, they call'd 
 Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 
 j Myrrlia. All? 
 
 Pania. Too many. 
 ' Sard. Spare not of thy free speech 
 i To spare miiy ears the truth. 
 ( Pania. My own slight guard 
 i Were faithful — and what's left of it is still so. 
 
 Myrrha. And are these all tlie force still faithful ? 
 j Pania. No — 
 
 The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
 'Who even then was on his way, still urged 
 iBy strong suspicion of the Median chiefs, 
 Are numerous, and make strong head against 
 The rebels, fighting inch bj' inch, and forming 
 An orb around the palace, where they mean 
 To centre all their force, and save the king. 
 ;ile hesitates) I am charged to — 
 Myrrha. 'Tis no time for hesitation. 
 Pania. Prince Salemenes doth implore the king 
 To arm himself, although but for a moment, 
 \nd show himself unto the soldiers : his 
 5ole presence in tliis instant might do more 
 ifhan hosts can do in his behalf, 
 i Sard. Wliat,ho! 
 Itfy armour there. 
 '■■ Myrrha. And wilt thou ? 
 
 Sard. Will I not? 
 lo, there! — But seek not for the buckler; 'tis 
 'oo heavy: — a light cuirass and my sword. 
 Vhere are the rebels ? 
 i j Pania. Scarce a furlong's length 
 I horn the outward wall the fiercest conflict rages. 
 ^ I Sard. Then I may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho! 
 i j)rdermy horse out. — There is space enough 
 , Iven in our courts, and by the outer gate, 
 j'o marshal half tlie horsemen of Arabia. 
 
 I [Exit Sfero for the armour. 
 
 Myrrha. How I do love thee! 
 Sard. I ne'er doubted it. 
 Myrrha. But now I know thee. 
 Sard, (to his Attendant) Bring down my spear, too. — 
 ^^here's Salemenes? 
 Pania. Wliere a soldier should be, 
 1 the thick of the fight. 
 Sard. Then hasten to him — Is 
 he path still open, and communication 
 eft 'twixt the palace and the phalanx ? 
 Pania. 'Twas 
 
 ^lien I late left him, and I have no fear : 
 ur troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 
 Sard. Tell him to spare his person for the present. 
 
 And that I will not spare my own — and say, 
 I come. 
 
 Pania. There's victory in the very word. [Exit pania. 
 
 Sard. Altada — Zames — forth, and arm ye! There 
 Is all in readiness in the armoury. 
 See that the women are bestow 'd in safety 
 In the remote apartments : let a guard 
 Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 
 The post but with their lives — command it, Zames. 
 Altada, arm yourself, and return here ; 
 Your post is near our person. 
 
 [Exeunt Zames, Altada, and all save Myrrha. 
 Enter Sfbro and others with the King'j Arms. 
 
 Sfero. King! your armour. [baldric; now 
 
 Sard, (arming hiuiseii) Give mc the cuirass — so: my 
 My sword : I had forgot the helm, where is it? 
 That's well — no, 'tis too heavy: you mistake, too - 
 It was not this I meant, but that which bears 
 A diadem around it. 
 
 Sfero. Sire, I deem'd 
 That too conspicuous from the precious stones 
 To risk your sacred brow beneath — and, trust me, 
 This is of better metal, tliough less rich. 
 
 Sard. You deem'd! Are you too turn'd a rebel? Fellow! 
 Your part is to obey : return, and — no — 
 It is too late — I will go forth without it. 
 
 Sfero. At least, wear this. 
 
 Sard. Wear Caucasus ! why, 'tis 
 A mountain on my temples. 
 
 Sfero. Sire, the meanest 
 Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
 All men will recognize you — for the storm 
 Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her brightness. 
 
 Sard. I go forth to be recognized, and thus 
 Shall be so sooner. Now — my spear ! I'm arm'd. 
 
 [In going stops short, and turns to Sfero. 
 
 Sfero — I had forgotten — bring the mirror. 
 
 Sfero. The mirror, sire? 
 
 Sard. Yes, sir, of polish'd brass. 
 Brought from the spoils of India — but be speedy. 
 
 [Exit Sfero, 
 Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
 Why went you not forth with the other damsels? 
 
 Myrrha. Because my place is here. 
 
 Sard. And when I am gone — 
 
 Myrrha. I follow. 
 
 Sard. You! to battle ? 
 
 Myrrha. Kit were so, 
 'T were not the first Greek girl had trod the path. 
 I will await here your return. 
 
 Sard. The place 
 Is spacious, and the first to be sought out. 
 If they prevail ; and, if it should be so, 
 And I return not — 
 
 Myrrha. Still, we meet again. 
 
 Sard. How? 
 
 Myrrha. In the spot where all must meet at last — 
 In Hades I if there be, as I believe, 
 A shore beyond the Styx; and, if tliere be not, 
 In ashes. 
 
 29 
 
450 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Sard. Dar'st thou so much ? 
 
 Myrrha. I dare all things, 
 Except survive what I have loved, to be 
 A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest. 
 
 Re-enter Sfebo with the mirror. 
 
 Sard, (looking at himself) This cuirass fits me well, the 
 baldric better, 
 And the helm not at all. Metliinks, I seem 
 
 [flings away the helmet after trying it again. — 
 
 Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove them. 
 Altada ! Where's Altada ? 
 
 Sfero. W aiting, sire, 
 Without : he has your shield in readiness. 
 
 Sard. True ; I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
 By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
 Myrrha, embrace me; yet once more — once more ^— 
 Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
 Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 
 
 Myrrha. Go forth, and conquer ! 
 
 [Exeunt Satdanapalas and Sfero. 
 
 Now, I am alone. 
 All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
 Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish and 
 Me perish ! If he vanquish, not, I perish ; 
 For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
 About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
 Not for that he is king; for now his kingdom 
 Rocks underneath his throne, and the earth yawns 
 To yield him no more of it than a grave; 
 And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty Jove! 
 Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian. 
 Who knows not of Olympus : yes, I love him 
 Now, now, far more than — Hark — to the war-shout! 
 Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 
 
 [she draws forth a small via!. — 
 
 This cunning Colchiau poison, which my father 
 
 Learn'd to compound on Euxine shores, and taught me 
 
 How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
 
 Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
 
 I half forgot I was a slave: — where all 
 
 Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude, 
 
 So they are served in turn by something lower 
 
 In the degree of bondage, wg forget 
 
 That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
 
 Are chains. Again that shout ! and now the clash 
 
 Of arms — and now — and now — 
 
 Enter Altada, 
 
 Altada. Ho, Sfero, ho ! [How 
 
 Myrrha. He is not here; what wouldst thou with him? 
 Goes on the conflict ? 
 
 Altada. Dubiously and fiercely. 
 
 Myrrha. And the king? 
 
 Altada. Like a king. I must find Sfero, 
 And bring him a new spear and his own helmet. 
 He fights till now bare-headed, and by far 
 Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face. 
 And the foe too ; and, in the moon's broad liglit, 
 His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
 Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
 
 Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features, 
 And the broad fillet which crowns both. 
 
 Myrrha. Ye gods. 
 Who fulminate o'er my fathers' land, protect him ! 
 Were you sent by tlie king ? 
 
 Altada. By Salemenes, 
 Who sent me privily upon this charge. 
 Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 
 The king ! the king fights as he revels ! ho ! 
 What, Sfero ! I will seek the armoury — 
 He must be there. [Exit AitaU 
 
 Myrrha. 'Tis no dishonour — no — 
 'Tts no dishonour to have loved this man. 
 I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
 Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
 Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
 She-garb, and wielding her vile distatf ; surely 
 He, who springs up a Hercules at once. 
 Nursed in cfl'eminate arts from youth to manhood. 
 And rushes from the banquet to the battle. 
 As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
 That a Greek girl sliould be his paramour, 
 And a Greek bard liis minstrel, a Greek tomb 
 His monument. How goes the strife, sir I 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Officer. Lost, 
 Lost almost past recovery. Zames! Where 
 Is Zames? 
 
 Myrrha. Posted with the guard appointed 
 To vsatch before the apartment of the women. [Exit Offic 
 
 Myrrha. He's gone; and told no more than that all 
 What need have I to know more ? In those words, [losi 
 Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
 A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
 Of thousands, and the fortune of all left 
 With life, are merged : and I, too, with the great, 
 Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
 Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least. 
 My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
 Shall count me with his spoils. 
 
 Enter Pania. 
 
 Pania. Away with me, 
 Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
 A moment — all that's left us now. 
 
 Myrrha, The king? 
 
 Pania. Sent me here to conduct you hence, beyond 
 The river, by a secret passage. , 
 
 Myrrha. Then 
 He lives — 
 
 Pania. And charged me to secure your life, 
 And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
 He can rejoin you. 
 
 Myrrha. Will he then give way? 
 
 Pania. Not till the last. Still, still he docs whateVr 
 Despair can do ; and step by step disputes \u 
 
 The very palace. fs 
 
 Myrrha. They are here, then : — ay, 
 Their shouts come ringing through the ancient halls, 
 Never profaned by rebel echoes till I 
 
ACT 111. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 451 
 
 Tliis fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line! 
 
 Farewell to allof Nimrod! Even the name 
 
 Is now no more. 
 
 Pania. Away with me — awaj! [king 
 
 Mi/rrha. No; I'll die here! — Away, and tell your 
 
 I loved him to the last. 
 
 Enter Sarua.napalos and salembnbs with Soldiers. Pania quit-i 
 Myrrha, and ranges himself with them. 
 
 Sard. Since it is thus, 
 We'll die where we were born — in our own halls. 
 Serry your ranks stand firm. I have despatch'd 
 A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
 All fresh and faithful; they'll be here anon. 
 All is not over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 
 
 [Paoia returns towards Myrrha. 
 
 Sal. We have breathing-time: yet one more charge, 
 One for Assyria ! [my friends — 
 
 Sard. Rather say for Bactria ! 
 My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
 King of your nation, and we'll hold together 
 This realm as province. 
 
 Sal. Hark! they come — they come. 
 
 Enter Belkses and arbaces with the Rebels. 
 
 Arhaces. .Set on, we have them in the toil. Charge! 
 
 Charge! 
 Beleses. On! on! — Heaven fights for us and with 
 
 us. - On! 
 
 [They charge the King and Salemenes with their Troops, who de- 
 fend tliemselves till the arrival of Zames with tlie Gaard before 
 mentioned. The Rebels are then driven off, and pursued by 
 Salemenes, etc. As the King is going to join the pursuit, Be- 
 leses crosses him. 
 
 Beleses. Ho! tyrant — /will end this war. 
 
 Sard. Even so, 
 ty warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
 Irateful and trusty subject : — yield, I pray thee, 
 would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
 lather than dip my hands in holy blood, 
 
 Beleses. Thine hour is come. 
 
 Sard. No, tliine. : — I're lately read, 
 hough but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
 nd, ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
 ithe sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
 hat thou wilt now be crush'd. 
 
 Beleses. But not by thee. 
 
 [They fight; Beleses is wounded and disarmed. 
 Sard, (raising his sword to despatch him, exclaims — ) 
 
 ow "call upon thy planets, will they shoot 
 rem the sky to preserve their seer and credit? 
 
 [A party of Rebels enter and rescue Beleses. They assail the King, 
 who, in turn, is rescued by a party of his Soldiers, who drive 
 the Rebels off. 
 
 lie villain was a prophet after all. 
 
 . (Wn them — ho ! there — victory is ours. [Exit in pursuit. 
 iSyrrha (to Pania). Pursue! Why standst thou here, 
 
 and leavest the ranks 
 'fellow -soldiers conquering without thee? 
 Pania. The king's command was not to quit thee. 
 Myrrha. Me! 
 
 not of me — a single soldier's atrm 
 
 Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
 
 I need no guard: what, uith a world at stake. 
 
 Keep watch upon a woman? Heiice, I say, 
 
 Or thou art shamed! Nay, then, /will go forth, 
 
 A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife. 
 
 And bid thee guard me there — where thou shouldst shield 
 
 Thy sovereign. [Exit Myrriia. 
 
 Pania. Yet stay, damsel! She is gone. 
 If aught of ill betide her, better I 
 Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
 Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
 For that too ; and can I do less than he, 
 Who never flash'd a scimitar till now? 
 .Myri ha, return, and I obey you, though 
 In disobedience to the monarch. [Exit Pani.-*. 
 
 Enter Altada and Sfero by an opposite door. 
 
 Ahada. Myrrha! 
 What, gone ? yet she was here when the fight raged, 
 And Pania also. Can aught have befallen them ? 
 
 Sfero. I saw both safe, when late the rebels fled : 
 They probably are but retired to make 
 Their way back to the harem. * 
 
 Altada. If the king 
 Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
 And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
 To worse than captive rebels. 
 
 Sfero. Let us trace them; 
 She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she makes 
 A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
 Thau his recover'd kingdom. 
 
 Altada. Baalhimself 
 Ne'er fouglit more fiercely to win empire, than 
 His silken son to save it : he defies 
 All augury of foes or friends; and like 
 The close and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
 A twilight-tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
 As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
 The man's inscrutable. 
 
 Sfero. Not more than others. 
 All are the sons of circumstance ; away — 
 Let's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
 Tortured for his infatuation, and 
 Condemn'd without a crime. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Salk.mk.vrs and Soldiers, 
 
 Sal. Tlie triumph is 
 Flattering: they are beaten backward from the palace. 
 And we have open'd regular access 
 To the troops station'd on the other side 
 Euphrates, who may still be true; nay, must be. 
 When they hear of our victory. But where 
 Is the chief victor? where's the king? 
 
 Enter Sardanapalus, cum suis, and Myrrha. 
 
 Sard. Here, brother. 
 
 Sal. Unhurt, I hope. 
 
 Sard. Not quite; but let it pass. 
 We've clear'd the palace — 
 
 Sal. And, I trust, the city. 
 Our numbers gather ; and I have order'd Onward 
 
452 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved, 
 All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
 In tlieir retreat, which soon will be a tlig-ht, 
 
 Sard. It is already, or at least they march'd 
 Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
 Who spared no speed. I am spent; give me a seat. 
 
 Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 
 
 Sard. 'Tis no place to rest on, 
 For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 
 
 [They place a seat. 
 
 A peasant's stool, I care not what: so — now 
 I breathe more freely. 
 
 Sal. This great hour has proved 
 The brightest and most glorious of your life. 
 
 Sard. And the most tiresome. Where's my cup-bearer ? 
 Bring me some water. 
 
 Sal. (smiling) 'Tis the first time he 
 Ever had such an order : even I, 
 Your most austere of counsellors, would now 
 Suggest a purpler beverage. 
 
 Sard. Blood — doubtless. 
 But there's enough of that shed ; as for wine, 
 liiave learn'd to-night the price of the pure element : 
 Thrice have I drank of it, and thrice renew'd. 
 With greater strength than the grape ever gave me, 
 My charge upon the rebels. Where's the soldier 
 Who gave me water in his helmet ' 
 
 One of the Guards. Slain, sire! 
 An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
 The last drops from l»is helm, he stood in act 
 To place it on his brows. 
 
 Sard. Slain! unrewarded! 
 And slain to serve my thirst: that's hard, poor slave! — 
 Had he but lived, I would have gorged him with 
 Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
 The pleasure of that draught ; for I was parch 'd 
 
 As I am now. [They bring water— he drinks. I live again — 
 
 The goblet I reserve for hours of love, [from henceforth 
 But war on water. 
 
 Sal. And that bandage, sire, 
 Which girds your arm ? 
 
 Sard, A scratch from brave Beleses. 
 
 Myrrha. Oh ! he is wounded I 
 
 Sard. Not too much of that ; 
 And yet it feels a little stiff and painful, 
 Now I am cooler, 
 
 Myrrha, You have bound it with — 
 
 Sard. Thefillet of my diadem: the first time 
 That ornament was ever aught to me. 
 Save an incumbrance. 
 
 Myrrha (to the Attendants). Summon speedily 
 A leecli of the most skilful : pray, retire ; 
 I will unbind your wound and tend it. 
 
 Sard. Do so. 
 For now it throbs sufficiently : but what 
 Knowst thou of wounds ? yet wherefore do I ask ? 
 Knowst thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
 This minion ? 
 
 Sal. Herding with the other females. 
 Like frighten'd antelopes? 
 
 Sard. No : like the dam 
 Of the young lion, femininely raging, 
 (And femininely meaneth furiously. 
 Because all passions in excess are female) 
 Against the hunter flying with her cub, 
 She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
 Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers 
 In the pursuit. 
 
 Sal. Indeed! 
 
 Sard. You see, this night 
 Made warriors of more than me. I paused 
 To look upon her, and her kindled cheek; 
 Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long hair 
 As it stream'd o'er her; her blue veins that rose 
 Along her mnst transparent brow ; her nostril 
 Dilated from its symmetry; her lips 
 Apart; her voice that clove through all the din, 
 As a lute's piereeth through the cymbal's clash, 
 Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling; her 
 Waved arms , more dazzling with their own - hot 
 
 whiteness 
 Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up 
 From a dead soldier's grasp; all these things made 
 Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 
 Of victory, or Victory herself, 
 Come down to hail us hers. 
 
 Sal (aside) Tliis is too much : 
 Again the love-fit's on him, and all's lost, 
 Unless we turn his thouglits. 
 
 (Aloud.) But pray thee, sire, 
 Think of your wound — you said even now 'twas painfi| 
 
 Sard. That's true, too ; but 1 must not think of it. 
 
 Sal. I have look'd to all things needful, and will now 
 Receive reports of progress made in such 
 Orders as I had given, and then return 
 To hear your further pleasure. 
 
 Sard. Be it so. 
 
 Sal. (in retiring) Myrrha! 
 
 Myrrha. Prince! 
 
 Sal. You have shown a soul to-night. 
 Which, were he not my sister's lord — But now 
 I have no time: thou lov'st the king? 
 
 Myrrha. I love 
 
 Sardanapalus. 
 
 Sal. But wouldst have him king still? fshould bd 
 
 *- j 
 
 Myrrha. I would not have him less than what 1i: 
 
 Sal. Well, then, to have him king, and yours, and all 
 He should, or should not be: to have him live 
 Let him not sink back into luxury. 
 You liave more power upon his spirit than 
 Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 1 
 
 Raging without: look well that he relapse not. 
 
 Myrrha. There needed not the voice of Salemenes 
 To urge me on to this : I will not fail. 
 All that a w Oman's weakness can — 
 
 Sal. Is power | 
 
 Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his ; ] 
 
 Exert it w isely. [Exit Siiieu eneij 
 
 Sard. Myrrha ! what at whispers. 
 With my stern brother ? I shall soon be jealous. 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 453 
 
 Myrrha (smiling). You have cause, sire; for on the 
 earth there breathes not 
 A man more worthy of a woman's love — 
 A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — 
 A king's esteem — the whole world's admiration ! 
 „ Sard. Praise him, but not so warmly. I must not 
 
 Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 
 That throws me into shade ; yet you speak truth. 
 
 Myrrha. And now retire, to have your wound look'd to. 
 Pray, lean on me. 
 
 Sard. Yes, love! but not from pain. [Exeunt omnej. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 •jSardanapalus diicovered sleeping upon a couch, and occasionally dis- 
 turbed in his slumbers, with Mvbrha watching. 
 
 Myrrha. I have stolen upon his rest, if rest it be, 
 Which thus convulses slnmber; shall I wake him? 
 No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet! 
 Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft dreams, 
 Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd. 
 Look like thy brother. Death — so still — so stirless — 
 For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
 A.re happiest of all within the realm 
 Of thy stern, silent, and unwakening twin. 
 Again he moves — again the play of pain 
 Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
 Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
 iBeneath the mountain-shadow ; or the blast 
 RulHes the autumn-leaves, that drooping cling 
 Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
 i must awake him — yet not yet : who knows 
 From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; but if 
 [ quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
 If this tumuilnous night, the grief too of 
 t^i.s wound, though slight, may cause all this, and shake 
 Mc more to see than him to suffer. No: 
 Let Nature use her own maternal means, 
 \iid I await to second, not disturb her. [stars, 
 
 1 Sard, (awakening) Not so — although ye multiplied the 
 knd gave them to me as a realm to share 
 From you and with you! I would not so purchase 
 The empire of eternity. Hence — hence — 
 IDld hunter of the earliest brutes ! and ye, 
 jWho hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes! 
 iOnce bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols, 
 i[f your priests lie not ! And thou, ghastly beldame! 
 IDripping with dusky gore, and trampling on 
 jrhe carcasses of Inde — away ! away ! 
 I Where am I ? Where the spectres ? Where — No — that 
 '[s no false phantom: I should know it 'midst 
 VU that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
 iProm their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha! 
 
 Myrr/ia. Alas! thou art pale, and on thy brow t'le 
 Hrather like night-dew. My beloved, hush — [drops 
 
 Calm thee. Tiiy speech seems of another world 
 
 And thou art lord of this. Be of good cheer; 
 All will go well. 
 
 Sard. Thy hand — so — 'tis thy hand; 
 'Tis flesh ; grasp — clasp - yet closer, till I feel 
 Myself that which I was. 
 
 Myrrha. At least know me 
 For what I am, and ever must be — thine. 
 
 Sard. I know it now. I know this life again. 
 Ah, Myrrha ! I have been where we shall be, 
 
 Myrrha. My lord ! 
 
 Sard. I've been i' the grave — where worms are lords, 
 And kings are — but I did not deem it so ; 
 I thought 'twas nothing. 
 
 Myrrha. So it is; except 
 Unto the timid, who anticipate 
 That which may never be. 
 
 Sard. Oh, Myrrha! if 
 Sleep shows such things, what may not death disclose! 
 
 Myrrha. I know no evil death can show, which life 
 Has not already shown to those who live 
 Embodied longest. If there be indeed 
 A shore, where mind survives, 'twill be as mind, 
 All unincorporate : or if there flits 
 A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay. 
 Which stalks, methinks, between our souls and heaven, 
 And fetters us to earth at least the phantom, 
 Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 
 
 Sard. I fear it not; but I have felt — have seen — 
 A legion of the dead. 
 
 Myrrha. And so have I. 
 The dust we tread upon was once alive, 
 And wretched. But proceed: what hast thou seen ? 
 Speak it, 'twill lighten thy dimm'd mind. 
 
 Sard. Methought — [hausted; all 
 
 Myrrha. Yet pause, thou art tired— in pain — cx- 
 Which can impair both strength and spirit: seek 
 Rather to sleep again. 
 
 Sard Not now — I would not 
 Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
 What I have dreamt : — and canst thou bear to hear it? 
 
 Myrrha. I can bear all things, dreams of life or death, 
 Which I participate with you, in semblance 
 Or full reality. 
 
 Sard. And this look'd real, 
 
454 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 kcA 
 
 I tell you: after that these eyes were open, 
 I saw tliem in their flight — for then they fled. 
 
 Myrrha, Say on. 
 
 Sard. I saw, that is, I dream'd myself 
 Here — here— ^even where we are, ^ests as we were. 
 Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest, 
 Willing to equal all in social freedom; 
 But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
 Of thee and Zames, and our custom'd meeting, 
 Was ranged on ray left hand a haughty, dark, 
 And deadly face — I could not recognize it, 
 Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where; 
 The features were a giant's, and the eye 
 Was still, yet lighted; his long locks curl'd down 
 On his vast bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
 With shaft-heads feathet'd from the eagle's wing, 
 That peep'd up bristling through his serpent-hair. 
 1 invited him to fill the cup which stood 
 Between us, but he answer'd not — I fill'd it — 
 He took it not, but stared upon me, till 
 I trembled at the fix'd glare of his eye : 
 I frown'd upon him as a king should frown — 
 He frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon me 
 With the same aspect, which appall'd me more. 
 Because it changed not, and I turn'd for refuge 
 To milder guests, and sought them on the right, 
 Where thou wert wont to be. But — [He pauses. 
 
 Myrrha. What instead? 
 
 Sard. In thy own chair — thy own place in the banquet — 
 I sought thy sweet face in the circle — but 
 Instead — a gray-hair'd, wither'd, bloody-eyed, 
 And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing. 
 Female in garb, and crown'd upon the brow, 
 Furrow'd with years, yet sneering with the passion 
 Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
 Sate : — my veins curdled. 
 
 Myrrha. Is this all ? 
 
 Sard. Upon 
 Her right hand — her lank, bird-like right hand — stood 
 A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood ; and on 
 Her left, another, fill'd with — what I saw not. 
 But turn'd from it and her. But all along 
 The table sate a range of crowned wretches, 
 Of various aspects, but of one expression. 
 
 Myrrha. And felt you not this a mere vision ? 
 
 Sard. No: 
 It was so palpable, I could have touch'd them. 
 I turn'd from one face to another, in 
 The hope to find at last one which I knew 
 Ere I saw theirs: but no — all turn'd upon me. 
 And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but stared. 
 Till I grew stone, as they scem'd half to be, 
 Yet breathing stone, for I felt life in them. 
 And life in me : there was a horrid kind 
 Of sympathy between us, as if they 
 Had lost a part of death to come to me, 
 And I the half of life to sit by them. 
 We were in an existence all apart 
 From heaven or earth - And rather let me see 
 Deatii all than such a being! 
 
 Myrrha. And the end? 
 
 Sard. At last I sate marble as they, when rose 
 The hunter, and the crone ; and smiling on me — 
 Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
 The hunter smiled upon me — I should say, 
 His lips, for his eyes moved not — and the woman's 
 Thin lips relax'd to something like a smile. 
 Both rose, and the crown'd figures on each hand 
 Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
 Mere mimics even in death — but I sate still : 
 A desperate courage crept through every limb, 
 And at the last I fear'd them not, but laugh'd 
 Full in their phantom-faces. But then — then 
 The hunter laid his hand on mine : I took it. 
 And grasp'd it — but it melted from my own; 
 While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
 The memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 
 
 Myrrha. And was : tlie ancestor of heroes, too. 
 And thine no less. 
 
 Sard. Ay, Myrrha, but the woman. 
 The female wlio remain'd, she flew upon me, 
 And burnt my lips up with her noisome kisses, 
 Vnd, flinging down the goblets on each hand, 
 Methought their poisons flow'd around us, till 
 Each form'd a hideous river. Still she clung; 
 The other phantoms, like a row of statues. 
 Stood dull as in our temples ; but she still 
 Embraced me, while I shrunk from her, as if. 
 In lieu of her remote descendant, I 
 Had been the son who slew her for her incest. 
 Then — then — a chaos of all-loathsome things 
 Throng'd thick and shapeless : I was dead, yet feeling 
 Buried, and raised again — consumed by worms, 
 Purged by the flames, and wither'd in the air! 
 I can fix nothing further of my thoughts, 
 Save that I long'd for thee, and sought for thee, 
 [n all these agonies, and woke and found thee. 
 
 Myrrha. So shalt thou find me ever at thy side. 
 Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
 But think not of these things — the mere creations 
 Of late events acting upon a frame 
 Unused to toil, yet over- wrought by toil 
 Such as might try the sternest. 
 
 Sard. I am better. 
 Now that I see thee once more, what was seen 
 Seems nothing. 
 
 Enter Salf.menes. 
 
 Sal. Is the king so soon awake ? 
 
 Sard. Yes, brother, and I would I had not slept; 
 For all the predecessors of our line 
 Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them. 
 My father was amongst them, too ; but he, 
 I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
 Between the hunter-founder of our race. 
 And her, the homicide and husband-killer, 
 Whom you call glorious. 
 
 Sal. So I term you also. 
 Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
 By day-break I propose that we set forth. 
 And charge once more the rebel-crew, wlio still 
 Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite quell'd. 
 
 Sard. How wears the night ? 
 
ICT IV. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 455 
 
 Sal. There yet remain some hours 
 )f darkness : use tliem for your further rest. 
 Sard. No, not to-night, if 'tis not gone : methought 
 pass'd hours in that vision. 
 Myrrha. Scarcely one ; 
 watch'd by you : it was a heavy liour, 
 Jut an hour only. 
 
 Sard. Let us then hold cOTiucil ; 
 'o-morrow we set forth. 
 Sal. But ere tliat time, 
 had a grace to seek. 
 Sard. 'Tis granted. 
 Sal. Hear it 
 
 re you reply too readily; and 'tis 
 at your ear only. 
 
 Mi/rrha. Prince, I take my leave. [Exit Myrrhr,. 
 
 Sal. That slave deserves her freedom. 
 Sard, Freedom only? 
 lat slave deserves to share a throne, 
 Sal. Your patience — 
 is not yet vacant, and 'tis of its partner 
 jx)me to speak with you. 
 Sard. How! of the queen? 
 Sal. Even so. I judged it fitting for their safely, 
 lat, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 
 )r Paphlagonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
 )vcrns ,- and there at all events secure 
 y nephews and your sons their lives, and with them 
 leir just pretensions to the crown, in case — 
 Sard. I perish — as is probable: well thought — 
 •tthem set forth with a sure escort. 
 Sal. That 
 all provided, and the galley ready 
 
 drop down the Euphrates ; but ere they 
 spart, will you not see — 
 Sard. My sons ? It may 
 iman my heart, and the poor boys will weep; 
 
 :d what can I reply to comfort them, 
 
 ve with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn smiles? 
 
 ni know I cannot feign. 
 
 Sal. But you can feel ; 
 
 least, I trust so : in a word, the queen 
 
 quests to see you ere you part — for ever. 
 
 Sard. Unto what end? what purpose? I will grant 
 
 ght — all that she can ask — but such a meeting. 
 . You know, or ought to know, enough of women, 
 
 ice you have studied them so steadily, 
 
 at what they ask in aught that touches on 
 
 I e heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
 
 <Ar fancy, than the w hole external world. 
 
 link as you do of my sister's wish ; 
 
 t 'twas her wish — she is my sister — you 
 
 r husband — will you grant it? 
 
 Sirrf. 'Twill be useless: 
 
 t let her come. 
 
 Sb/. I go. [Exit Snlemenes. 
 
 j««rd. We have lived asunder - 
 p long to meet again — and noiv to meet ! 
 tve I not cares enow, and pangs enow, 
 T bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows, 
 ^ 10 have ceased to mingle love? 
 
 Re-enter Salemenes and Zahina. 
 
 Sal. My sister! Courage: 
 Shame not our blood with trembling, but remember 
 From whence we sprung. The queen is present, sire. 
 
 Zarina. I pray thee, brother, leave me. 
 
 Sal. Since you ask it. [Exit Salemene.. 
 
 Zarina. Alone with him! How many a year has past. 
 Though we are still so young, since we have met, 
 Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
 He loved me not : yet he seems little changed — 
 Changed to me only — would the change were mutual ! 
 He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a word — 
 Nor look — yet he was soft of voice and aspect. 
 Indifferent, not austere. My lord! 
 
 Sard. Zarina! 
 
 Zarina. No, not Zarina — do not say Zarina. 
 That tone — that word — annihilate long years. 
 And things whiclj make them longer. 
 
 Sard. 'Tis too late 
 To think of these past dreams. Let's not reproach — 
 That is, reproach me not — for the last time — 
 
 Zarina. And first. I ne'er reproach'd you. 
 
 Sard. 'Tis most true ; 
 And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 
 Than — But our hearts are not in our own power. 
 
 Zarina. Nor hands ; but I gave botli. 
 
 Sard. Your brother said. 
 It was your will to see me, ere you went 
 From Nineveh with — (He hesitates.) 
 
 Zarina. Our children: it is true, 
 I wish'd to thank you that you have not divided 
 My heart from all that's left it now to love — 
 Those who are yours aad mine, who look like you, 
 And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
 Once — But they have not changed. 
 
 Sard. Nor ever will. 
 I fain would have them dutiful. 
 
 Zarina. 1 1 herish 
 Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
 Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman : 
 They are now the only tie between us. 
 
 Sard. Deem not 
 I have not done you justice : rather make them 
 Resemble your own line, than their own sire. 
 I trust them with you — to you : fit them for 
 A throne, or, if that be denied — You have heard 
 Of this night's tumults? 
 
 Zarina. I had half forgotten, 
 And could have welcomed any grief, save yours. 
 Which gave me to behold your face again. 
 
 Sard. The throne — I say it not in fear — but 'tis 
 In peril; they perhaps may never mount it: 
 But let them not for this lose sight of it: 
 I will dare all things to bequeath it them; 
 But if I fail, then they must win it back 
 Bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
 Have wasted down my royalty. 
 
 Zarina. They ne'er 
 Shall know from me of aught but what may honour 
 Their father's memory. 
 
 Sard. Rather let them hear 
 
456 
 
 SAllDANAPALUS. 
 
 ACT 
 
 The truth from you than from a trampling world. 
 
 If they be in adversity, they'll learn 
 
 Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless princes, 
 
 And find tliat all their father's sins are theirs. 
 
 My boys ! — I could have borne it were I childless. 
 
 Zarina. Oh ! do not say so — do not poison all 
 My peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
 A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign, 
 And honour him who saved the realm for them. 
 So little cared for as his own ; and if — 
 
 Sard. "T'ls lost, all earth will cry out, thank your father ! 
 And they will swell the echo with a curse. 
 
 Zarina. Tliat they shall never do ; but ratlier honour 
 The name of him, who, dying like a king, 
 In his last hours did more for his own memory, 
 Than many monarchs in a length of days. 
 Which date the flight of time, but make no annals. 
 
 Sard. Our aunais draw perchance unto their close; 
 But at tlie least, whate'er the past, their end 
 Sliall be like their beginning — memorable. 
 
 Zarina. Yet, be not rash — be careful of your life, 
 Live but for those who love. 
 
 Sard. And who are they ? 
 A slave, who loves from passion — I'll not say 
 Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, and loves ; 
 A few friends, who have revell'd till we are 
 As one, for they are nothing if 1 fall ; 
 A brother I have injured - children whom 
 I have neglected, and a spouse — 
 
 Zarina. Who loves. 
 
 Sard. And pardons? 
 
 Zarina. I have never thought of this. 
 And cannot pardon till I have condemn' d. 
 
 Sard. My wife ! 
 
 Zarina. Now blessings on thee for that word ! 
 I never thought to hear it more — from thee. 
 
 Sard. Oh! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. Yes 
 These slaves, whom I have nurtured, pamper'd, fed. 
 And swoln with peace, and gorged with plenty, till 
 They reign themselves — allmonarchs in their mansions 
 Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
 His death, who made their lives a jubilee; 
 While the few upon whom I have no claim 
 Are faithful! This is true, yet monstrous. 
 
 Zarina. 'Tis 
 Perhaps too natural; for benefits 
 Turn poison in bad minds. 
 
 Sard. And good ones make 
 Good out of evil. Happier than the bee, 
 Wliich hives not but from wholesome (lowers. 
 
 Zarina. Then reap 
 The honey, nor inquire whence 'tis derived. 
 Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd. 
 
 Sard. My life insures me that. How long, bethink you, 
 Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal ? 
 That is, where mortals are, not where they must be. 
 
 Zarina. I know not. But yet live for my — that is, 
 Your children's sake! 
 
 Sard. My gentle, wrong'd Zarina! 
 I am the very slave of circumstance 
 And impulse — borne away with every breath ! 
 
 Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life — 
 I know not what I could have been, but feel 
 I am not what I should be — let it end. 
 But take this with thee : if I was not form'd 
 To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, 
 Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I've doted 
 On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
 Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
 All that look'd like a chain for me or others -^ 
 
 (This even rebellion must avouch) ; yet hear 
 These words, perhaps among my last - that none 
 E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not 
 To profit by them — as the miner lights 
 Upon a vein of virgin-ore, discovering 
 That which avails him nothing: he hath found it, 
 But 'tis not his — but some superior's, who 
 Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
 Which sparkles at his feet ; nor dare he lift 
 Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
 The sullen earth. 
 
 Zarina. Oh! if thou hast at length 
 Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
 1 ask no nnjre — but let us hence together, 
 And / — let me say we — shall yet be happy. 
 Assyria is not all tlie earth — we'll find 
 A world out of our own — and be more blest 
 Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 
 An empire to indulge thee. 
 
 Enter Salemen£S. 
 
 Sal. I must part ye — 
 The moments, which must not be lost, are passing. 
 
 Zarina. Inhuman brother! wilt thou thus weigh oi 
 Instants so high and blest? 
 
 Sal. Blest! 
 
 Zarina. He hath been 
 So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
 Of quitting. 
 
 Sal. So — this feminine farewell 
 Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 
 I thought as much, and yielded against all 
 My better bodings. But it must not be. 
 
 Zarina. Not be? 
 
 Sal. Remain, and perish — 
 
 Zarina. With my husband — 
 
 Sal. And children. 
 
 Zarina. Alas ! 
 
 Sal. Hear me, sister, like 
 My sister : — all's prepared to make your safety 
 Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes. 
 'Tis not a single question of mere feeling. 
 Though that were much — but 'tis a point of state: 
 The rebels would do more to seize upon 
 The offspring of their sovereign, and so crush — 
 
 Zarina. Ah! do not name it. 
 
 Sal. Well, then, mark me: when 
 They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the rebels 
 Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinction of 
 The lineof Nimrod. Though the present king 
 Fall, his sons live for victory and vengeance. 
 
 Zarina. But could not I remain, alone? 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 457 
 
 Sal. What! leave 
 Your children, with two parents and yet orphans — 
 III a strange land — so young, so distant? 
 
 Zarina. No — 
 My licart will break. 
 
 Sal. Now you know all — decide. 
 
 Sard. Zarina, he hath spoken well, and we 
 Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
 Remaining here, you may lose all ; departing, 
 You save the better part of what is left 
 To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
 As yet beat in these kingdoms. 
 
 Sal. Tlie time presses. 
 
 Sard. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps 
 I may be worthier of you — and, if not, 
 Remember that my faults, though not atoned for, 
 \rc ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
 [irieve more above the blighted name and ashes 
 VVliiuh once were mightiest in Assyria — than — 
 Rut I grow womanish again, and must not; 
 [ must learn sternness now. My sins have all 
 i3een of the softer order — hide thy tears — 
 
 do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
 Sasier to stop Euphrates at its source 
 Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
 Jut let me not behold them; they unman me 
 lere when I had re-mann'd myself. My brother, 
 
 ead her away. 
 
 Zarina. Oli, God! I never shall 
 Jehold him more ! 
 
 Sal. (striving to conduct her) Nay, sister, I must be obey'd. 
 
 Zarina. I must remain — away ! you shall not hold me. 
 Vhat, sliall he die alone? — /live alone? 
 
 Sal. He shall not die alone ; but lonely you 
 lave lived for years. 
 
 Zarina. That's false ! "I knew he lived, 
 ind lived upon his image — let me go ! 
 
 Sal. (conducting her off the stage) 
 
 fay, then, I must use some fraternal force, 
 Vhich you will pardon. 
 
 Zarina. Never. Help me ! Oh ! 
 ardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
 'orn from thee ? 
 
 (Sfl/. Nay — then all is lost again, 
 rthat this moment is not gain'd. 
 
 Zarina. My brain turns — 
 ly eyes fail — where is he? [She faints. 
 
 Sard, (advancing) No — Set her down — 
 he's dead — and you have slain her. 
 
 Sal. 'Tis the mere 
 
 aintness of o'er-wrought passion : in tlie air 
 he will recover. Pray, keep back. — [Aside.] I must 
 vail myself of this sole moment to 
 ■ear her to where her children are embark'd, 
 
 the royal galley on the river. [Saiemenes bears her off. 
 
 I Sard, (solus) This, too — 
 nd tiiis too must I suffer — I, who never 
 iflicted purposely on human hearts 
 
 voluntary pang ! But that is false — 
 
 he loved me, and I loved lier. Fatal passion! 
 
 i'^hy dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
 
 Which thou hast lighted up at once? Zarina! 
 
 I must pay dearly for the desolation 
 
 Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
 
 But thee, I should have been an unopposed 
 
 Monarch of honouring nations. To what gulfs 
 
 A single deviation from the track 
 
 Of human duties leads even those who claim 
 
 The homage of mankind as their born due, 
 
 And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 
 
 Enter Myrrha. 
 
 Sard. Yowhere! Whocall'dyou? 
 
 Myrrha. No one — but I fieard 
 Far oflFa voice of wail and lamentation. 
 And thought — 
 
 Sard. It forms no portion of your duties 
 To •nter here till sought for. 
 
 Myrrha. Though I might. 
 Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours 
 (Altliough tliey too were chidinff), which reproved me, 
 Because I ever dreaded to intrude, 
 Resisting my own wish and your Injunction 
 To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 
 Uncall'd for : I retire. 
 
 Sard. Yet, stay — being here. 
 I pray you pardon me: events have soured me 
 Till I wax peevish — heed it not : I shall 
 Soon be myself again. 
 
 Myrrha. I wait with patience, 
 What I shall see with pleasure. 
 
 Sard. Scarce a moment 
 Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina. 
 Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 
 
 Myrrha. Ah! 
 
 Sard. Wherefore do you start? 
 
 Myrrha. Did I do so? 
 
 Sard. 'Twas well you enter'd by another portal, 
 Else you had met. That pang at least is spared her! 
 
 Myrrha. \ know to feel for her. 
 
 Sard. That is too much. 
 And beyond nature — 'tis nor mutual. 
 Nor possible. You cannot pity her, 
 Nor she auglit but — 
 
 Myrrha. Despise the favorite slave ? 
 Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 
 
 Sard. Scorn'd! what, to be the envy of j'our sex, 
 And lord it o'er tlie heart of the world's lord ? [worlds — 
 
 Myrrha. Were you the lord of twice ten thousand 
 As you are like to lose the one you sway'd — 
 I did abase myself as much in being 
 Your paramour, as though you were a peasant — 
 Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 
 
 Sard. You talk it well — « 
 
 Myrrha. And truly. 
 Sard. In the hour 
 Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
 Against the falling ; but as I am not 
 Quite fallen, nor now disposed to bear reproaches. 
 Perhaps because I merit them too often. 
 Let us then part while peace is still between us. 
 
 Myrrha. Part! 
 
 29* 
 
458 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Sard. Have not all past human beings parted, 
 And must not all the"present one day part? 
 
 Myrrha. Why? 
 
 Sard. For your safety, which I will have lookM to, 
 With a strong escort to your native Jand; 
 And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
 A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom. 
 
 Myrrha. I pray you talk not thus. 
 
 Sard. The queen is gone: 
 You need not shame to follow. I would fall 
 Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 
 
 Myrrha. And I no pleasure but in parting not. 
 You shall not force me from*you. 
 
 Sard. Think well of it — 
 It soon may be too late. 
 
 Myrrha. So let it be; 
 For then you cannot separate me from you. . 
 
 Sard. And will not ; but I thought you Avish'd it. 
 
 Myrrha. I ! 
 
 Sard. You spoke of your abasement. 
 
 Myrrha. And I feel it 
 Deeply — more deeply than all things but love. 
 
 Sard. Then lly from it. 
 
 Myrrha. 'Twill not recallthepast — 
 'Twill not restore my honour, nor my heart. 
 No — here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
 I live to joy in your great triumph ; should 
 Your lot be diftercnt, I'll not weep, but share it. 
 You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 
 
 Sard. Your courage never — nor your love till now ; 
 And none could make me doubt it save yourself. 
 Those words — 
 
 Myrrha. Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 
 Be in the past acts you were pleased to praise 
 This very night, and in my further bearing. 
 Beside, wherever you are borne by fate. 
 
 Sard. I am content ; and, trusting in my cause, 
 Think we may yet be victors, and return 
 To peace — the only victory I covet. 
 To me war is no glory — conquest no 
 Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right, 
 Sits heavier on my heart than all the -wrongs 
 These men would bow me down with. Never, never 
 Can I forget this night, even should I live 
 To add it to the memory of others. 
 I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
 An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
 A green spot amidst desert centuries, 
 On which the future would turn back and smile, 
 And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
 Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign, 
 I thought to have made my realm a paradise, 
 Aijd every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
 I took the rabble's shouts for love — the breatti 
 Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 
 My only guerdon— so they are, my Myrrha: [He kisses her. 
 Kiss me. Now let them take ray realm and life ! 
 They shall have both, but never thee! 
 
 Myrrlia. No, never! 
 Man may despoil his brother-man of all 
 That's great or glittering: kingdoms fall -hosts yield — 
 
 Friends fail — slaves fly — and all betray — and, more 
 
 Than all, the most indebted — but a heart 
 
 That loves without self-love ! 'Tis here — now prove it. 
 
 Enter Salemenes. 
 
 Sal. I sought you — How ! she here again? 
 
 Sard. Return not 
 Now to reproof: methinks your aspect speaks 
 Of higher matter than a woman's presence. ^^ 
 
 Sal. The only woman whom it much imports me 
 At such a moment now, is safe in absence — 
 The queen's embark'd. 
 
 Sard. And well? say that much. 
 
 Sal. Yes. 
 Her transient weakness has past o'er ; at least. 
 It settled into tearless silence: her 
 Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 
 Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 
 Upon the palace-towers as the swift galley 
 Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the starlight; 
 But she said nothing. 
 
 Sard^ Would I felt no more 
 Than she has said ! 
 
 Sal. 'Tis nov; too late to feel ! 
 Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang ; 
 To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
 That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, marshaU'd '| 
 By their two leaders, are already up 
 In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks. 
 Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
 ^een join'd-iiy,otlier satraps. 
 
 Sard. What ! mgr^ rebels ? 
 Let us be first, thenr 
 
 Sal. That^vgre; hardly "^^v^ent 
 Now, though it was our first intention. If 
 By noan to-morrow vve are join'd by those 
 I've sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
 In strength enough to venture an attack. 
 Ay, and pursuit too ; but till then, my voice 
 Is to await the onset. 
 
 Sard. I detest 
 That waiting; though it seems so safe to fight 
 Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
 Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
 Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not — 
 My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them. 
 Though they were piled on mountains, I would Lave 
 A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
 Let me then charge ! 
 
 Sal. You talk like a young soldier. 
 
 Sard. I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 
 Of soldiership, I loathe the word, and those 
 Who pride themselves upon it; but direct me 
 Where I may pour upon them. 
 
 Sal. You must spare 
 To expose your life too haistily ; 'tis not 
 Like mine or any other subject's breath: 
 TJje whole war turns upon it — w ith it ; this 
 Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it — 
 Prolong it — end it. 
 
 Sard. Then let us end both! 
 
ACTV. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 459 
 
 'Twere better thus, perhaps, than prolong either; 
 I'm sick of one, perchance of both. 
 
 f A trumijet noonda without. 
 
 Sal. Hark! 
 
 Sard. Let us 
 Reply, not listen. 
 
 Sa/. And your wound? 
 
 Sard. 'Tis bound — 
 Tis hcal'd — I had forgotten it. Away! 
 \ leech's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper ; 
 
 The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
 To have struck so weakly. 
 
 Sal. Now, may none this hour 
 Strike with a better aim ! 
 
 Sard. Ay, if we conquer; 
 IJut if not, they will only leave to me 
 A task they might have spared their king. Upon them ! 
 
 [Trujrpet sounds again. 
 
 Sal. I am with you. 
 
 SarcK Ho, my arms! again, my arms ! [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The same Hall of the Palace, 
 I Mykrha and Balea. 
 
 j Myrrha (at a window). Tlie day at last has broken. What 
 
 ilath usher'd it! How beautiful in heaven! [a night 
 
 I'hough varied with a transitory storm, 
 
 lore beautiful in that variety ! 
 
 low hideous upon earth ! wherje peace and liope, 
 
 Ind love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
 
 !y human passions to a human chaos, 
 
 I ot yet resolved to separate elements. — 
 
 iPis warring still! And can the sun so rise, 
 
 ;0 bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
 apours more lovely than the unclouded sky, 
 i'^itli golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains, 
 nd billows purpler than the ocean's, making 
 
 \ I heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
 
 \ 9 like, we almost deem it permanent, 
 fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
 eyond a vision ; 'tis so transiently 
 latter'd along ihe eternal vault : and yet 
 dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul, 
 nd blends itself into the soul^ until 
 anrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
 f sorrow and of love; which they who mark not, 
 now not the realms where those twin-genii 
 iiVho chasten and who purify our hearts, 
 ) that we would not change their sweet rebukes 
 )r all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
 lie air with clamour) build the palaces 
 Khere their fond votaries repose and breathe 
 iriefly ; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 
 aough of heaven to enable them to bear 
 le rest of common, heavy, human hours, 
 iid dream them through in placid sufferance; 
 lough seemingly employed like all the rest 
 f toiling breathers in allotted tasks 
 f pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling, 
 '^hich our internal, restless agony 
 
 Would vary in the sound, although the sense 
 Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 
 
 Balea. You muse right calmly ; and can you so watch 
 The sunrise which may be our last? 
 
 Myrrha. It is 
 Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
 Those eyes, which never may behold it more. 
 For having looked upon it oft, too oft, 
 Without the reverence and the rapture due 
 To that which keeps all earth from being as fragile 
 As I am in tliis form. Come, look upon it, 
 The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 
 I grow almost a convert to your Baal. 
 
 Balea. As now he reigns in heaven, so once on earth 
 He sway'd. 
 
 Myrrha. He sways it now far more, then; never 
 Had earthly monarch half the power and glory 
 Which centres in a single ray of his. 
 
 Balea. Surely he is a god ! 
 
 Myrrha. So we Greeks deem too ; 
 And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
 Must rather be the abode of gods than one 
 Of the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
 Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes with light 
 That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 
 
 Balea. Hark ! heard you not a sound ? 
 
 Myrrha. No, 'twas mere fancy; 
 They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
 As in late midnight-conflict in the very 
 Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
 Since that insidious hour; and here, within 
 The very centre, girded by vast courts 
 And regal halls of pyramid proportions. 
 Which must be carried one by one before 
 They penetrate to where they then arrived. 
 We are as much shut in even from the sound 
 Of peril as from glory. 
 
 Balea. But they reach'd 
 Thus far before. 
 
 Myrrha.. Yes, by surprise, and were 
 
460 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 ATT 
 
 Beat back by valour; now at once we liave 
 Courage and vigilance to guard us. 
 
 Balea. May they 
 Prosper ! 
 
 Myrrlia. That is tlie prayer of many, and 
 The dread of more: it is an anxious hour; 
 I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
 How vainly! 
 
 Balea. It is said the king's demeanour 
 In the late action scarcely more appall'd 
 The rebels than astonish'd his true subjects. 
 
 Mijrrha. 'Tis easy to astonish or appal 
 The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of slaves; 
 But he did bravely. 
 
 Balea. Slew he not Bcleses? 
 1 heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 
 
 Myrrha. The wretch was overthrown, but rescued to 
 Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquish'd him 
 Iikfiglit, as he had spared him in his peril. 
 And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 
 
 Balea. Hark! [slowly. 
 
 Myrrha. You are right ; some steps approach, but 
 
 Enter Soldiers, bearing in Salemenes wounded, witli a broken javelin 
 
 in bis side; tbey seat him upon one of tlie couches which furnish the 
 
 apartment. 
 
 Slyrrha. Oh, Jove! 
 
 Balea. Then all is over. 
 
 Sal. That is false. 
 Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. [terfly, 
 
 Myrrha. Spare him — he's none: a mere court -but- 
 That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 
 
 Sal. Let him live on, then. 
 
 Myrrha. So wilt thou, I trust. 
 
 Sal. [ fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
 Bui doubt it. Wherefore did 5e bear me here? [you. 
 
 Soldier. By the king's order. When the javelin struck 
 You fell and fainted; 'twas his strict command 
 To hear you to this hall. 
 
 Sal. 'Twas not ill done: 
 For, seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance. 
 The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 'tis vain. 
 I feel it ebbing ! 
 
 Myrrha. Let me see the wound ; 
 I am not quite skilless: in my native land 
 'Tis part of our instruction. War being constant, 
 We are nerved to look on such things. 
 
 Soldier. Best extract 
 The javelin. 
 
 Myrrha. Hold! no, no, it cannot be. 
 
 Sal. I am sped, then! 
 
 Myrrha. With the blood that fast must follow 
 The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 
 
 Sal. And I not death. W^here was the king when you 
 Convcy'd me from the spot where I was stricken ? 
 
 Soldier. Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
 With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
 Who had .seen you fall, and falter'd back. 
 
 Sal. Whom heard ye 
 Named next to the command ? 
 
 Soldier. I did not hear. 
 
 Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 'twas my last request 
 That Zames take my post until the junction, 
 So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofratanes, 
 Satrap of Susa. Leave me here : our troops 
 Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 
 
 Soldier. But, prince — 
 
 Sal, Hence, I say ! Here's a courtier and 
 A woman, the best chamber-company. 
 As you would not permit me to expire -^ 
 
 Upon the field, I'll have no idle soldiers 
 About my sick -couch. Hence ! and do my bidding ! 
 
 [Exeunt tlie Soldi 
 
 Myrrha. Gallant and glorious spirit! must the eartl 
 So soon resign thee? 
 
 Sal. Gentle Myrrha, 'tis 
 The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
 The monarch or the monarchy by this. 
 As 'tis, I have not outlived them. 
 
 Myrrha. You wax paler. 
 
 Sal. Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
 My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
 To make me useful : I would draw it forth 
 And my life with it, could I but hear how 
 The fight goes. 
 
 Enter Sardanapalus and Soldieri. 
 
 jSarrf. My best brotiier! 
 Sal. Ajid the battle 
 Is lost ? 
 
 Sard, (despondingiy) You See me here. 
 Sal. I'd rather see you Mm*.' 
 
 [lie draws out tlie weapon from the wound, and 
 
 Sard. And thus I will be seen ; unless the succour, 
 The last frail reed of our beleagucr'd hopes, 
 Arrive with Ofratanes. 
 
 Myrrha. Did you not 
 Receive a token from your dying brother, 
 Appointing Zames chief? 
 
 Sard. I did. 
 
 Myrrha. Where's Zames? 
 
 Sard. Dead. 
 
 
 Myrrha. AndAltada? 
 
 Sard. Dying. 
 
 Myrrha. Pania ? Sfero? 
 
 Sard. Pania yet lives; but Sfero's fled, or captive. 
 I am alone. 
 
 Myrrha. And is all lost ? 
 
 Sard. Our walls, 
 Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out against 
 Their present force, or aught save treachery : 
 But i' the field — 
 
 Myrrha. I thought 'twas the intent 
 Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
 'Till ye were strengthcn'd by the expected succours. 
 
 Sard. I over-ruled him. 
 
 Mi/rrha. Well, the fault's a brave one. 
 
 Sard. But fatal. Oh, my brother! I would give 
 These realms, of which thou wert the ornament, 
 The sword and shield, the sole-redeeming honour, 
 To call back — But I will not weep for thee ; 
 Thou shalt be mourn'd for as thou wouldst be mourn' 
 
! ACT V. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 461 
 
 It grieves me most that thou couldst quit this life 
 Believing that I could survive what thou 
 Hast died for — our long royalty of race. 
 If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 
 Of thousands, tears of millions, for atonement 
 (The tears of all the good are thine already), 
 If not, we meet again soon, if the spirit 
 Within us lives beyond: — tliou readest mine, 
 And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 
 That yet warm hand, and fold that throbless heart 
 
 [Embraces the body. 
 
 To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
 The body hence. 
 
 Soldier. Where? 
 
 Sard. To my proper chamber. 
 Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
 The king lay there: wlien this is done, we will 
 Speak further of the rites due to such ashes. 
 
 [Exeunt Soldiers with the body of Salemenes. 
 Enter Pania. 
 
 Sard. Well, Pania! have you placed the guards, and 
 The orders fix'd on ? [issued 
 
 Pania. Sire, I have-obey'd. 
 
 Sard. And do the soldiers keep their hearts up ? 
 
 Pania. Sire? 
 
 Sard. I'manswer'd! When a king asks twice, and has 
 A question as an answer to Jds question, 
 It is a portent. What, they are disheartcn'd? 
 
 Pania. Tlie death of Salemenes. and the shouts 
 Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 
 Have made them — 
 
 Sard. Raye — not droop — it should have been, 
 i We'll find the means to rouse them. 
 
 Pania. Such a loss 
 Might sadden even a victory. 
 
 Sard, Alas! 
 Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet, 
 Though coop'd within these walls, they are strong, and we 
 [Have those without w ill break their way through hosts, 
 iTo make their sovereign's dwelling what it was — 
 A palace; not a prison, nor a fortress. 
 
 Enter an Officer, hastily. 
 
 Sard. Thy face seems ominous. Speak ! 
 Officer. I dare not. 
 Sard. Dare not ? 
 I While millions dare revolt with sword in hand! 
 That's strange. I pray thee break that loyal silence 
 Which loathes to shock its sovereign; we can hear 
 Worse than thou hast to tell. 
 Pania. Proceed, thou hearest. 
 
 Officer. The wall which skirted near the river's brink 
 Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
 Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swoln 
 F iFrom the enormous mountains where it rises, 
 ■ 'By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
 '' O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroyed the bulwark. 
 Pania. That's a black augury ! it has been said 
 For ages, "That the city ne'er slionid yield 
 To man, until the river grew its foe." 
 
 Sard. I cHn forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
 How much is swept down of the wall? 
 
 Officer. About 
 Some twenty stadii. 
 
 Sard. And all this is left 
 Pervious to the assailants? 
 
 Officer. For tlie present 
 The river's fury must impede the assault; 
 But Avhen he shrinks into his wonted channel. 
 And may be cross'd by the accustom'd barks, 
 The palace is their own. 
 
 Sard. That shall be never. 
 Though men, and gods, and elements, and omens. 
 Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them, 
 My fathers' house sliall never be a cave 
 For wolves to horde and howl in. 
 
 Pania. With your sanction 
 I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
 For the assurance of the vacant space 
 As time and means permit. 
 
 Sard, About it straight. 
 And bring me back, as speedily as full 
 And fair investigation may permit, 
 Report of the true state of this irruption 
 
 Of waters. [Exeunt Pania and the Officer 
 
 Myrrha, Thus the very waves rise up 
 Against you. 
 
 Sard, They are not my subjects, girl, 
 And may be pardon'd, since they can't be punifh'd. 
 
 Myrrha. I joy to see this portent shakes you not. 
 
 Sard. I am past the fear of portents : they can .tell me 
 Nothing I have not told myself since midnight: 
 Despair anticipates such things. 
 
 Myrrha. Despair! 
 
 Sard. No; not despair precisely. WTien we know 
 .All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
 Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
 Word than this is to give it utterance. 
 But what are words to us ? we have well nigh done 
 With them and all things. 
 
 Myrrha. Save one deed — the last 
 And greatest to all mortals ; crowning -act 
 Of all that was — or is — or is to be — 
 The only thing common to all mankind. 
 So diflerent in their births, tongues, sexes, natures, 
 Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intellects, 
 Without one point of union save in this, 
 To which we tend, for which we're born, and thread 
 The labyrinth of mystery, call'd life. [cheerful, 
 
 Sard. Our clew being well nigh wound out, let's be 
 They who have nothing more to fear, may well 
 Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd ; 
 As children at discover'd bugbears. 
 
 Re-enter Pania. 
 
 Pania. 'Tis 
 As was reported: I have order'd there 
 A double guards withdrawing from tlie wall 
 Where it was strongest the required addition 
 To watch the breach occasion'd by tlie waters. 
 
 Sard. You have done your duly faithfully and as 
 
462r 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 My worthy Pania ! further ties between us 
 
 Draw near a close. Ipray you take this key. [Gives a key. 
 
 It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
 
 Behind the couch in my own chamber (now 
 
 Press'd by a nobler weight than e'er it bore — 
 
 Though a long line of sovereigns have lain down 
 
 Along its golden frame — as bearing for 
 
 A time what late was Salemenes) j search 
 
 The secret covert to which this will lead you; 
 
 'Tis full of treasure; take it for yourself 
 
 And your companions : there's enough to load ye, 
 
 Thougli ye be many. Let the slaves be freed, too ; 
 
 And all the inmates of the palace, of 
 
 Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 
 
 Thence launch tlie regal barks, once form'd for pleasure. 
 
 And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
 
 The river's broad and swoln, and uncommanded 
 
 (More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
 
 Fly ! and be happy ! 
 
 Pania. Under your protection ! 
 So you accompany your faithful guard. 
 
 Sard. No, Pania ! that must not be ; get thee hence. 
 And leave me to my fate. 
 
 Pania. 'Tis the first time 
 I ever disobey'd : but now — 
 
 Sard. So all men 
 Dare beard me now, and insolence within 
 Apes treason from without? Question no furtlier; 
 'Tis my command, my last command. Wilt thou 
 Oppose it? thou! 
 
 Pania. But yet — not yet. 
 
 Sard. Well, then. 
 Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
 The signal. 
 
 Panta. Witli a heavy but true heart, 
 I promise. 
 
 Sard. 'Tis enough . Now order here 
 Faggots, pine -nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 
 Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole spark; 
 Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and spices, 
 And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile ; 
 Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
 For a great sacrifice I build the pyre; «» 
 
 And heap them round you throne. 
 
 Pania. My lord ! 
 
 Sard. I have said it, 
 And you have sworn. 
 
 Pania. And could keep my faith 
 
 Without a vow. [Exit Pauia. 
 
 Myrrha. What mean you? 
 Sard. You shall know 
 Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 
 
 Pania, returning with a Herald. 
 
 Pania. My king, in going forth upon my duty. 
 This herald has been brought before me, craving 
 An audience. 
 
 Sard. Let him speak. 
 
 Herald. The ^j'n^ Arbaces — 
 
 Sard. What, crown'd already? — But proceed. 
 
 Herald. Beleses, 
 The anointed high - priest — 
 
 Sard, Of what god, or demon ? 
 With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed ; 
 You are sent to prate your masters' will, and not 
 Reply to mine. 
 
 Herald. And Satrap Ofratanes — 
 
 Sard. Why, he is ours. 
 
 Herald (showing a ring). Be sure that he is now " 
 In the camp of the conquerors; behold 
 His signet -ring. 
 
 Sard. 'Tis his. A worthy triad ! 
 Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 
 To see one treachery the less : this man 
 Was thy true friend and my most trusted subject. 
 Proceed ! 
 
 Herald. They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
 Of choice to single out a residence 
 In any of the furtlier provinces. 
 Guarded and" watch'd, but not confined in person, 
 Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but on 
 Condition that the three young princes are 
 Given up as hostages. 
 
 Sard, (ironically). The generous victors ! 
 
 Herald. I wait the answer. 
 
 Sard. Answer? slave! How long 
 Have slaves decided on the doom of kings? 
 
 Herald. Since they were free. 
 
 Sard. Mouthpiece of mutiny ! 
 Thou at the least shalt learn the penalty 
 Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania ! 
 Liti his head be thrown from our walls within 
 The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
 
 Away with him ! [Pasia and the Guards ceizlng hil 
 
 Pania. I never yet obey'd 
 Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
 Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
 Of royalty with treasonable gore ; 
 Put him to rest without. 
 
 Herald. A single word : 
 My office, king, is sacred. 
 
 Sard, And what 's mine? 
 Tliat thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
 To lay it down? 
 
 Herald. I but obey'd my orders. 
 At the same peril if refused, as now 
 Incurr'd by my obedience. 
 
 Sard. So, there are 
 New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
 As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned 
 From birth to manhood ! 
 
 Herald. My life waits your breath. 
 Yours (I speak humbly) — but it may be — yours 
 May also be in danger scarce less imminent : 
 Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
 Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
 A peaceful herald, unarm'd, in his office ; 
 And violate not only all that man 
 Holds sacred between man and man — but that 
 More holy tie which links us with the gods ? 
 
ACT V. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 463 
 
 Sard. He's right, — Let him go free. — My life's last 
 Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take [act 
 
 [Gives him a golden cup from a table near. 
 
 This golden goblet, let it hold your wine, 
 
 .\jid think of me; or melt it into ingots, 
 
 .\nd think of nothing but their weight and value. 
 
 Herald. I thank you doubly for my life, and this 
 Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more precious. 
 But must I bear no answer ? 
 
 Sard. Yes, — I ask 
 An hour's truce to consider. 
 
 Herald. But an hour's ? 
 
 Sard. An hour's : if at the expiration of 
 That time your masters hear no further from me, 
 They are to deem tliat I reject their terms, 
 And act beiittingly. 
 
 Herald. I sliall not fail 
 To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 
 
 Sard. And, hark ! a word more. 
 
 Herald. I shall not forget it, 
 Whate'cr it be. 
 
 Sard. Commend me to Beleses ; 
 A.nd tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
 Him hence to meet me. 
 
 Herald. Where? 
 
 Sard. At Babylon. 
 Kt least from thence he will depart to meet me. 
 
 Herald. I shall obey you to tlie letter. [Exit Herald 
 
 Sard. Pania ! — 
 ^ovi , my good Pania ! — quick ! witli what I order'd. 
 
 Pania. My lord, — the soldiers are already charged. 
 Vnd, see ! they enter. 
 
 [Soldiers enter, and form a Pile about tbe Throne. 
 
 Sard. Higher, my good soldiers, 
 ^lul tliicker yet; and see tliat the foundation 
 3e sucli as will not speedily exhaust 
 ts own too subtle flame ; nor yet be quench'd 
 vVitli aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
 jct the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
 jcave that, save fraught with fire unquenchable. 
 To tlie new comers. Frame the whole as if 
 Twere to enkindle the strong tower of our 
 nvcterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect ! 
 low say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
 'or a king's obsequies ? 
 
 Pania. Ay, for a kingdom's. 
 UDderstand you now. 
 
 Sard. And blame me? 
 
 Pania. No — 
 iCt me but fire the pile and sliare it with you. 
 
 Myrrha. That duty 's mine. 
 
 Pania, A woman's ! 
 
 Myrrha. 'Tis the soldier's 
 "art to dieybr his sovereign, and why not 
 'he woman's with her lover? 
 
 Pania. 'Tis most strange ! 
 
 Myrrha. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou thinkst it. 
 n the mean time, live thou. — Farewell ! the pile 
 s ready. 
 r j Pania, I should shame to leave my sovereign 
 
 With but a single female to partake 
 His death. 
 
 Sard. Too many far have heralded 
 Me to the dust already. Get thee hence ; 
 Enrich thee. 
 
 Pania, And live wretched! 
 
 Sard, Think upon 
 Thy vow ; — 'tis sacred and irrevocable. 
 
 Pania. Since it is so, farewell. 
 
 Sard. Search well my chamber, 
 Feel no remorse at bearing off tlie gold ; 
 Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
 Who slew me: and when you have borne away 
 All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
 Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
 The river's brink is too remote , its stream 
 Too loud at present to permit the echo 
 To reach distinctly from its bank. Then fly, — 
 And as you sail, turn back ; but still keep on 
 Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
 The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
 Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court. 
 Say what you saw at parting, and request ' 
 That she remember what I said at one 
 Parting more mournful still. 
 
 Pania. That royal hand! 
 Let me then once more press it to my lips ; 
 And these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
 Would fain die with you ! 
 
 [The Soldiers and Pania throng round him, kissing his hand and tJir 
 hem of his robe. 
 
 Sard, My best ! my last friends ! 
 Let's not unman each other — part at once : 
 All farewells should be sudden, when for ever. 
 Else they make an eternity of momenta. 
 And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
 Hence, and be happy ; trust me, I am not 
 Noiv to be pitied ; or far more for what 
 Is past than present ; — for the future,'tis 
 In the hands of the deities, if such 
 There be: I shall know soon. Farewell — farewell. 
 
 [Exeant Pania and the Soldiers. 
 
 Myrrha, These men were honest: it is comfort still 
 That our last looks shall be on loving faces. 
 
 Sard, And lovely ones, my beautiful ! — but hear me ! 
 If at this moment, for we now are on 
 The brink, thou feelst an inward shrinking from 
 This leap through flame into the future, say it: 
 I shall not love thee less ; nay, perhaps more, 
 For yielding to thy nature ; and there's time 
 Yet for thee to escape hence. 
 
 Myrrha. Shall I light 
 One of the torches which lie heap'd beneath 
 The ever-burning lamp that burns without. 
 Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall? 
 
 Sard, Do so. Is that thy answer ? 
 
 Myrrha, Thou shalt see. [Exit Mvrrha. 
 
 Sard, (solus) She's firm. My fathers ! whom I will rejoin. 
 It may be, purified by death from some 
 Of the gross stains of too material being, 
 
464 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 I would not leave your ancient first abode 
 
 To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
 
 If I have not kept your inheritance 
 
 As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it, 
 
 Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 
 
 Of arms, and records, monuments, and spoils, 
 
 In which they would have revell'd, I bear with me 
 
 To you in tliat absorbing element. 
 
 Which most personifies the soul, as leaving 
 
 The least of matter uuconsumed before 
 
 Its fiery workings : — and the light of this 
 
 Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 
 
 Not a mere pillar form'd of cloud and flame, 
 
 A beacon in the horizon for a day, 
 
 And then a mount of ashes, but a light 
 
 To lesson ages, rebel nations, and 
 
 Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full many 
 
 A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 
 
 Sweep empire after empire, like this first 
 
 Of empix-es, into nothing; but even then 
 
 Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
 
 A problem few dare imitate, and none 
 
 Despise — but, it may be, avoid the life 
 
 Which led to such a consummation. 
 
 Myrrha returns with a lighted Torch in one Hand, and a Cup in 
 the other, 
 
 Myrrha. Lo ! 
 I've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars. 
 
 Sard. And the cup ? 
 
 Myrrha. 'Tis my country's custom to 
 Make a libation to the gods. 
 
 Sard. And mine 
 To make libations amongst men. I've not 
 Forgot the custom ; and although alone, 
 Will drain one draught in memory of many 
 A joyous banquet past. 
 
 [Sardanapalus takes the cup, and after drinking and tinkling the re- 
 versed cup, as a drop falls, exclaims — 
 
 And this libation 
 
 Is for the excellent Beleses. 
 
 Myrrha. Why 
 Dwells tliy mind rather upon that man's name 
 Than on his mate's in villany? 
 
 Sard. The other 
 Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
 Of human sword in a friend's hand; the other 
 Is master-mover of his warlike puppet: 
 But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet pause 
 My Myrrha ! dost thou truly follow me, 
 Freely and fearlessly ? 
 
 Myrrha. And dost thou think 
 A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which 
 An Indian widow braves for custom? 
 
 Sard. Then 
 We but await the signal. 
 
 Myrrha. It is long 
 In sounding. 
 
 Sard, Now, farewell ; one last embrace. 
 
 Myrrha. Embrace, but no^ the last; there is one mort 
 
 Sard. True, the commingling fire will mix our aslies 
 
 Myrrha. And, pure as is my love to thee, shall tliey, 
 Purged trom the dross of earth, and earthly passion. 
 Mix pale Avitli thine. A single thought yet irks me. 
 
 Sard. Say it. 
 
 Myrrha. It is that no kind hand will gather 
 The dust of both into one urn. 
 
 Sard. The better: 
 Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
 The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air. 
 Than be polluted more by human hands 
 Of slaves and traitors. In this blazing palace. 
 And its enormous walls of reeking ruin. 
 We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 
 Hath piled in her brick-mountains, o'er dead kings. 
 Or kine, for none know whether those proud piles 
 Be for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis : 
 So much for monuments that have forgotten 
 Their very record ! 
 
 Myrrha. Then farewell, thou earth! 
 And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia! 
 Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
 Aloof from desolation I My last prayer 
 Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, were of thee ! h 
 
 Sard. And that ? 
 
 Myrrha. Is yours. 
 
 [The tru:npet of Pania counds withoi i; 
 
 Sard. Hark 
 Myrrha. Now ! 
 Sard. Adieu, Assyria! 
 I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land. 
 And better as my country than my kingdom. 
 I satiated thee with peace and joys ; and this 
 Is my reward! and now I owe thee nothing. 
 Not even a grave. [lie mounts the la 
 
 Now, Myrrha ! 
 Myrrha. Art thou ready ? 
 
 Sard. As the torch in thy grasp. [Myrrha fires the pi 
 
 Myrrha. 'Tis fired ! I come. 
 
 [As Myrrha springs forward to throw herself into the flame»,1t 
 Curtain falls. 
 
465 
 
 WERNER, 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 
 
 BY ONK OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS THIS TRAGEUY IS DEDICATED. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 j The following: drama is taken entirely from the "Ger- 
 man's Tale, Kruitzner," published many years ago in 
 \Lee's Canterbury/ Tales" ; written (I believe) by two 
 'isters , of w horn one furnished only this story and an- 
 ther, both of which are considered superior to the re- 
 lainder of the collection. I have adopted the characters, 
 Ian, and even the lang-uage, of many parts of this story. 
 ome of the characters are modified or altered, a few of 
 le names changed, and one character ( Ida of Stralen- 
 eim) added by myself: but in the rest the original is 
 liictly followed. When I was young (about fourteen, I 
 link) I first read this tale, which made a deep impres- 
 iinupon me; and may, indeed, be said to contain the 
 erm of much that I have since written, I am not sure 
 lat it ever was very popular; or, at any rate, its popu- 
 rity has since been eclipsed by that of other great wri- 
 •rs in the same department. But I have generally found 
 lat those who had read it, agreed with me in their esti- 
 ate of the singular power of mind and conception which 
 dcvelopes. I should also add conception, rather than 
 vccution ; for the story might, perhaps, have been more 
 
 developed with greater advantage. Amongst those whose 
 opinions agreed with mine upon this story, I could 
 mention some very high names; but it is not necessary, 
 nor indeed of any use; for every one must judge accord- 
 ing to his own feelings. I merely refer the reader to the 
 original story, that he may see to what extent I have bor- 
 rowed from it; and am not unwilling that he should find 
 much greater pleasure in [perusing it than the drama 
 which is founded upon its contents. 
 
 I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 1815 
 (the first I ever attempted, except one at thirteen years 
 old, called "Ulric and Ilcina," which I had sense enough 
 to burn), and had nearly completed an act, when I 
 was interrupted by circumstances. This is somewhere 
 amongst my papers in England; but as it has not been 
 found, I have re -written the first, and added the subse- 
 quent acts. 
 
 The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape adap- 
 ted, for the stage. 
 
 February, 1822. 
 
 30 
 
466 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 ACT 
 
 MEN. 
 Werner- 
 Ulric. 
 
 Stralenheim. 
 Idenstein. 
 Gabor. 
 Fritz. 
 Henrick. 
 Eric. 
 Arnheim. 
 Meister. . 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 LUDWIG. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Josephine. 
 
 Ida Stralenheim. 
 
 Scene — partly on the frontier of Silesia, and paft 
 in Siegendorf- Castle, near Prague. 
 
 Time — the close of the thirty years* war. 
 
 ACT 
 
 The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small Town on the northern frontier 
 of Silesia — the N ight tempestuous. 
 
 Werner and Josephine hii wife. 
 Josephine. My love, be calmer! 
 Werner. I am calm. 
 Josephine. To me — 
 Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, 
 And no one walks a chamber like to ours 
 With steps like thine when his heart is at rest. 
 Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy, 
 And stepping with the bee from flower to flower ; 
 But here! 
 
 Werner. 'Tis chill; the tapestry lets through 
 The wind to w hich it waves : my blood is frozen. 
 Josephine. Ah, no ! 
 
 Werner (smiling). Why! wouldst thouhave it so? 
 Josephine. 1 would 
 Have it a healthful current. 
 
 Werner. Let it flow 
 Until 'tis spilt or check'd — how soon, I care not. 
 Josephine. And am I nothing in thy heart? 
 TFerner. All — all. [break mine? 
 
 Josephine. Then canst thou wish for that which must 
 Werner (approaching her slowly). Butfor thee I had been — 
 no matter what. 
 But much of good and evil; what I am, 
 Thou knowest; what I might or should have been, 
 Thou knowest not: buK^gtill I love thee, nor 
 Shall aught divide us. • 
 
 [Werner walks on abruptly, and then approaches Josephine. 
 
 The storm of the night. 
 Perhaps, affects me; I'm a thing of feelings. 
 And have of late been sickly, as, alas ! 
 Thou knowst by sufferings more than mine, my love ! 
 In watching me. 
 
 Josephine. To see thee well is much — 
 To see thee happy — 
 
 Werner. Where hast thou seen such? 
 Let me be wretched with the rest! 
 
 Josephine. But think 
 How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
 Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain, 
 Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth. 
 Which hath no chamber for them save beneath 
 Her surface. 
 
 Werner. And that's not the worst: who cares 
 For chambers ? rest is all. The wretches whom 
 Thou namest — ay, the wind how Is round them, and 
 The dull and dropping rain saps in tlieir bones 
 The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
 A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
 A beggar, and should know the thing thou talkst of. 
 
 Josephine. And art thou not now shelter'd from thej 
 
 Werner. Yes. And from these alone. [a 
 
 Josephine. And that is something. 
 
 Werner. True — to a peasant. 
 
 Josephine. Should the nobly born 
 Be thankless for that refuge which their habits 
 Of early delicacy render more 
 Needful than to the peasant, w hen the ebb 
 Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life? 
 
 Werner. It is not that, thou knowst it is not; we 
 Have borne all this, I'll not say patiently, 
 Except in thee — but we have borne it. 
 
 Josephine. Well? (thonl 
 
 Werner. Something beyond our outward sufteriii 
 These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
 Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now. 
 When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
 Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 
 Hatli wasted not alone my strength, but means. 
 And leaves us, — no ! this is beyond me! — but 
 For this I had been happy — tho^i been happy — 
 The splendour of my rank sustain'd — my name — 
 My father's name — been still upheld; and, more 
 Than those -^ 
 
 Josephine (abruptly). My son — our son — our Ulric, 
 Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms. 
 And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 
 Twelve years ! he was but eight then : — beautiful 
 
\CT I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 467 
 
 i^e was, and beautiful he must be now. 
 iviy Ulric ! my adored ! 
 
 Werner. I liave been full oft 
 jfhe chase of Fortune ; now she hath o'ertaken 
 My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
 Sick, poor, and lonely. 
 ' Josephine. Lonely ! my dear husband ? 
 
 Werner. Or worse — involving- all I love, in this 
 far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, 
 |Vnd all been over in a nameless grave. 
 
 Josephine. And I had not outlived thee; but pray take 
 I^Jomfort! We have struggled long; and they who strive 
 With Fortune win or weary her at last, 
 So tliat they find the goal, or cease to feel 
 ■"urther. Take comfort, - we shall find our boy. 
 
 Werner. We were in sight of him, of every thing 
 Vhich could bring compensation for past sorrow — 
 knd to be baffled thus ! 
 Josephine. We are not baffled. 
 Werner. Are" we not penuyless ? 
 
 Josephine. We ne'er were wealthy. [power; 
 
 Werner. But I was born to wealth, and rank, and 
 injoy'd them, loved them, and, alas! abused them, 
 iiid forfeited them by my father's wrath, 
 II my o'er-fervent youth ; but for the abuse 
 iOiig sufferings have atoned. My father's death 
 iC'ft the path open, yet not without snares. 
 Ills cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 
 ^ept Iiis eye on me, as the snake upon 
 lie fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me, 
 leeome the master of my rights, and lord 
 •f tliat which lifts him up to princes in 
 )()minion and domain. 
 Josephine. Who knows ? our son 
 lay have return'd back to his grandsire, and 
 Iveii now uphold thy rights for thee? 
 
 Werner. 'Tis hopeless. 
 iiHc his strange disappearance from my father's, 
 lilt ailing, as it were, my sins upon 
 [iiuself, no tidings have reveal'd his course. 
 parted with him to his grandsire, on 
 lie promise that his anger would stop short 
 f the third generation ; but Heaven seems 
 claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
 pon my boy his father's faults and follies. [yet 
 
 Josephine. I must hope better still, — at least we have 
 afllcd tlie long pursuit of Stralenheim. [sickness, 
 
 Werner. We should have done, but for this fatal 
 I(ire fatal than a mortal malady, 
 ecause it takes not life, but life's sole solace ; 
 \ Lii now I feel my spirit girt about 
 y tlie snares of this avaricious fiend; — 
 iMv do I know he hath nottrack'd us here? 
 ! Josephine. He does not know thy person; and his spies, 
 Vho so long watch'd thee, have been left at Hamburgh. 
 ur unexpected journey, and this change 
 f name, leaves all discovery far behind: 
 j one hold us here for aught save what we seem. 
 • Werner, Save what we seem ! save what we are — 
 yen to our very hopes. — Ha! ha! 
 sick beggars, 
 
 Josephine. Alas! 
 That bitter laugh ! 
 
 Werner. Who would read in this form 
 The high soul of tlie son of a long line? 
 Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands? 
 Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
 Of rank and ancestry ? in this worn cheek, 
 And famine-hollo w'd brow, the lord of halls, 
 Which daily feast a thousand vassals ? 
 
 Josephine. You 
 Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, 
 3Iy Werner! when you deign'd to choose for bride 
 The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 
 
 Werner. An exile's daughter with an outcast son 
 Were a fit marriage ; but I still had hopes 
 To lift thee to the state we both were born for. 
 Your father's house was noble, though decay'd, 
 And worthy by its birth to match with ours. [noble; 
 
 Josephine. Your father did not think so, though 'twas 
 But had my birth been all my claim to match 
 With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is. 
 
 Werner. And what is that in thine eyes? 
 
 Josephine. All which it 
 Has done in our behalf, — nothing, 
 
 Werner. How, — uotlung? 
 
 Josephine. Or worse ; for it has been a canker in 
 Thy heart from the beginning: but for this. 
 We had not felt our poverty, but as 
 Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully ; 
 But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers. 
 Thou mightst have earn'd thy bread as tliousands earn it; 
 Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, 
 Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. 
 
 Werner (ironically). And been an Hanseatic bivj^her ? 
 Excellent! 
 
 Josephine. Whate'er thou mightst have been, to me 
 tliou art. 
 What no state, high or low, can ever change. 
 My heart's first choice; — which chose thee, knowing 
 
 neither 
 Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride; nought, save thy 
 
 sorrows: 
 While they last, let me comfort or divide them ; 
 When they end, let mine end with them, or thee! 
 
 Werner. My better angel ! such I have ever found thee; 
 Tliis rashness, or this weakness of my temper. 
 Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 
 Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own nature 
 In youth was such as to unmake an empire, 
 Had sucli been my inheritance; but now, 
 Chasten' d, subdued, out-worn, and taught to know 
 Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee! 
 Trust me, when, in my two-and-twentieth spring. 
 My father barr'd me from my father's house, 
 The last sole scion of a thousand sires 
 (For I was then the last), it hurt me less 
 Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 
 Excluded in their innocence from what 
 My faults deserved -exclusion: although then 
 My passions were all living serpents, and 
 Twined like the Gorgon's round me. [a knocking is heard. 
 
468 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Josephine, Hark! 
 Werner. A knocking! 
 
 Josephine. Who can it be at this lone hour ? we have 
 Few visitors. 
 
 Wenier. And poverty hath none, 
 Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
 Well, I am prepared. 
 
 [Werner puts bis Land into Ills bosom, as if to search for some 
 weapon. 
 
 Josephine. Oh ! do not look so. I 
 Will to the door. It cannot be of import 
 111 this lone spot of wintry desolation — 
 The very desert saves man from mankind. 
 
 [She goes to the door. 
 Enter Idenstein. 
 
 Idenst. A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 
 And worthy — what's your name, my friend? 
 
 Werner. Are you 
 Not afraid to demand it? 
 
 Idenst. Not afraid? 
 Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if , 
 
 I ask'd for something better than your name, 
 By the face you put on it. 
 
 Werner. Better, sir ! 
 
 Idenst. Better or worse, like matrimony: what 
 Shall I say more? You have been a guest this month 
 Here in the Prince's palace — (to be sure. 
 His Highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 
 And rats these twelve years — but 'tis still a palace) — 
 I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 
 We do not know your name. 
 
 Werner. My name is Werner. 
 
 Idenst. A goodly name, a very worthy name, 
 As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board ; 
 I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
 Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 
 Tlie same. He is an officer of trust, 
 Surgeon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon), 
 And has done miracles i' the way of business. 
 Perhaps you are related to my relative ? 
 
 Wertier. To yours ? 
 
 Josephine. Oh, yes ; we are, but distantly. 
 
 [Aside to Werner. 
 Cannot you humour the dull gossip till 
 We learn his purpose? 
 
 Ider.st. Well, I'm glad of that ; 
 I thought so all along; such natural yearnings 
 Play'd round my heart — blood is not water, cousin; 
 And so let's have some wine, and drink unto 
 Our better acquaintance: relatives should be 
 Friends. 
 
 Werner. You appear to have drank enough already. 
 And if you had not, I've no wine to offer, 
 Else it were yours ; but this you know, or should know : 
 You see I am poor and sick, and will not see 
 That I would be alone; but to your business ! 
 What brings you here? 
 
 Idenst. Why, what should bring me here? 
 
 Werner. I know not, though I think thati could guess 
 That which will send you hence. 
 
 Josephine (aside). Patience, dear Werner ! 
 
 Idenst. You don't know what has happened, then ? 
 
 Josephine. How should we? 
 
 Idenst. The river has o'ertlow'd. 
 
 Josephine. Alas! we have known 
 That to our sorrow, for these five days ; since 
 It keeps us here. 
 
 Idenst. But what you don't know is, 
 That a great personage, who fain would cross 
 Against the stream, and three postillions' wishes, ^ 
 Is drown'd below the ford, with five posthorses, 
 A monkey, and a mastiff', and a valet. 
 
 Josephine. Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 
 
 Idenst. Yes, of the monkey. 
 And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 
 We know not if his Excellency 's dead 
 Or no ; your noblemen are hard to drown, 
 As it is fit that men in office should be; 
 But, what is certain, is, that he has swallow'd 
 Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants ; 
 And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller, 
 Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from 
 The whirling river, have sent on to crave 
 A lodging, or a grave, according as 
 It may turn out with the live or dead body. 
 
 Josephine. And where will you receive him? here, 
 If we can be of service — say the word. [hoj 
 
 Idenst. Here ? no ; but in the Prince's own apartme 
 As fits a noble guest; 'tis damp, no doubt. 
 Not having been inliabited these twelve years ; 
 But then he comes from a much damper place. 
 So scarcely will catch cold in't, if he be 
 Still liable to cold — and if not, why 
 He'll be worse lodged to-morrow : nevertheless, 
 I have order'd fire and all appliances 
 To be got ready for the worst — that is. 
 In case he should survive. 
 
 Josephine. Poor gentleman ! 
 I hope he will, with all my heart. 
 
 Werner. Intendant, 
 Have you not learn'd his name? My Josephine, 
 
 [Aside to his $ 
 
 Retire : I'll sift this fool. [E.^it Josephii 
 
 Idenst. His name? oh Lord! 
 Who knows if he hath now a name or no ? 
 'Tis time enough to ask it when he's able 
 To give an answer; or if not, to put 
 His heir's upon his epitaph. Meth ought I 
 
 Just now you chid me for demanding names? [ 
 
 Werner. True, true, I did so ; you say well and wiselt 
 
 Enter Gabor. 
 
 Gahor. If lintrude, I crave — 
 
 Idenst. Oh, no intrusion ! 
 This is the palace ; this a stranger like 
 Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home : 
 But Where's his Excellency, and how fares he? i 
 
 Gahor. Wetly and wearily, but out of peril ; ' 
 
 He paused to change his garments in a (;ottage 
 (Where I doff 'd mine for these , and came on hither), 
 And has almost recover'd from his drenching. 
 He will be here anon. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 469 
 
 Idcnst. What ho, there ! bustle ! 
 Without there, Herman, W^eilburg', Peter, Conrad! 
 
 [Gives directions to different servants viho euter. 
 
 A nobleman sleeps here to-niglit — see tliat 
 
 All is in order in the damask-chamber — 
 
 Keep up the stove — I will myself to the cellar — 
 
 And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger,) 
 
 Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel; for, 
 
 To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this 
 
 Within the palace-precincts, since his Highness 
 
 Left it some dozen years ago. And then 
 
 His Excellency will sup, doubtless ? 
 
 Gahor. Faith! 
 I cannot tell ; but I should think the pillow 
 Would please him better than the table after 
 His soaking in your river: but for fear 
 j Your viands should be thrown away, I mean 
 jTo sup myself, and have a friend without 
 jWiio will do honour to your good cheer with 
 JA traveller's appetite. 
 Idenst. But are you sure 
 is Excellency — but his name: what is it? 
 Gabor. I do not know. 
 Idenst. And yet you saved his life. 
 Gabor, I help'd my friend to do so. 
 Idenst. Well, that's strange, 
 o save a man's life whom you do not know. 
 Gabor. Not so ; for there are some I know so well, 
 scarce should give myself the trouble. 
 Idenst. Pray, 
 GrOod friend, and who may you be ? 
 
 Gabor. By my family, 
 Hungarian. 
 Idenst. Which is call'd? 
 Gabor. It matters little. 
 
 Idenst. (aside) I think that all the world are grown ano- 
 nymous, 
 
 Bince no one cares to tell me what he's call'd ! 
 Pray, has his Excellency a large suite? 
 Gabor. Sufficient. 
 Idenst. How many? 
 Gabor. I did not count them, 
 ^e came up by mere accident, and just 
 A time to drag him through his carriage-window. 
 
 Idenst. Well, what would I give to save a great man ! 
 ifo doubt you'll have a swinging sum as recompense. 
 Gabor. Perhaps. 
 
 Idenst. Now, how much do you reckon on ? 
 Gabor. I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
 a the mean time, my best reward would be 
 k. glass of your Hockheimer, & green glass, 
 Yreathed with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, 
 )'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage; 
 for which I promise you, in case you e'er 
 llin hazard of being drown'd (although I own 
 t seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you), 
 'H pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend, 
 Uid think, for every bumper I shall quaft", 
 wave the less may roll above your head. [dry 
 
 Idenst. (aside) I don't much like this fellow — close and 
 fc seems, two things which suit me not; however. 
 
 t 
 
 Wine he shall have ; if that unlocks him not, 
 
 I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. [Exit Idenstein. 
 
 Gabor (to Wemer). This master of the ceremonies is 
 The intendant of the palace, I presume ? 
 'Tis a fine building, but decay'd. 
 
 Werner. The apartment 
 Design'd for him you rescued will be found 
 In fitter order for a sickly guest 
 
 Gabor. I wonder then you occupied it not. 
 For you seem delicate in health. 
 
 Werner (qnicitly). Sir ! 
 
 Gabor. Pray 
 Excuse me : have I said aught to offend you ? 
 
 Werner. Nothing: but we are strangers to each other. 
 
 Gabor. And that's the reason I would have us less so : 
 I thought our bustling host without had said 
 You were a chance-and passing-guest, tlie counterpart 
 Of me and my companions. 
 
 Wemer. Very true. 
 
 Gabor. Then, as we never met before, and never, 
 It may be, may again encounter, wliy, 
 I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
 (At least to me) by asking you to share 
 The fare of my companions and myself. 
 
 Werner. Pray, pardon me ; my health — 
 
 Gabor. Even as you please. 
 I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
 In bearing. 
 
 Werner. I have also served, and can 
 Requite a soldier's greeting. 
 
 Gabor. In what service ? 
 The Imperial ? [ — no — I mean 
 
 Werner (quiclsly, and tlien interrupting himself). I commanded 
 
 I served; but it is many years ago, 
 
 Wlien first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 
 
 T lie Austrian. 
 
 Gabor. Well, that's over now, and peace 
 Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift 
 To live as they best may ; and, to say truth. 
 Some take the shortest. 
 
 Werner. What is that ? 
 
 Gabor. Whate'er 
 They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
 Lujatia's woods are tenanted by bands 
 Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
 Their maintenance : the Chatelains must keep 
 Their castle-walls — beyond them 'tis but doubtful 
 Travel for your rich Count or full-blown Baron. 
 My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
 I've little left to lose now. 
 
 Wemer. And I — nothing. 
 
 Gabor. That's harder still. You say you were a soldier 
 
 Werner. I was. 
 
 Gabor. You look one still. All soldiers are 
 Or should be comrades, even though effemies. 
 Our swords, when drawn, must cross, our engines aim 
 (While levell'd) at each other's hearts ; but when 
 A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
 The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
 The spark which ligi)ts the matchlock, we are brethren. 
 You are poor and sickly — I am not rich, but healthy ; 
 
470 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT 
 
 I want for nothing which I cannot want ; 
 You seem devoid of this — wilt share it ? 
 
 [Gabor pulls out his purse. 
 
 Werner. "Who 
 Told you I Avas a beggar ? 
 
 Gabor. You yourself. 
 In saying you were a soldier during peace-time. 
 
 Werner (looking at liim witli suspicion). 
 
 You know me not? 
 
 Gabor. I know no man, not even 
 Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er 
 Beheld till half an hour since? 
 
 Werner. Sir, I thank you. 
 Your ofler 's noble were it to a friend, 
 And not unkind as to an unknown stranger, 
 Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I thank you. 
 I am a beggar in all save his trade, 
 And when I beg of any one, it shall be 
 Of him who was the first to offer what 
 Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me . [Exit Werner. 
 
 Gabor (solus). Agoodly fellow by his looks, though worn, 
 As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, 
 Which tear life out of us before our time : 
 [ scarce know which most quickly ; but he seems 
 To have seen better days, as who has not 
 Who has seen yesterday ? — But here approaches 
 Our sage iutendant, with the wine; however, 
 For the cup's sake, I'll bear the cupbearer. 
 
 Enter Idenstki.n. 
 
 Idenst. 'Tis here! the supernaculum! twenty years 
 Of age, if 'tis a day. 
 
 Gabor. Which epoch makes 
 Young women and old wine, and 'tis great pity 
 Of two such excellent things, increase of years, 
 Which still improves the one, should spoil the other. 
 Fill full — Here's to our hostess — your fair w ife ! 
 
 [Takes the glass. 
 
 Idenst. Fair! — Well, I trust your taste in wine is 
 To that you shew for beauty ; but I p ledge you [equal 
 Nevertheless. 
 
 Gabor. Is not the lovely woman 
 I met in the adjacent hall, who, with 
 An air, and port, and eye, which would have better 
 Beseem'd this palace in its briglitest days 
 (Though in a garb adapted to its present 
 Abandonment), return'd my salutation — 
 Is not the same your spouse? 
 
 Idenst. I would she were ! 
 But you're mistaken — that's the stranger's wife. 
 
 Gabor. And by her aspect she might be a prince's : 
 Though time hath touch'd her too, she still retains 
 Much beauty, and more majesty. 
 
 Idenst. And that 
 Is more than I ca*say for Madame Idenstein, 
 At least in beauty : as for majesty, 
 She has some of its properties which might 
 Be spared — but never mind ! 
 
 Gabor. I don't But who 
 May be this stranger ? He too hath a bearing 
 Above his outward fortunes. 
 
 Idenst. There I differ. 
 He's poor as Job, and not so patient; but 
 Who he may be, or what, or augiit of him. 
 Except his name (and that I only learn'd 
 To-night), I know not. 
 
 Gabor. But how came he here? 
 
 Idenst. In a most miserable old caleche, 
 About a montli since, and immediately 
 Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. 
 
 Gabor. Tender and true! — but why? 
 
 Idenst. Why, what is life 
 Without a living? He has not a stiver. 
 
 Gabor. In that case, I much wonder that a person 
 Of your apparent prudence should admit 
 Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 
 
 Idenst. That's true; but pity, as you know, rfoc* ma k 
 One's heart commit these follies; and besides, 
 They had some valuables left at that time, 
 Which paid their way up to tlie present hour; 
 And so I thought they might as well be lodged 
 Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them 
 The run of some of the oldest palace-rooms. 
 They served to air them, at the least as long 
 As they could pay for fire-wood. 
 
 Gabor. Poor souls ! 
 
 Idenst. Ay, 
 Exceeding poor. 
 
 Gabor. And yet unused to poverty. 
 If I mistake not. Whitiier were they going? [ifi-t ! 
 
 Idenst. O! Heaven knows wiiere, unless to heave 
 Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
 For Werner. 
 
 Gabor. Werner ! I have heard the name : 
 But it may be a feign'd one. 
 
 Idenst. Like enough ! 
 But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
 A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
 As destiny, his Excellency 's come. 
 I must be at my post: will you not join me, 
 To help him from his carriage, and present 
 Your humble duty at the door? 
 
 Gabor. Idragg'dhim 
 From out that carriage when he would have given 
 His barony or county to repel 
 The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
 He has valets now enough : they stood aloof then, 
 Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore, 
 Al! roaring, "Help ! " but offering none; and as 
 For duty (as you call it) I did mine then. 
 Now Ao yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him here! 
 
 Idenst. /cringe! — but I shall lose the opportunity - 
 Plague take it ! he'll be here, and I not there! 
 
 [Exit Idenstein^ )i.i>iil; 
 Re-enter Werner. 
 
 Werner (to himself). I heard a noise of wheels and v()ir(\' 
 All sounds now jar me! [Hu'. 
 
 (Perceiving Gabor) Still here ! Is he not 
 A spy of my pursuer's ? His frank offer, 
 So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
 The aspect of a secret enemy ; 
 For friends are slow at such. 
 
lACT 1. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 471 
 
 I Gabor. Sir, you seem rapt ; 
 And yet tlie time is not akin to thought. 
 These old walls will be noisy soon. The Baron, 
 Or Count (or whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble 
 May be), for whom this desolate village, and 
 [ts lone inhabitants, show more respect 
 Than did the elements, is come. 
 Idenst. (without) This way — 
 IThis way, your Excellency : — have a care. 
 The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
 Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
 1 30 high a guest — pray take my arm, my lord ! 
 
 Bnter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants, partly his own, 
 and partly retainers of the domain, of which Idenstein is Intendaut. 
 
 Slralenh. Y\\ rest me here a moment. 
 Idenst. (to the servants) Ho ! a cliair ! 
 
 [nstantly, knaves ! [Stralenheim sits down. 
 
 TFerner (aside). 'Tishe! 
 
 Stralenh. I'm better now. 
 liVho are these strangers ? 
 
 Idenst. Please you, my good lord, 
 )iie says he is no stranger. 
 
 Werner (aloud and hastily), f^io says that? 
 
 [They look at him with surprise. 
 
 Idenst. Why, no one spoke of you, or to you ! — but 
 lere's one his Excellency may be pleased 
 
 recognise. [Pointing to Gabor. 
 
 Gabor. I seek not to disturb 
 lis noble memory. 
 
 Stralenh. I apprehend 
 'his is one of the strangers to whose aid 
 owe my rescue. Is not that the other? [Pointing to Werner. 
 ly state, when I was succour'd, must excuse 
 ly uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 
 
 Idenst. He! — no, my Lord! he rather wants for rescue 
 'ban can afiord it. 'Tis a poor sick man, 
 'ravel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
 'rem whence he never dream'd to rise. 
 
 Stralenh. Methought 
 'hat there were two. 
 
 Gabor. There were, in company ; 
 \vA, in the service render'd to your lordship, 
 needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
 \e chief part of whatever aid was render'd, 
 V-as his: it was his fortune to be first, 
 ly will was not inferior, but his strength 
 
 nd youth outstripp'd me; therefore do not waste 
 'o«r thanks on me. I w as but a glad second 
 'ato a nobler principal. 
 
 Stralenh. Where is he ? 
 
 An Attendant.My hard, hetarried in the cottage, where 
 j'our Excellency rested for an hour, 
 
 Hd said he would be here to-morrow. 
 
 Stralenh. Till 
 iMit hour arrives, I can but offer thanks, 
 
 nd then — 
 
 Gabor. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 
 
 a much. My comrade may speak for himself. 
 
 Stralenh. (fixing his tycs upon Werner: then aiidc). It cannOt 
 
 be ! and yet he must be look'd to. 
 
 'Tis twenty years since I beheld him with 
 
 These eyes; and, though my agents still have kept 
 
 Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
 
 My own from his, not to alarm him into 
 
 Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
 
 At Hamburgh those w ho would have made assurance 
 
 If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now. 
 
 To have been lord of Siegendorf, and parted 
 
 In haste, tliough even the elements appear 
 
 To fight against me, and this sudden flood 
 
 May keep me prisoner here till — 
 
 [He pauses and looks at Werner; then resumes. 
 
 This man must 
 Be watch'd. If it is he, he is so changed, 
 His father, rising from his grave again. 
 Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary ; 
 An error would spoil all. 
 
 Idenst. Your Lordship seems 
 Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on? 
 
 Stralenh. 'Tis past fatigue which gives my weigh'd- 
 An outward show of thought. I will to rest, [down spirit 
 
 Idenst. The Prince's chamber is prepared with all 
 The very furniture the Prince used when 
 Last here, in its full splendour. 
 
 (Aside) Somewhat tatter'd, 
 And devilish damp, but fine enough by torch-light ; 
 And that's enough for your right noble blood 
 Of twenty quartcrings upon a hatchment; 
 So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like one 
 Now, as he one day will for ever lie. 
 
 Stralenh. (rising, and turning to Gabor). 
 
 Good night, good people! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
 Will find me apter to requite your service. 
 In the meantime, I crave your company 
 A moment in my chamber. 
 
 Gabor. I attend you. 
 
 Stralenh. (After a few steps, pauses, and calls Werner). Friend ! 
 
 Werner. Sir! 
 
 Idenst. Sir! Lord — oh, Lord! Why don't you say 
 His Lordship, or his Excellency ? Pray, 
 My Lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding : 
 He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
 To such a presence. 
 
 Stralenh. (to Idenst). Peace, intendant ! 
 
 Idenst. Oh! 
 I am dumb. 
 
 Stralenh. (to Werner). Have you been long here ? 
 
 Werner. Long? 
 
 Stralenh. I sought 
 An answer, not an eclio. 
 
 Werner. You may seek 
 Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
 Those whom I know not. 
 
 Stralenh. Indeed ! ne'er the less 
 You might reply with courtesy to what 
 Is ask'd in kindness. 
 
 Werner. When I know it such, 
 I will requite — that is, reply — in unison. 
 
 Stralenh. The intendant said, you had boon detain'd 
 by sickness — 
 If I could aid you — journeying Ihc same way ? 
 
472 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Werner (quickly). I am not journeying the same way ! 
 
 Stralenh. How know ye 
 That, ere you know my route? 
 
 Werner. Because there is 
 But one way that tlie rich and poor must tread 
 Together. You diverged from timt dread path 
 Some hours ago, and I some days ; henceforth 
 Our roads must lie asunder, thougli they tend 
 All to one liome. 
 
 Stralenh. Your language is above 
 Your station. 
 
 Werner (bitterly). Is it? 
 
 Stralenh. Or, at least, beyond 
 Your garb. 
 
 Weryier. 'Tis well that it is not beneath it, 
 As sometimes happens to the better-clad. 
 But, in a word, what would you with me ? 
 
 Stralenh. (startled). I? 
 
 Werner. Yes — you ! You know me not, and question 
 And wonder that I answer not — not knowing [me, 
 
 My inquisitor. Explain what you would have , 
 And then I'll satisfy yourself, or me. 
 
 Stralenh, I knew not that you had reasons for reserve.. 
 
 Werner. Many have such ; — Have you none? 
 
 Stralenh. None which can 
 Interest a mere stranger. 
 
 Werner. Then forgive 
 The same unknovvji and humble stranger, if 
 He wishes to remain so to tiie man 
 WJiO can have nought in common with him. 
 
 Stralenh. Sir, 
 I will not balk your humour, though untoward : 
 I only meant you service — but, good night ! 
 Intendant, show the way ! (to Gabor),Sir, you will with me? 
 
 [Exeunt Stralenlieini and Attendants; Idenstein and Gabor. 
 
 Werner (soiui). 'Tis he ! I am taken in the toils. Before 
 I quitted Hamburgii, Giulio, his late steward, 
 Inform'd me, that he had obtain'd an order 
 From Brandenburgh's elector, for the arrest 
 Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore), when 
 I came upon the frontier; the free city 
 Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
 Its walls — fool that I was to quit them ! But 
 I deem'd this humble garb, and route obscure, 
 Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
 What 's to be done? He knows me not by person; 
 Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension, 
 Have recognised him, after twenty years. 
 We met so rarely and so coldly in 
 Our youth. But those about him ! Now I can 
 Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who, 
 No doubt, is a mere tool and spy of Stralenheim's , 
 To sound and to secure me. Without means ! 
 Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding rivers, 
 Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
 All the appliances which purchase modes 
 Of overpowering peril with men's lives, — 
 How can I hope? An hour ago methought 
 My state beyond despair; and now, 'tis such. 
 The past seems paradise. Another day. 
 And I'm detected, — on the very eve 
 
 Of honours, rights, and my inheritance, 
 When a few drops of gold might save me still 
 In favouring an escape. 
 
 Enter Iuknstbin and Fritz in conversation. 
 
 Fritz. Immediately. 
 
 Idenst. I tell you, 'tis impossible. 
 
 Fritz. It must 
 Be tried, however; and if one express 
 Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
 Arrives from Frankfort, frfjm the commandant. 
 
 Idenst. I will do w hat I can. 
 
 Fritz. And recollect 
 To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
 Tenfold. 
 
 Idenst. The Baron is retired to rest ? 
 
 Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an easy chair 
 Beside the tire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
 He may not be dlsturb'd until eleven, 
 When he will take himself to bed. 
 
 Idenst. Before 
 An hour is past I'll do my best to serve him. 
 
 Fritz. Remember ! [Exit Prl 
 
 Idenst. The devil take these great men ! they 
 Think all things made for them. Now here must I 
 Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
 From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
 Their lives, despatch them o'er the river towards 
 Frankfort. -Methinks the Baron's own experience 
 Some hours ago migiit teach iiim fellow-feeling: 
 But no, '^^ it must," and there's an end. How now? 
 Are you there. Mynheer Werner ? 
 
 Werner. You have left 
 Your noble guest right quickly. 
 
 Idenst. Yes — he's dozing. 
 And seems to like tliat none should sleep besides. 
 Here is a packet for the commandant 
 Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses ; 
 But I must not lose time ; Good night ! [Exit Idea 
 
 Werner. "To Frankfort!" 
 So, so, it thickens ! Ay, "the commandant." 
 This tallies well with all the prior steps 
 Of this cool calculating liend, who walks 
 Between me and my father's house. No doubt 
 He writes for a detacihment to convej' me 
 Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 
 
 This (Werner looks around, and snatches up a knife lying on a I 
 a recess. 
 
 Now I am master of myself at leas 
 Hark, — footsteps ! How do I know that Stralenheim 
 Will wait for even the show of that authority 
 Which is to overshadow usurpation ? 
 That he suspects me 's certain. I'm alone; 
 He with a numerous train; I weak ; he strong 
 In gold, in numbers, rank, authority; 
 I nameless, or involving in my namq 
 Destruction, till I reach my own domain ; 
 He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
 Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
 Than they could do elsewhere. Hark ! nearer still ! 
 I'll to the secret passage, which communicates 
 
fiKCT I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 473 
 
 ivVith the — No ! all is silent — 'twas my fancy ! — 
 
 Btill as the breathless interval between 
 
 irhe (lash and thunder : — I must hush my soul 
 
 Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire, 
 
 To see if still be unexplored the passage 
 
 I wot of: it will serve me as a den 
 
 Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 
 
 [Werner draws a paniiel and exit, closing It after him. 
 
 Enter Gabor and Josephine. 
 Gabor. Where is your husband ? 
 Josephine. Here, I thought : I left him 
 -.■Jot long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
 I llave many outlets, and he may be gone 
 IP accompany the intendant. 
 1 Gabor. Baron Stralenheim 
 'lit many questions to the intendant on 
 'he subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 
 have my doubts if he means well. 
 Josephine. Alas ! 
 
 Vliat can there be in common with the proud 
 jid wealthy Baron and the unknown Werner ? 
 Gabor. That you know best. 
 Josephine. Or, if it were so, how 
 Mme you to stir yourself in his behalf, 
 lather than that of him whose life you saved ? 
 Gabor. I hclp'd to save him, as in peril ; but 
 (lid not pledge myself to serve him in 
 Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 
 heir thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
 Iiave proved them ; and my spirit boils up when 
 find them practising against the weak: — 
 his is my only motive. 
 Josephine. It would be 
 ot easy to persuade my consort of 
 our good intentions. 
 Gabor. Is he so suspicious? 
 
 Jose/thine. He was notonce; but time and troubles have 
 [;ule liim what you beheld. 
 Gabor. I'm sorry for it. 
 iispicion is a heavy armour, and 
 . ith its own weight impedes more than protects. 
 ood night ! I trust to meet with him at daybreak. 
 
 [Exit Gabor. 
 
 vocnter Idenstein and some Peasants. Josephine retires up tlie Hall. 
 
 First Peasant. But if I'm drown'd ? 
 
 Idenst. Why, you'll be well paid for't, 
 
 lid have risk'd more than drowning for as much, 
 
 doubt not. 
 
 Second Peasant. But our wives and families ? 
 
 Idenst. Cannot be worse off than they are, and may 
 e better. 
 
 IViird Peasant. I have neither, and will venture. 
 
 Idenst, That's right. A gallant carle, and fit to be 
 
 soldier. I'll promote you to the ranks 
 1 the Prince's body-guard — if you succeed; 
 ud you shall have besides in sparkling coin 
 wo thalers. 
 
 Third Peasant. No more ? 
 
 Idenst. Out upon your avarice ! 
 
 Can that low vice alloy so much ambition? 
 I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
 Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
 Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
 Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler ? 
 When had you half the sum ? 
 
 Third Peasant. Never — but ne'er 
 The less I must have three. 
 
 Idenst. Have you forgot 
 Whose vassal you were born, knave ? 
 
 Third Peasant. No — the Prince's, 
 And not the stranger's. 
 
 Idenst. Sirrah ! in the Prince's 
 Absence, I'm sovereign ; and the Baron is 
 My intimate connexion: — "Cousin Idenstein! 
 (Quoth he) you'll order out a dozen villains." 
 And so, you villains, troop — march — march, I say : 
 And if a single dog's ear of this packet 
 Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it ! 
 For every page of paper, shall a hide 
 Of yours be stretch'd as parchment on a drum, 
 Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
 Refractory vassals, who can not effect 
 Impossibilities — Away, ye earth-worms ! 
 
 [Exit, driving th£m ont. 
 Josephine {coming forward). Ifain wouldshun these scenes, 
 Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; [too oft repeated, 
 I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
 Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot, 
 The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
 The insolence of w ealth in poverty 
 O'er something poorer still — the pride of rank 
 In servitude, o'er something still more servile; 
 And vice in misery affecting still 
 A tatter'd splendour. What a state of being! 
 In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land, 
 Our nobles were but citizens and merchants. 
 Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such 
 As these; and our all -ripe and gushing valleys 
 Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 
 Was in itself a meal, and every vine 
 Rain'd, as it were, the beverage which makes glad » 
 The heart of man ; and the ne'er unfelt sun 
 (But rarely clouded, and, when clouded, leaving 
 His warmth behind in memory of his beams) 
 -Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 
 Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd purple. 
 But, here! the despots of the north appear 
 To imitate the ice-wind of their clime. 
 Searching the shivering vassal through his rags, 
 To wring his soul — as the bleak elements 
 His form. And 'tis to be amongst these sovereigns 
 My husband pants ! and such his pride of birth — 
 That twenty years of usage, such as no 
 Fatlier, born in a humble state, «;ould nerve 
 His soul to persecute a son withal. 
 Hath changed no atom of his early nature; 
 But I, born nobly also, from my father's 
 Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father ! 
 Atay thy long - tried and now rewarded spirit 
 Look down on us and our so long desired 
 
 30* 
 
474 
 
 Ulric ! I love my son, as tliou didst me ! 
 
 What's that ? Tliou, Werner! can it be? and thus? 
 
 Kilter Wernkr liastily, witli the knife in his hand, by the secret puiniel, 
 which he closes hurriedly after him. 
 
 Werner (not at first recognising her). 
 
 Discovered ! then I'll stab — (recognising her). 
 
 Ah! Josephine, 
 . Why art thou not at rest ? 
 
 Josephine. What rest? My God! 
 What doth this mean? 
 
 Werner (showing a rouleau). Here's ^oZrf — ^o/e?, Josephine, 
 Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 
 
 Josephine. And how obtaiu'd? — that knife ! 
 
 Werner. 'Tis bloodless — yet. 
 Away — we must to our chamber. 
 
 Josephine. But whence comest thou ? 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Werner, Ask. not ! but let us think where we shall go 
 This — this will make us way — (showing the gold; — 
 I'll tit them now. 
 
 Josephine. I dare not think thee guilty of dishonour. 
 Werner. Dishonour! 
 
 Josephine. I have said it. 
 
 Werner. Let us hence: 
 'Tis the last night, I trust, that we need pass here. 
 
 Josephine. And not the worst, I hope. 
 
 Werner. Hope ! I make sure. 
 But let us to our chamber. 
 
 Josephine. Yet one question — 
 What hast thou done? 
 
 Werner (fiercely). Left One thing wnrfonc, which 
 Had made all well: let me not think of it! 
 Away! 
 
 Josephine. Alas, that I should doubt of thee ! [Exe« 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hall in the same Palace. 
 
 Enter Idenstkin and Others. 
 
 Hen.it. Fine doings ! goodly doings ! honest doings ! 
 A barou pillaged in a prince's palace! 
 Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of. 
 
 Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats despoil'd 
 The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 
 
 Idenst. Oil ! that I e'er should live to see this day! 
 The honour of our city's gone for ever. 
 
 Fritz. Well, but now to discover the delinquent: 
 The Baron is determined not to lose 
 This sum without a search. 
 
 Idenst. And so am I. 
 
 Fritz. But whom do you suspect? 
 
 Idenst. Suspect ! all people 
 Without — within — above — below — Heaven help me! 
 
 Fi-it z. Is there no other entrance to the chamber ? 
 
 Idenst. None Avhatsoever. 
 
 Fritz. Are you sure of that? [birth, 
 
 Idenst. Certain. I have lived and served here since my 
 And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
 Or seen it. 
 
 Fritz. Then it must be some one w ho 
 Had access to the antechamber. 
 
 Idenst. Doubtless. 
 
 Fritz. Themancall'd Werner 'spoorl 
 
 Idenst. Poor as a miser. 
 But lodged so far oft', in the other wing, 
 By which there's no communication with 
 The Baron's chamber, that it can't be he: 
 Besides, I bade him "good night" in the hall, 
 Almost a mile off, and which only leads 
 
 To his own apartment, about the same time 
 When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
 Appears to have been committed. 
 
 Fritz. There's another — 
 The stranger — 
 
 Idenst. The Hungarian? 
 
 Fritz. He who help'd 
 To fish tiie Baron from the Oder. 
 
 Idenst. Not 
 Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 
 One of the suite? 
 
 Fntz. How? We, Sir! 
 
 Idenst. No ■^- not you, 
 But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
 The Baron was asleep in the great chair — 
 The velvet chair — in his embroider'd night-gown; 
 His toilet spread before him, and upon it 
 A cabinet with letters, papers, and 
 Several rouleaux of gold; of which one only 
 Has disappear'd: — the door unbolted, with 
 No difficult access to any. 
 
 Fritz. Good Sir, 
 Be not so quick ; the honour of the corps, 
 Which forms the Baron's household, 's unimpeach'd, 
 From steward to scullion, save in the fair way 
 Of peculation; such as in accompts, 
 Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery, 
 Where all men take their prey ; as also in s 
 
 Postage of letters, gathering of rents. 
 Purveying feasts, and understanding with 
 The honest trades who furnish noble masters : 
 But for your petty, picking, downright thievery, 
 AVe scorn it as we do board - wages : then r 
 
 Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
 
ACT n. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 475 
 
 Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard * 
 His neck for one rouleau, but have svvoop'd all; 
 Also the cabinet, if portable. 
 
 Idenst. There is some sense in that — 
 
 Fritz. No, Sir ; be sure 
 Twas none of our corps ; but some petty, trivial 
 Picker and stealer, without art or genius. 
 The only question is — Who else could have 
 Access, save the Hungarian and yourself? 
 
 Idenst. You don't mean me? 
 
 Fritz. No, Sir ; I honour more 
 four talents — 
 
 Idenst. And my principles, I hope. [done? 
 
 Fritz. Of course. But to the point: What's to be 
 
 Idenst. Nothing — but there's a good deal to be said. 
 liV^e'll offer a reward; move heaven and earth, 
 Ind the police (though there's none nearer than 
 ?'rankfort) ; post notices in manuscript 
 For we've no printer) ; and set by my clerk 
 ["o read them (for few can, save he and I). 
 iVe'U send out villains to strip beggars, and 
 Search empty pockets; also, to arrest 
 lU gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people, 
 •risoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit ; 
 Lnd for the Baron's gold — if 'tis not found, 
 it least he shall have the full satisfaction 
 )f melting twice its substance in tiie raising 
 'he ghost of this rouleau. Here's alchymy 
 'or your lord's losses ! 
 
 Fritz. He hath found a better. 
 
 Idenst. Where? 
 
 Fritz. In a most immense inheritance. 
 'he late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman, 
 s dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
 J On his way to take possession. 
 
 Idenst. Was there no heir? 
 
 Fritz. Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
 lOng from the world's eye, and perhaps the world. 
 
 prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
 or the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
 Ififosed to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore, 
 living, he must chew the husks still. But 
 
 he Baron would find means to silence him, 
 ^ere he to re -appear: he's politic, 
 
 nd has much influence with a certain court. 
 
 Idenst. He's fortunate. 
 
 Fritz. 'Tis true, there is a grandson, 
 
 Vhom. the late Count reclaim'd from his son's hands, 
 
 nd educated as his heir ; but tlien 
 
 is birtli is doubtful. 
 
 Idenst. How so ? 
 
 Fritz. His sire made 
 
 left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage, 
 
 I itii an Italian exile's dark -eyed daughter: 
 
 oble, they say, too; but no match for such 
 
 house as Siegendorf's. The grandsire ill 
 
 Duld brook the alliance; and could ne'er be brought 
 
 see the parents, though he took the son. 
 
 1 Idenst. If he's a lad of mettle, he may yet 
 ispute your claim, and weave a web that may 
 uzzle your Baron to unravel. 
 
 Fritz. Why, 
 For mettle, he has quite enough ; they say, 
 He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
 And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
 The former, and deep as the latter; but 
 The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
 Some months ago. 
 
 Idenst, The devil he did 1 
 
 Fritz. Why, yes; 
 It must have been at his suggestion, at 
 An hour so critical as was the eve 
 Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it. 
 
 Idenst, Was there no cause assign'd \ 
 
 Fritz, Plenty, no doubt, 
 And none perhaps the true one. Some averr'd 
 It was to seek his parents; some, because 
 The old man held his spirit in so strictly 
 (But that could scarce be, for he doted on him) ; 
 A third believed he wish'd to serve in war, 
 But peace being made soon after his departure. 
 He might have since return'd, were that the motive ; 
 A fourth set charitably have surmised. 
 As there was something strange and mystic in him. 
 That in the wild exuberance of his nature. 
 He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste Lusatia, 
 The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
 Since the last years of war had dwindled into 
 A kind of general condottiero- system 
 Of bandit-warfare; each troop with its chief, 
 And all against mankind. 
 
 Idenst, That cannot be. 
 A 5'oung heir, bred to wealth and luxury^ 
 To risk his life and honours Avith disbanded 
 Soldiers and desperadoes ! 
 
 Fritz, Heaven best knows ! 
 But there are human natures so allied 
 Unto the savage love of enterprise, 
 That they w ill seek for peril as a pleasure. 
 I've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian, 
 Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
 Were fed on milk and honey. After all. 
 Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
 Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 
 Were but the same thing upon a grand scale ; 
 And now that they are gone, and peace pi'oclaim'd, 
 They who would follow the same pastime must 
 Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
 The Baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
 Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape. 
 But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
 Until this morning. 
 
 Enter Stkalenhkim and Ulric. 
 
 Stralenh. Since you have refused 
 All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
 Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them. 
 Making me feel the worthlessness of words, 
 And blush at my own barren gratitude, 
 They seem so niggardly, compared with Avhat 
 Your courteous courage did in my behalf. 
 
470 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Vlric. I pray you press the theme no furtlier. 
 
 Stralenh. But 
 Can I not serve you? You are young-, and of 
 That mould which throws out heroes ; fair in favour; 
 Brave, I know, by my living- now to say so; 
 And, doubtlessly, with such a form and heart, 
 Would look into the fiery eyes of war, 
 As ardently for glory as you dared 
 An obscure death to save an unknown stranger 
 In an as perilous, but opposite element. 
 You are made for the service : I have served; 
 Have rank by birth and soldiership, and friends, 
 Who shall be yours. 'Tis true, this pause of peace 
 Favours such views at present scantily ; 
 But 'twill not last, men's spirits are too stirring ; 
 And, after thirty years of conflict, peace 
 Is but a petty war, as the times show us 
 In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 
 War will reclaim his own ; and, in the meantime, 
 You might obtain a post, which would ensure 
 A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 
 To rise. I speak of Brandenburgh, wherein 
 I stand well with the elector; in Bohemia, 
 Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
 Upon its frontier. 
 
 Ulric. You perceive my garb 
 Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
 To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
 Your offer, 'tis with the same feeling which 
 Induced it. 
 
 Stralenh. Why, this is mere usury ! 
 [ owe my life to you, and you refuse 
 The acquittance of the interest of the debt. 
 To heap more obligations on me, till 
 I bow beneath them. 
 
 Vlric. You shall say so when 
 I claim the payment. 
 
 Stralenh. Well, Sir, since you will not — 
 You are nobly born? 
 
 Ulric. I've heard my kinsmen say so. 
 
 Stralenh. Your actions show it. Might I ask your name? 
 
 Ulric. Ulric. 
 
 Stralenh. Your house's ? 
 
 Ulric. When I'm worthy of it, 
 I'll answer you. 
 
 Stralenh. (aside). Most probably an Austrian, 
 Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast 
 His lineage on these wild and dangerous frontiers, 
 Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 
 
 [Aloud to Fritz and Idenstein. 
 
 So, Sirs ! how have ye sped in your researches ? 
 
 Idenst. Indifferent well, your Excellency. 
 
 Stralenh. Then 
 I am to deem the plunderer is caught? 
 
 Idenst. Humph ! — not exactly, 
 
 Stralenh. Or at least suspected ? 
 
 Idenst. Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected. 
 
 Stralenh. Who may he be? 
 
 Idenst. Why, (Xon'iyou know, my Lord? 
 
 Stralenh. How should I ? I was fast asleep. 
 
 Idenst. And so 
 
 Was I, and that's the cause I know no more 
 Than does your Excellency. 
 
 Stralenh. Dolt! 
 
 Idenst. Why, if 
 Your Lordship, being robb'd, don't recognise 
 The rogue ; how should I, not being robb'd, identify 
 The thief among so many ? In the crowd, 
 May it please your Excellency, your thief looks 
 Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 
 'Tis only at the bar and in the dungeon 
 That wise men know your felon by his features ; 
 But I'll engage, that if seen there but once. 
 Whether he be found criminal or no, 
 His face shall be so. 
 
 Stralenh. (to Frit/). Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
 What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 
 
 Fritz. Faith'. 
 My Lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. [mt 
 
 Stralenh, Besides the loss (which, I must own, aftcctij 
 Just now materially), I needs would find i 
 
 The villain out of public motives ; for 
 So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
 Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
 And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
 The gold before my scarce-dosed eyes, would soon 
 Leave bare your borough. Sir Intendant! 
 
 Idenst. True; 
 If there were aught to carry otT, my Lord. 
 
 Ulric. What is all this? 
 
 Stralenh. You join'd us but this morning. 
 And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 
 
 Ulric. Some rumour of it reach'd me as I ptiss'd 
 The outer chambers of the palace, but 
 I know no further. 
 
 Stralenh. It is a strange business : 
 The intendant can inform you of the facts. 
 
 Idenst. Most willingly. You see — 
 
 Stralenh. (impatiently). Defer your tale, 
 Till certain of the hearer's patience. 
 
 Idenst. That 
 Can only be approved by proofs. You see— 
 
 Stralenh. (again interrupting him, and addressing Ulric). 
 
 In short, I was asleep upon a chair. 
 
 My cabinet before me, with some gold 
 
 Upon it (more than I much like to lose, 
 
 Though in part only) : some ingenious person 
 
 Contrived tn glide through all my own attendant^, 
 
 Besides those of the place, and bore away 
 
 A hundred golden ducats, which to find 
 
 I would be fain, and there's an end ; perhaps 
 
 You (as I still am rather faint) would add 
 
 To yesterday's great obligation this, 
 
 Though slighter, yet not slight, to aid these men 
 
 (Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it? 
 
 Ulric. Most willingly, and without loss of time — 
 (To Idenstein). Come hither. Mynheer! 
 
 Idenst. But so much haste bodes 
 Right little speed, and — 
 
 Ulric. Standing motionless, 
 None; so let's march, we'll talk as we go on. 
 
 Idenst. But — 
 
ACT II. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 4// 
 
 L/n'c. Show the spot, and then I'll answer you. 
 Fritz. I will, Sir, with his Excellency's leave. 
 Stralenh. Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 
 Fritz. Hence! 
 Vlric. Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 
 
 [Exit -with Idenstein and Fritz. 
 
 Stralenh. fsoius). A stalwart, active, soldier - looking 
 Handsome as Hercules ere his first labour, [stripling. 
 And with a brow of thought beyond his years 
 When in repose, till his eye kindles up 
 In answering yours. I wish, I could engage him ; 
 i have need of some such spirits near me now, 
 jFor this inheritance is worth a struggle. 
 And though I am not the man to yield without one, 
 ;\either are they who now rise up between me 
 And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one; 
 But lie liath play'd the truant in some hour 
 pf freakish folly, leaving fortune to 
 phampion his claims : that's well. The father, whom 
 > For years I've track'd, as does the blood-hound, never 
 j In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 
 ( jTo fault; but here I have him, and that's better. 
 tt must be he\ All circumstance proclaims it; 
 And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
 !)f my inquiries, still confirm it. — Yes! 
 The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
 !)f his arrival and the time; the account, too, 
 I he intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 
 )niis wife's dignified but foreign aspect : 
 Jesides the antipathy with which we met, 
 iS snakes and lions shrink back from each other 
 :>y secret instinct that both must be foes 
 |>eadly, without being natural prey to either; 
 ill — all - confirm it to my mind: however, 
 Ve'll grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours 
 lie order comes from Frankfort, if these waters 
 Ase not the higher (and the weatlier favours 
 heir quick abatement), and I'll have him safe 
 I! Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 
 !• is real estate and name; and there's no harm done, 
 iiould he prove other than I deem. This robbery 
 save for the actual loss), is lucky also : 
 le's poor, and that's suspicious — he's unknown, 
 nd that's defenceless. — True, we have no proofs 
 f guilt, but what hath he of innocence? 
 '^ere he a man indilferent to my prospects, 
 
 otlier bearings, I should rather lay 
 jlie inculpation on the Hungarian, who 
 |ath something which I like not; and alone 
 'all around, except the intendant, and 
 le prince's liousehold and my own, had ingress 
 iniiliar to the chamber. 
 
 1 
 
 I Enter Gabor. 
 
 Friend , how fare you ? 
 
 Gabor. As those who fare well every where, when they 
 
 jive supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter how — 
 
 jidyou, my Lord? 
 
 \Stralenh. Better in rest than purse: 
 
 iiae inn is like to cost me dear. 
 
 Gahor. I lieard 
 
 Of your late loss : but 'tis a trifle to 
 One of your order. 
 
 Stralenh. You would hardly think so. 
 Were the loss yours. 
 
 Gabor. I never had so much 
 (At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not 
 Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
 Your couriers are turn'd back — I have outstript them, 
 In my return. 
 
 Stralenh. You! — Why? 
 
 Gabor. I went at daybreak. 
 To watch for the abatement of the river. 
 As being anxious to resume my journey. 
 Your messengers were all check'd'like myself; 
 And, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
 The current's pleasure. 
 
 Stralenh. Would the dogs were in it! 
 Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage? 
 I order'd this at all risks. 
 
 Gabor. Could you order 
 The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
 The Red Sea (scarcely redder than the flood 
 Of the svvoln stream), and be obey'd, perhaps 
 They might have ventured. 
 
 Stralenh. I must see to it : 
 The knaves ! the slaves ! — but they shall smart for this. 
 
 [Exit Stralenheim. 
 
 Gabor (soins). There goes my noble, feudal, self-will'd 
 Epitome of what brave chivalry [baron ! 
 
 The preux chevaliers of the good old times 
 Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
 His lands (if he hath any), and, still dearer. 
 His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 
 As would have filled a bladder, while he lay 
 Gurgling and foaming half-way through the window 
 Of his o'ersct and water-logg'd conveyance; 
 And now he storms at half a dozen wretches 
 Because they love their lives too ! Yet, he's right : 
 'Tis strange they should, when such as he may put them 
 To hazard at his pleasure. Oh ! thou world ! 
 Thou art indeed a melancholy jest ! [Exit Gabor. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Apartment of WERNER, in tlic Palace. 
 Enter Josephine and ulhic. 
 
 Josephine. Stand back, and let me look on thee again ! 
 My Ulric ! — my beloved ! — can it be — 
 After twelve years ? 
 
 Ulric. My dearest mother ! 
 
 Josephine. Yes! 
 My dream is realized — how beautiful — 
 How more than all I sigh'd for ! Heaven receive 
 A rnother's thanks ! — a mother's tears of joy ! 
 This is indeed thy work ! — At sucli an hour, too. 
 He comes not only as a son, but saviour. 
 
 Ulric. If such a joy await me, it must double 
 What I now feel, and lighten, from my heart, 
 A part of the long debt of duty, not 
 Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — forgive me ! 
 This long delay was not my fault. 
 
478 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Josephine. I know it, 
 liut cannot tliink of sorrow now, and doubt 
 If I e'er felt it, 'tis so dazzled from 
 ^ly memory, by this oblivious transport! — 
 Aly son ! 
 
 Enter Werner. 
 
 Werner. What have we here, more strangers ? 
 
 Josephine. No! 
 Look upon him ! What do you see ? 
 
 Werner. A stripling, 
 For the first time — 
 
 Vlric (kneeling). For twelve long- years, my father ! 
 
 Werner. Oh, God! 
 
 Josephine. He faints ! 
 
 Werner. No — I am better now — 
 
 Ulric! (Embraces him). 
 
 Ulric. My father, Siegendorl ! 
 
 Werner (starting). Hush! boy — ■ 
 The walls may hear that name! 
 
 Ulric. What then? 
 
 Warner. Why, then — 
 But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
 I must be known here but as Werner. Come ! 
 Come to my arms again ! Why, thou lookst all 
 I should have been, and was not. Josephine ! 
 Sure 'tis no father's fondness dazzles me ; 
 But had I seen that form amid ten tliousand 
 Youtlis of the choicest, my heart would have chosen 
 This for my sou ! 
 
 Ulric. And yet you knew me not! 
 
 Werner. Alas ! I have had that upon my soul 
 Which makes me look on all men with an eye 
 That only knows the evil at first glance. 
 
 Ulric. My memory served me far more fondly : I 
 Have not forgotten aught; and oft-times in 
 The proud and princely halls of — (I'll not name them. 
 As you say that 'tis perilous), but i' the pomp 
 Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back 
 To tlie Bohemian mountains many a sunset, 
 And wept to see another day go down 
 O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between us. 
 They shall not part us more. 
 
 Werner. I know not that. 
 Are you aware my father is no more ? 
 
 Ulric. Oh heavens ! I left him in a green old age, 
 And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady 
 Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
 Fell fast around him. 'Twas scarce three months since. 
 
 Werner. Why did you leave him ? 
 
 Josephine (embracing Ulric). Can you ask that question? 
 Is he not here ? 
 
 Werner, True ; he hatii sought his parents, 
 And found them ; but, oh ! how, and in what state ! 
 
 Ulric, AH shall be better'd. What we have to do 
 Is to proceed, and to assert our rights. 
 Or rather yours ; for I wave all, unless 
 Your father has disposed in such a sort 
 Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremost, 
 So that I must prefer my claim for form: 
 But I trust better, and that all is yours. 
 
 Werner. Have you not heard of Stralenneim ? 
 
 Ulric. I saved 
 His life but yesterday : he's here. 
 
 Werner, You saved 
 The serpent who will sting us all ! 
 
 Ulric. You speak 
 Riddles : what is this Stralenheim to us ? 
 
 Werner. Every thing.One who claims our father's land.' 
 Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. ''' 
 
 Ulric. I never heard his name till now. The Count, » 
 Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who. 
 If his own line should fail, might be remotely 
 Involved in the succession ; but his titles 
 Were never named before me ; and what then? 
 His right must yield to ours. 
 
 Werner. Ay, if at Prague : r 
 
 But here he is all-powerful ; and has spread 
 Snares for thy father , which, if hitherto ,i 
 
 He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not : 
 
 By favour. 
 
 Ulric. Doth he personally know you ? 
 
 Werner. No; but he guesses shrew dly at ray person. 
 As he betray'd last night; and I, perhaps, 
 But owe my temporary liberty 
 To his uncertainty. t 
 
 Ulric. I think you wrong him 
 (Excuse me for the phrase) ; but Stralenheim 
 Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so. 
 He owes me something both for past and present; 
 I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me : 
 He hath been plunder'd too, since he came hither; 
 Is sick ; a stranger ; and as such not now 
 Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him ; 
 I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 
 Which brought me here was cliiefly that : but I 
 Have found, in searching for another's dross, 
 My own whole treasure — you, my parents ! 
 
 Werner (agitatedly). Who 
 Taught you to mouth that name of ''villain?" 
 
 Ulric. What 
 More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 
 
 Werner. Who taught you thus to brand an unknowl 
 With an infernal stigma? [bcin 
 
 Ulric. My own feelings 
 Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds, [boy ! thr 
 
 Werner. Who taught you, long- sought, and ill-fouu 
 It w ould be safe for my own son to insult me ? 
 
 Ulric. I named a villain. What is there in common 
 With such a being and my father ? 
 
 Werner. Every thing! 
 That ruffian is thy father ! 
 
 Josephine. Oh, my son ! 
 Believe him not — and yet! — (Her voice falters). 
 
 Ulric (Starts, looks earnestly at Werner, and then says slowly) Ali' 
 
 you avow it? j 
 
 Werner. Ulric! before you dare despise your father,! 
 Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, i 
 
 Rash, ne\v to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap. 
 Is it for you to measure passion's force. 
 Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long. 
 It cometh like the night, and quickly) — Wait ! — 
 
ACT 11. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 479 
 
 Wait till, like me, your liopes are bligflited — till 
 Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin ; 
 Famine and poverty your guests at table; 
 Despair your bed-fellow — then rise, but not 
 From sleep, and judge ! Should that day e'er arrive — 
 Should you see then the serpent, who hath coil'd 
 Himself around all that is dear and noble 
 Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path, 
 With but his folds between your steps and happiness, 
 When he, who lives but to tear from you name, 
 Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 
 Chance your conductor; midnight for your mantle; 
 !The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 
 lEvcn to your deadliest foe ; and he as 'twere 
 [Inviting death, by looking like it, while 
 iHis death alone can save you: — Thank your God! 
 jif tlien, like me, content with petty plunder, 
 JYou turn aside — I did so. 
 I Ulric. But- 
 ! Werner (abruptly). Hear me ! 
 1 will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
 ^sten to my own (if tliat be human still) — 
 Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
 He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
 ■Deem yourself safe, as young and brave; but learn 
 None are secure from desperation, few 
 From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
 iloused in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
 \ prince's chamber, lay below my knife! 
 Vii instant — a mere motion — the least impulse — 
 Jad swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
 ^Q was within my power — my knife was raised — 
 ^^ itlidrawn — and I'm in his; are you not so? 
 iVho tells you that he knows you vot! Who says 
 le hath not lured you here to end you? or 
 o plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon? 
 
 [He pauses. 
 
 lUric. Proceed — proceed ! 
 
 Werner. Me he hath ever known, [fortune — 
 
 jul hunted through each change of time — name — 
 ind whj" not you? Are you more versed in men? 
 le wound snares round me ; flung along my path 
 tcptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurn'd 
 'vcn from my presence; but, in spurning now, 
 ill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
 lore patient? Ulrie! — Ulric! — there are crimes 
 Cade venial by the occasion, and temptations 
 ^'^hich nature cannot master or forbear. 
 
 Ulric (looks first at him and then at Josephine). My mother! 
 
 Werner. Ay ! I thought so: you have now 
 nly one parent. I have lost alike 
 ather and son, and stand alone. 
 
 Ulric. But stay ! [Werner rushes out of the chamber. 
 
 Josephine (to Ulric). Follow him not, until this storm of 
 
 passion 
 hates. Thinkst thou that, were it well for him, 
 liadnotfollow'd? 
 Ulric. I obey you, mother, 
 Ithough reluctantly. My first act shall not 
 cone of disobedience. 
 Josephine. Oh! he is good! 
 
 Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
 To me, who have borne so much with him, and for him, 
 That this is but the surface of his soul. 
 And that the depth is rich in better things. 
 
 Ulric. These then are but my father's principles? 
 My mother thinks not with him ? 
 
 Josephine. Nor doth he 
 Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
 Have made him sometimes thus. 
 
 Ulric. Explain to me 
 More clearly, tlien, these claims of Straleidieim, 
 That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
 I may prepare to face him, or at least 
 To extricate you from your present perils. 
 I pledge myself to accomplish this — but would 
 I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 
 
 Josephine. Ay ! 
 Hadst thou but done so! 
 
 Enter Gabor and Ioenstbin with Attendants. 
 
 Gabor (to Ulric). I have sought you, comrade. 
 So, this is my reward! 
 
 Ulric. What do you mean? [this? 
 
 Gabor. 'Sdeath ! have I lived to these years, and for 
 (To idenstcin.) But for your age and folly, I would — 
 
 Idenst. Help! 
 Hands ofl! touch an inteudant! 
 
 Gabor. Do not think 
 I'll honour you so much as save your throat 
 From the ravenstone, by choking you myself. 
 
 Idenst. I thank you for the respite; but there are 
 Those who have greater need of it tlmn me. 
 
 Ulric. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or — 
 
 Gabor. At once, then, 
 The baron has been robb'd and upon me 
 This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
 His kind suspicions — me! whom he ne'er saw 
 Till yester' evening. 
 
 Idenst. Wouldst have me suspect 
 My own acquaintances? You have to learn 
 That I keep better company. 
 
 Gabor. Yon shall 
 Keep tlie best shortly, and the last for all men — 
 The worms ! you hound of malice ! 
 
 [Gabor seizes on him. 
 
 Ulric (interfering). Nay, no violence: 
 He's old, unarm'd — be temperate, Gabor ! 
 
 Gabor (lettino; go idenstein). True : 
 I am a fool to lose myself, because 
 Fools deem me knave : it is their homage, 
 
 f//Wc (to Idenstein). HowfarCyOU? 
 
 Idenst. Help! 
 
 Ulric. I have help'd you. 
 
 Idenst. Kill him! then 
 I'll say so. 
 
 Gabor. I am calm — live on ! 
 
 Idenst. That's more 
 Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
 In Germany. The baron shall decide! 
 
 Gabor. Does A<? abet you in your accusation? 
 
 Idenst. Does he not? 
 
480 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Gabor. Then next time let him go sink, 
 Ere I go hang for snatching him from drowning. 
 But liere he comes ! 
 
 Enter Stralesheim. 
 
 Gabor (goes up to him). My noble Lord, I'm here! 
 
 Stralenh. Well, Sir! 
 
 Gabor. Have you aught with me? 
 
 Stralenh. Wliat should I 
 Have with you? 
 
 Gabor. You know best, if yesterday's 
 Flood has not wash'd away your memory : 
 But that's a trifle. I stand here accused, 
 In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
 Iiitcndant, of the pillage of your person, 
 Or chamber — is the charge your own, or his? 
 
 Stralenh. I accuse no man. 
 
 Gabor. Then you acquit me, Baron ? 
 
 Stralenh. I know not whom to accuse, or to acquit, 
 Or scarcely to suspect. 
 
 Gabor, But you at least 
 Should know whom not to suspect. I am insulted — 
 Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
 To you for remedy — teach them their duty! 
 To look for thieves at home were part of it, 
 If duly taught: but, in one word, if I 
 Have an accuser, let it be a man 
 Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
 I am your equal. 
 
 Stralenh. You! 
 
 Gabor. Ay, Sir; and, for 
 Aught that you know, superior; but proceed — 
 I do not ask for hints, and surmises, 
 And circumstance, and proofs ; I know enough 
 Of what I have done for you, and what you owe me. 
 To have at least waited your payment rather 
 Than paid myself, had I been eager of 
 Your gold. I also know that were I even 
 The villain I am deem'd, the service render'd 
 So recently would not permit you to 
 Pursue me to the death, except through shame. 
 Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 
 But this is nothing; I demand of you 
 Justice upou your unjust servants, and 
 From your own lips a disavowal of 
 All sanction of their insolence: thus much 
 You owe to tlie unknown, who asks no more. 
 And never thought to have ask'd so much. 
 
 Stralenh. This tone 
 May be of innocence. 
 
 Gabor. 'Sdeath ! who dare doubt it. 
 Except such villains as ne'er had it? 
 
 Sir a lenh. You 
 Are hot, Sir. 
 
 Gabor. Must I turn an Icicle 
 Before the breath of menials, and their master? 
 
 Stralenh. Ulric ! you knew this man ; I found him in 
 Your company. 
 
 , Gabor. We found you in the Oder : 
 Would we had left you there ! 
 
 Strale?ih. 1 give you thanks, Sir. 
 
 Gabor. I've earn'd them ; but might have earn'd nior' 
 Perchance, if I had left you to your fate. [from otlurs 
 
 Stralenh, Ulric! you know this man ? 
 
 Gabor. No more than you do, 
 If he avouches not my honour. 
 
 Ulric. I 
 Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
 Own brief connexion led me, honour. 
 
 Stralenh. Then I'm satisfied. 
 
 Gabor (ironically). Right easily, methinks. 
 What is the spell in his asseveration 
 More than in mine? 
 
 Stralenh. 1 merely said that / 
 Was satisfied — not that you were absolved. 
 
 Gabor. Again ! Am I accused or no ? 
 
 Stralenh. Go to ! 
 You wax too insolent : if circumstance 
 And general suspicion be against you. 
 Is the fault mine ? Is't not enough that I 
 Decline all question of your guilt or innocence? 
 
 Gabor. My Lord, my Lord, this is mere cozenage ; 
 A vile equivocation : you well know 
 Your doubts are certainties to all around you — 
 Your looks, a voice — your frowns, a sentence ; you 
 Are practising your power on me — because 
 You have it : but beware, you know not whom 
 You strive to tread on. 
 
 Stralenh. Threat'st thou ? 
 
 Gabor. Not so much 
 As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
 And I retort it with an open warning. [thiiif 
 
 Stralenh. As you have said , 'tis true I owe you som( 
 For which you seem disposed to pay yourself. 
 
 Gabor. Not with your gold. 
 
 Stralenh. With bootless insolence. 
 
 [To his Attendants and ldcr.>t(i 
 
 You need not further to molest this man. 
 But let him go his way. Ulric, good morrow ! 
 
 [Exeunt Stralenheim, Ideustein, and Atte;:dani 
 
 Gabor (following). I'll after him and — 
 
 Ulric (stopping him). Not a Step. 
 
 Gabor. Who shall u 
 
 Oppose me? ' 
 
 Ulric. Your own reason, with a moment's 
 Thought. 
 
 Gabor. Must I bear this? 
 
 Ulric. Pshaw ! we all must bear 
 The arrogance of something higher than 
 Ourselves — the highest cannot temper Satan, 
 Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
 I've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
 Things which had made this silk-worm cast his skin 
 And shrink you from a few sliarp sneers and words? 
 
 Gabor. Must I bear to be deem'd a thief? If 'twere 
 A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
 There's something daring in it — but to steal 
 The moneys of a slumbering man! — 
 
 Ulric. It seems, then. 
 Your are not guilty? 
 
 Gabor. Do I hear aright ? 
 YoM, too! 
 
ACT 1!. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 481 
 
 Ulric. I merely ask'd a simple question. 
 Gahor. If the judge ask'd me — I would answer "No" — 
 To you I answer thus. [He draws. 
 
 Ulric (drawing). With all my heart ! 
 Josephine. Without there ! Ho ! help ! help ! — Oh, 
 God, here's murder ! 
 
 [Exit Josephine, shrieking. 
 
 OiBOR and Ulric fight. Gabor is disarmed just as Stralenbeih, 
 Josephine, and Idenstbin re-enter. 
 
 Josephine. Oh! glorious Heaven ! He's safe! 
 Stralenh. (to Josephine). Who's Safe? 
 Josephine. My — 
 
 Ulric (interrupting her with a stern look, and turning afterwards 
 to Stralenheim)i Both ! 
 
 Here's no great harm done. 
 
 Stralenh. What hath caused all this? 
 
 Ulric. You, Baron, I believe ; but as the effect 
 If! harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor! 
 There is your sword; and when you bare it next, 
 Let it not be against your friends. 
 
 [Ulric pronounces the last words slowly and emphatically in a low 
 voice to Gabor. 
 
 Gabor. I thank you 
 Less for my life than for your counseL 
 Stralenh. These brawls must end here. [me, Ulric, 
 Gabor (taking his sword). They shall. You have wrong'd 
 More with your unkind thoughts than sword; I would 
 The last were in my bosom rather than 
 The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's 
 U>surd insinuations — Ignorance 
 Uid dull suspicion are a part of his 
 Sntail will last him longer than his lands. — 
 Jut I may fit him yet : — You have vanquish'd me. 
 was the fool of passion to conceive 
 That I could cope with you whom I had seen 
 Uready proved by greater perils than 
 lest in this arm. We may meet by and by, 
 lowevcr — but in friendship. [Exit Gabor. 
 
 Stralenh. 1 will brook 
 to more ! This outrage following up his insults, 
 'erhaps his guilt, has cancell'd all the little 
 owed him heretofore for the so vaunted 
 jiid which he added to your abler succour. 
 jllric, you are not hurt ? — 
 Ulric. Not even by a scratch. [to secure 
 
 Stralenh. (to Ideustein) Intendant! take your measures 
 "on fellow; I revoke my former lenity. 
 fe shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort 
 he instant that the waters have abated. 
 Idenst. Secure Iiim ! he hath got his sword again — 
 nd seems to know the use on't; 'tis his trade 
 lelike : — I'am a civilian. 
 Stralenh. Fool! are not 
 on score of vassals dogging at your heels 
 nough to seize a dozen such ? Hence! after him ! 
 Ulric. Baron, I do beseech you ! 
 Stralenh. I must be 
 bey'd. No words ! 
 j Idenst. Well, if it must be so — 
 I jCarch, vassals ! I'm your leader — and will bring 
 he rear up : a wise general never should 
 
 Expose his precious life — on which all rests. 
 
 I like that article of war. [Exeunt Idenstein and Attendant'. 
 
 Stralenh. Come hither, 
 Ulric: — what does that woman here? Oh! now 
 I recognise her, 'tis the stranger's wife 
 Whom they name "Werner." 
 
 Ulric. 'Tis his name. 
 
 Stralenh. Indeed! 
 Is not your husband visible, fair dame ? 
 
 Josephine. Who seeks him ? 
 
 Stralenh. No one — for the presen' : but 
 I fam would parley, Ulric, witli yourself 
 Alone. 
 
 Ulric. I will retire with you. 
 
 Josephine. Not so. 
 You are the latest stranger, and command 
 All places here. 
 
 (Aside to Ulric, as she goes out) Oh ! Ulric, have a care — 
 Remember what depends on a rash word ! 
 
 Ulric (to Josephine). FcarnOt! — [Exit Josephine. 
 
 Stralenh. Ulric, I think that I may trust you ? 
 You saved my life — and acts like these beget 
 Unbounded confidence. 
 
 Ulric. Say on. 
 
 Stralenh. Mysterious 
 And long-engender'd circumstances (not 
 To be now fully euter'd on) have made 
 This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 
 
 Ulric. Who? Gabor, the Hungarian ? 
 
 Stralenh. No — this "Werner" — 
 With the false name and habit. 
 
 L7rjc. Howcanthisbe? 
 He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
 Sickness sits cavern'd in his hollow eye : 
 The man is helpless. 
 
 Stralenh. He is — 'tis no matter — 
 But if he be the man I deem (and that 
 He is so, all around us here — and much 
 That is not here — confirm my apprehension), 
 He must be made secure, ere twelve hours further. 
 
 Ulric. And what have I to do with this ? 
 
 Stralenh. I have sent 
 To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend — 
 (I have the authority to do so by 
 An order of the house of Brandenburgh) 
 For a fit escort — but this cursed tk)od 
 Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 
 
 Ulric. It is abating. 
 
 Stralenh. That is well. 
 
 Ulric. But how 
 Am Iconcern'd? 
 
 Stralenh. As one who did so much 
 For me, you cannot be indifferent to 
 That which is of more import to me than 
 The life you rescued. — Keep your eye on him ! 
 Tiie man avoids me, knows that I now know him — 
 Watch him ! — as you would watch the wild boar when 
 He makes against you in the hunter's gap — 
 Like him he must be spear'd. 
 
 Ulric. Why so ? 
 
 Stralenh. He stands 
 
 31 
 
482 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Between me and a brave inheritance. 
 Oh ! could you see it! But you shall. 
 
 Ulric. I hope so. 
 
 Stralenh. It is the richest oftlie rich Bohemia, 
 Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
 The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
 Have skimm'd it lightly: so that now, besides 
 Its own exuberance, it bears double value 
 Confronted with whole realms afar and near 
 Made deserts. 
 
 Ulric. You describe it faithfully. 
 
 Stralenh. Ay— could you see it, you would say so— but, 
 As I have said, you shall. 
 
 Ulric. I accept the omen. 
 
 Stralenh. Then claim a recompense from it and me, 
 Such as both may make worthy your acceptance 
 And services to me and mine for ever. 
 
 Ulric, And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch — 
 This way-worn stranger — stands between you and 
 This Paradise? - (As Adam did between 
 The devil and his.) — [Aside.] 
 
 Stralenh. He doth. 
 . Ulric. Hath he no right? 
 
 Stralenh. Right ! none. A disinherited prodigal. 
 Who for these twenty years disgraced his lineage 
 In all his acts — but chiefly by his marriage. 
 And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers, 
 And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 
 
 Ulric. He has a wife, then? 
 
 Stralenh. You'd be sorry to 
 Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
 He calls his wife. 
 
 Ulric. Is she not so? 
 
 Stralenh. No more 
 Than he's your father : — an Italian girl, 
 The daughter of a banish'd man, who lives 
 On love and poverty with this same Werner. 
 
 Ulric. They are childless, then ? 
 
 Stralenh. There is or was a bastard, 
 Whom the old man — the grandsire (as old age 
 Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom, 
 
 As it went chilly downward to the grave: 
 But the imp stands not in my path — he has tied, 
 No one knows whither; and if he had not. 
 His claims alone were too contemptible 
 To stand. — Why do you smile? 
 
 Ulric. At your vain fears : 
 A poor man almost in his grasp — a child 
 Of doubtful birth — can startle a grandee ! 
 
 Stralenh. All's to be fear'd, where all is to be gaiu^ I 
 
 Ulric. True; and aught done to save or to obtain it..| 
 
 Stralenh. You have harp'd the very string next to l 
 I may depend upon you? [heail 
 
 Ulric. 'Twere too late to doubt it. 
 
 Stralenh. Let no foolish p'li^ shake 
 Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
 Is pitiful) — he is a wretch, as likely 
 To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
 Except that circumstance is less against him ; 
 He being lodged far otf, and in a chamber 
 Without approach to mine ; and, to say truth, 
 I tliink too well of blood allied to mine, 
 To deem he would descend to such an act ; 
 Besides, he was a soldier, aud a brave one 
 Once, — though too rash. 
 
 Ulric. And they, my Lord, we know 
 By our experience, never plunder till 
 They knock the brains out first — which makes them heii 
 Not thieves. The dead, who feel nought, can lose nothini 
 Nor e'er be robb'd: their spoils are a bequest — 
 No more. 
 
 Stralenh. Go to ! you are a wag. But say, 
 I may be sure you'll keep an eye on this man. 
 And let me know his slightest movement towards 
 Concealment or escape? 
 
 Ulric. You may be sure 
 You yourself could not watch him more than I 
 Will be his sentinel. 
 
 Stralenh. By this you make me 
 Yours, and for ever. 
 
 Ulric, Such is my intention. [Kxeui 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Hall ill tlic same Palace, fiom whence the secret Paifnge leads. 
 Euler Werner and Oabor. 
 
 Gabor. Sir, I have told my tale; if it so please you 
 To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
 If not - - I'll try my fortune elsewhere. 
 
 Werner. How 
 Can I, so wretched, give to Misery 
 
 A shelter? — wanting sucij myself as much 
 As e'er the hunted deer a covert — 
 
 Gabor. Or 
 The wounded lion his cool cave. MethinLs 
 You rather look like one would turn at bay, 
 And rip the hunter's entrails. 
 
 Werner. Ah? 
 
 Gabor. I care not 
 If it be so, bt'ing much disposed to do 
 
ACT rii. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 483 
 
 The same myself; but will you shelter me ? 
 
 I am oppress'd like you — and poor like you — 
 
 Disgraced — 
 
 Werner (abmptiy). Who told you that I was disgraced? 
 
 Gahor. No one ; nor did I say you were so : witli 
 Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 
 I said /was so — and would add, with truth, 
 As undeservedly as you. 
 
 Werner. Again ! As I? 
 
 Gahor. Or any other honest man. 
 What the devil Avould you have ? You don't believe me 
 Guilty of this base theft ? 
 
 Wenier, No, no — I cannot. [gallant — 
 
 Gabor. Why, that's my heart of honour! yon young 
 Your miserly intendant, and dense noble — 
 All — all suspected me; and why ? because 
 I am the worst-clothed and least named amongst them ; 
 Although, were Momus' lattice in our breasts. 
 My soul might brook to open it more Avidely 
 Than theirs; but thus it is — you poor and helpless — 
 Both still more than myself — 
 
 Werner. How know you that? 
 
 Gahor. You're right ; I ask for shelter at the hand 
 Which I call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
 [ were well paid. But you,who seem to have proved 
 The wholesome bitterness of life, know well, 
 8y sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
 3f the New World, the Spaniard boasts about, « 
 Jould never tempt the man who knows its worth, 
 jkVeigh'd at its proper value in the balance, 
 save in such guise (and there I grant its power, 
 Jecause I feel it), as may leave no night-mare 
 Jpon his heart o'liights. 
 
 Werner. What do you mean? 
 
 Gabor. Just what I say ; I thought my speech was plain: 
 Tou are no thief — nor I — and, as true men, 
 fliould aid each other. 
 
 Werner. It is a damned world, sir. 
 
 Gahor. So is the nearest of the two next, as 
 '■Ifhe priests say( and no doubt they should know best), 
 herefore I'll stick by this — as being loth 
 
 suffer martyrdom, at least with such 
 n epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 
 
 1 is but a night's lodging which I crave; 
 0- morrow I will try the Avaters, as 
 he Dove did, trusting that they have abated. 
 
 Werner. Abated? Is there hope of that ? 
 
 Gahor. There was 
 t noontide. 
 
 Werner. Then we may be safe. 
 
 Gahor. Are you 
 I'peril ? 
 
 Werner. Poverty is ever so. 
 
 Gahor. That I know by long practice. Will you not 
 romise to make mine less ? 
 
 Werner. Your poverty? 
 
 Gahor. No — you don't look a leech for that disorder ; 
 nieant my peril only : you've a roof, 
 nS I liave none ; I merely seek a covert. 
 
 Wenier. Rightly ; for how should such a wretch as I 
 Iftfegold? 
 
 Gabor. Scarce honestly, to say the truth on't, 
 Althougli I almost wish you had the Baron's. 
 
 Werner. Dare you insinuate ? 
 
 Gabor. What? 
 
 Werner. Are you aware 
 To whom you speak? 
 
 Gabor. No ; and I am not used 
 Greatly to care. (A noise heard without.) But hark! they come! 
 
 Werner. Who come? 
 
 Gabor. The intendant and his man-hounds after me : 
 I'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
 Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go ? 
 But show me any place. I do assjjire you, 
 If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless : 
 Think if it were your own case ! 
 
 Werner (aside). Oh, just God ! 
 Tliy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 
 
 Gabor. 1 see you're moved ; and it shows well in you : 
 1 may live to requite it. 
 
 Werner. Are you not 
 A spy of Stralenheim's ? 
 
 Gabor. Not I ! and if 
 I were, what is there Jp espy in you ? 
 Although I recollect his frequent question 
 About you and your spouse might lead to some 
 Suspicion ; but you best know — what — and why : 
 I am his deadliest foe. 
 
 Werner. Yon? 
 
 Gabor. After such 
 A treatment for the service which in part 
 I render'd him — J am his enemy ; 
 If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 
 
 Werner. I will. 
 
 Gabor. But how? 
 
 Werner (showing the pannei). There is a .secret spring ; 
 Remember, I discover'd it by chance, 
 And used it but for safety 
 
 Gabor. Open it, 
 And I will use it for the same, 
 
 Werner. I found it. 
 As I havQ said : it leads through winding walls, 
 (So thick as to bear paths within tlieir ribs, 
 Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness) 
 And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
 I know not whither; you must not advance : 
 Give me your word. 
 
 Gabor. It is unnecessary : 
 How should I make my way in darkness, through 
 A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings? 
 
 Werner. Yes, but who knows to what place it may lead ? 
 /know not — (mark you!) — but who knows it might 
 Lead even into the chambers of your foe ? [not 
 
 So strangely were contrived these galleries 
 By our Teutonic fathers in old days, 
 When man built less against the elements 
 Than his next neighbour. You must not advance 
 Beyond the two first windings; if you do 
 (Albeit I never pass'd them), I'll not answer 
 For what you may be led to. 
 
 Gabor. But I will. ' 
 
 A thousand thanks ! 
 
484 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Werner. You'll find the spring more obvious 
 On the other side; and, when you would return, 
 It yields to the least touch. 
 
 Gabor. I'll in — farewell ! [Gabor goes in by the secret pannel. 
 
 Werner (solus). What have I done? Alas! what hadl 
 Before to make this fearful 1 Let it be [done 
 
 Still some atonement that I save tlje man, 
 Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 
 They come ! to seek elsewhere what is before them ! 
 
 Enter Idemstein, and Others. 
 
 Idenst. Is he not here ? He must have vanish'd then 
 Through the dim Goth^ glass by pious aid 
 Of pictured saints, upon the red and yellow 
 Casements, through which thesunsetstreams like sunrise 
 On long pearl-colourM beards and crimson crosses, 
 And gilded ciosiers, and cross'd arms, and cowls. 
 And helms, and twisted armour, and long swords, 
 All the fantastic furniture of windows. 
 Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whose 
 Likeness and fame alike rest on some panes 
 Of crystal, which each rattling %vind proclaims 
 As frail as any other life or glory. 
 He's gone, however. 
 
 Werner. Whom do you seek ? 
 
 Idenst. A villain ! 
 
 Werner. Why need you come so far, then \ 
 
 Idenst. In the search 
 Of him who robb'd the baron. 
 
 Werner. Are you sure 
 You have divined the man ? 
 
 Idenst. As sure as you 
 Stand there ; but where's he gone ? 
 
 Werner. Who? 
 
 Idenst. He we sought. 
 
 Werner, You see he is not here. 
 
 Idenst. And yet we traced him 
 Up to this hall', are you accomplices. 
 Or deal you in the black art? 
 
 Werner. I deal plainly. 
 To many men the blackest. 
 
 Idenst, It may be 
 I have a question or two for yourself 
 Hereafter ; but we must continue now 
 Our search for t'other. 
 
 Werner. You had best begin 
 Your inquisition now ; I may not be 
 So patient always. 
 
 Idenst. I should like to know, 
 In good sooth, if you really are the man 
 ThatStralenheim 's in quest of? 
 
 Werner, Insolent! 
 Said you not that he was not here? 
 
 Idenst. Yes, one ; 
 But there's another whom he tracks more keenly, 
 And soon, it may be, with authority 
 Both paramount to his and mine. But, come ! 
 Bustle, my boys ! we arc at fault. 
 
 [Exeunt Idenstein and Attcnda-its. 
 Werner, In what 
 A maze hath my dim destiny involved me! 
 
 And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
 The leaving undone one far greater. Down, 
 Thou busy devil, rising in my heart ! 
 Thou art too late! I'll nought to do with blood. 
 
 Enter U1.RIC. 
 
 Vlric. I sought you, father. 
 
 Werner. Is't not dangerous ? 
 
 Vlric. No; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
 Or any of the ties between us : more — 
 He sends me here a spy upon your actions. 
 Deeming me wholly his. 
 
 Werner. I cannot think it: 
 'Tis but a snare he winds about us both, 
 To swoop the sire and son at once. 
 
 Ulric I cannot 
 Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 
 The doubts that rise like briars in our path. 
 But must break through them, as an unarm'd carle 
 Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf rustlin. 
 In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread : 
 Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so ; 
 We'll overfly, or rend them. 
 
 Werner. Show me howl 
 
 Ulric. Can you not guess ? 
 
 Werner. I cannot. 
 
 Ulric. That is strange. 
 Came the thouglit ne'er into your mind last night ? 
 
 Werner. I understand you not. 
 
 Ulric. Then we shall never 
 More understand each other. But to change 
 The topic — 
 
 Werner. You mean, to pursue it, as 
 'Tis of our safety. 
 
 Ulric, Right ; I stand corrected. 
 I see the subject now more clearly, and 
 Our general situation in its bearings. 
 The waters are abating; a few hours 
 Will bring his summon'd myrmidons from Frankfort, 
 When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse, 
 And I an outcast, bastardised by practice 
 Of this same baron to make way for him. .'( 
 
 Werner. And now your remedy ! I thought to escape 
 By means of this accursed gold ; but now , 
 
 I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 
 Metliinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
 For motto, not the mintage of the state; 
 And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 
 With hissing snakes, which curl around my temples, 
 And cry to all beholders — lo ! a villain ! 
 
 Ulric. You must not use it, at least, now; but take 
 
 This ring. [He gives Werner a jewel. 
 
 Werner. A gem ! It was my father's ! 
 
 Ulric. And 
 As such is now your own. With this you must 
 Bribe the Intendant for his old caleche 
 And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 
 Together with my mother. 
 
 Werner. And leave you. 
 So lately found, in peril too? 
 
 Ulric. Fear nothing! 
 
ACT III. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 485 
 
 The only fear were if we fled together, 
 
 For that would make our ties beyond all doubt 
 
 The waters only lie in flood between « 
 
 This burgh and Frankfort : so far's in our favour. 
 
 The route on to Bohemia, though encumber'd, 
 
 [s not impassable ; and when you gain 
 
 \ few hours' start, the difficulties will be 
 
 riic same to your pursuers. Once beyond 
 
 |rhe frontier, and you're safe. 
 
 Werner. My noble boy! [them 
 
 Ulrie. Husli! hush! no transports: we'll indulge in 
 n Castle Siegendorf ! Display no gold: 
 {Show Idenstein the gem (I know the man, 
 nd have look'd through him) : it will answer thus 
 double purpose. Stralenheim \osi gold — 
 o jewel : therefore, it could not be his ; 
 nd then, the man who was possess'd of this 
 an hardly be suspected of abstracting 
 ["he baron's coin, when he could thus convert 
 'his ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 
 Jy his last night's slumber. Be not over-timid 
 n your address, nor yet too arrogant, 
 nd Idenstein will serve you. 
 
 Werner. I will follow- 
 a all things your direction. 
 
 Ulric. I would have 
 pared you the trouble; but had I appear'd 
 take an interest in you, and still more 
 ly dabbling with a jewel in your favour, 
 ,U had been known at once. 
 Werner. My guardian-angel ! 
 his overpays the past. But how wilt thou 
 are in our absence? 
 Ulric. Stralenheim knows nothing 
 f me as aught of kindred with yourself, 
 vyill but wait a day or two with liim 
 0-lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father. 
 Werner. To part no more! 
 Ulric. I know not that; but at 
 he least we'll meet again once more. 
 Werner. My boy ! 
 ty friend, my only child, and sole preserver! 
 h^ do not hate me ! 
 Ulric. Hate my father! 
 Werner. Ay, 
 
 y father hated me: why not my son? 
 Ulric. Your father knew you not as I do. 
 Werner. Scorpions 
 
 le in thy words! Thou know me? in this guise 
 lou canst not know me, I am not myself; 
 et (hate me not) I will be soon. 
 Ulric. I'll wait ! 
 
 the mean time be sure that all a son 
 in do for parents shall be done for mine. 
 Werner. I see it, and I feel it; yet I feel 
 irther — that you despise me. 
 Ulric. Wherefore should I? 
 Werner. Must I repeat my humiliation ? 
 ^Ulric. No! 
 
 Iiave fathom'd it and you. But let us talk 
 this no more. Or if it must be ever, 
 
 Not now; your error has redoubled all 
 The present difficulties of our house, 
 At secret war with that of Stralenheim ; 
 All we have now to think of, is to baffle 
 Him. I have shown one way. 
 
 Werner. The only one, 
 And I embrace it, as I did my son, 
 Who show'd himsel/and father's safety in 
 One day. 
 
 Ulric. You shall be safe : let that suffice. 
 Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bohemia 
 Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were 
 Admitted to our lands ? 
 
 Werner. Assuredly, 
 Situate as we are now, although the first 
 Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest, 
 Especially tlie next in blood. 
 
 Ulric. Blood! 'tis 
 A word of many meanings ; in the veins, 
 And out of them, it is a different thing — 
 And so it should be, when the same in blood 
 (As it is call'd) are aliens to each other. 
 Like Theban brethren : when a part is bad, 
 A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 
 
 Werner. I do not apprehend you. 
 
 Ulric. That may be — 
 And should, perhaps, — and yet — but get ye ready ; 
 You and my mother must away to-night. 
 Here comes the Intendant ; sound him with the gem, 
 'Twill sink into his venal soul like lead 
 Into the deep, and bring up slime, and mud. 
 And ooze, too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 
 With its greased understratum ; but no less 
 Will serve to warn our vessels through these shoals. 
 The freight is rich, so heave tlie line in time ! 
 Farewell ! I scarce have time, but yet your hand, 
 My father ! — 
 
 Werner. Let me embrace thee ! 
 
 Ulric. We may be 
 Observed : subdue your nature to the hour ! 
 Keep off" from me as from your foe! 
 
 Werner. Accursed 
 Be he, who is the stifling cause, which smothers 
 The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts. 
 At such an heur too! 
 
 Ulric. Yes, curse — it will ease you ! 
 Here is the Intendant. 
 
 Enter Iubnstkin. 
 
 Master Idenstein, 
 How fare you in your purpose ? Have you caught 
 The rogTie ? 
 
 Idenst. No, faith ! 
 
 Ulric. Well, there are plenty more: 
 You may have better luck another chase. 
 Where is the Baron ? 
 
 Idenst. Gone back to his chamber : 
 And now Ilhink on't, asking after you 
 With nobly-born impatience. 
 
 Ulric. Your great men 
 Must be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 
 
486 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT 1 
 
 Of tlie stung steed replies unto tlie spur : 
 'Tis well tliey have horses, too; for if they had not, 
 1 fear that men must draw their chariots, as 
 They say kings did Sesostris'. 
 
 Idenst. Who was he? 
 
 Uiric, An old Bohemian — and imperial gipsy. 
 
 Idenst. A gipsy or Bohemian, 'tis the same , 
 For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 
 
 Ulric. I've lieard so; but I must take leave. Intendant, 
 Your servant ! — Werner (to Werner sUghtiy), if that be 
 your name, 
 
 Yours. [Exit Ulric. 
 
 Idenst. A Well-spoken, pretty-faced young man! 
 And prettily behaved! He knows his station, 
 You see, sir : how he gave to each his due 
 Precedence ! 
 
 Werner. I perceived it, and applaud 
 His just discernment and your own. 
 
 Idenst. That's well — 
 That's very well. You also know your place, too, 
 And yet I don't know that I know your place. 
 
 Werner (showing the ring). Would this assist your 
 knowledge? 
 
 Idenst. How ! — What! - Eh ! 
 A jewel! 
 
 Werner. 'Tis your own, on one condition. 
 
 Idenst. Mine ! — Name it ! 
 
 Werner. That hereafter you permit me 
 At thrice its value to redeem it ; 'tis 
 A family -ring. 
 
 Idenst. A family! yours! a gem! 
 I'm breathless ! 
 
 Werner. You must also furnish me, 
 An hour ere daybreak, with all means to quit 
 This place. 
 
 Idenst. But is it real ? let me look on it : 
 Diamond, by all that's glorious ! 
 
 Werner. Come, I'll trust you; 
 You have guess'd, no doubt, that I was born above 
 My present seeming. 
 
 Idenst. I can't say I did, 
 Though this looks like it; this is the true breeding 
 Of gentle blood ! 
 
 Werrter. I have important reasons 
 For wishing to continue privily 
 My journey hence. 
 
 Idenst. So then you are the man 
 Whom Stralenheim 's in quest of? 
 
 Werner. I am not; 
 But being taken for him might conduct 
 So much embarrassment to me just now, 
 And to the baron's self hereafter — 'tis 
 To spare both, that I would avoid all bustle. 
 
 Idenst. Be you the man or no, 'tis not my business; 
 Besides, I never should obtain the half 
 From this proud, niggardly noble, who would raise 
 The country for some missing bits of coin, 
 And never ofler a precise reward — 
 Unithis! Another look! 
 
 Werner. Gaze on it freely ; 
 At day-dawn it is yours. 
 
 Idenst. Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 
 Thou more than stone of the philosopher! 
 T^xou. touchstone of Philosophy lierself! 
 Thou bright eye of tlie Mine ! Uiou loadstar of 
 The soul! the true magnetic pole to which 
 All hearts point duly north, like trembling needles ! 
 Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth ! which, sitting 
 High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 
 More worship than the majesty who sweats 
 Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like 
 Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre! 
 Shalt thou be mine? I am, methinks, already 
 A little king, a lucky alchymist! — 
 A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
 Without the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
 Werner, or what else ? 
 
 Werner. Call me Werner still. 
 You may yet know me by a loftier title. 
 
 Idenst. 1 do believe in thee ! thou art the spirit 
 Of whom I long have dream'd, in a low garb. — 
 Bat come, I'll serve thee: thou shalt be as free 
 As air, despite the waters : let us hence, 
 I'll show thee I am honest — (oh, thou jewel!) 
 Thou shalt be furnished, Werner, with such means 
 Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
 Should overtake thee. — Let me gaze again! 
 I have a foster-brother in the mart 
 Of Hamburgh, skiil'd in precious stones — how many 
 Carats may it weigh? — Come, Werner, I will wing ihc 
 
 [K.Mur 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Stralenheim's Chamber. 
 
 Stralenheim and Fritz. 
 
 Fritz. All's ready, my good Lord ! 
 
 Stralenh. I am not sleepy. 
 And yet I must to bed; I fain would say 
 To rest, but something heavy on my spirit, 
 Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber. 
 Sits on me as a cloud along the sky. 
 Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
 Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
 'Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between man 
 And man, an everlasting mist; — I will 
 Unto my pillow. 
 
 Fritz. May you rest there well ! 
 
 Stralenh. I feel, and fear, I shall. 
 
 Fritz. And wherefore fear? 
 
 Stralenh. I know not why, and therefore do fear mord 
 Because an undescribable — but 'tis 
 All folly. Were the locks (as I desired) 
 Changed to-day, of this chamber? for last night's 
 Adventure makes it needful. 
 
 Fritz. Certainly, 
 According to your order, and beneath 
 The inspection of myself and the young Saxon 
 Who saved your life. I think they call him "Ulric' 
 
 Stralenh. You think! you supercilious slave! wlia 
 Have you to tax your memory, whicii should be [rigfi 
 Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name 
 Of him who saved your master, as a litany 
 Whose daily repetition marks your duty — • 
 
ACT III. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 487 
 
 Get hence! ^'you think," indeed! you, who stood still 
 
 Howling and dripping on the bank, whilst I 
 
 Lay dying, and the stranger dash'd aside 
 
 The roaring torrent, and restored me to 
 
 Thank him — and despise you. " You think!" and scarce 
 
 Can recollect his name! I will not waste 
 
 .More words on you. Call me betimes. 
 
 Fritz. Good night ! 
 [ trust to-morrow will restore your lordship 
 To renovated strength and temper. [The Scene closes. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The secret Passage. 
 
 Gabor (soins). Four — 
 Five — six hours have I counted, like the guard 
 3f outposts, on the never - merry clock : 
 That hollow tongue of time, which, even when 
 t sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
 IrVith every clang. 'Tis a perpetual knell, 
 rhough for a marriage-feast it rings : each stroke 
 i'eals for a hope the less ; the funeral note 
 )fLove deep-buried without resurrection 
 n the grave of Possession ; while the knoll 
 )f long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
 'o triple Time in the son's ear. — I'm trold — 
 'm dark — I've blown my fingers — number'd o'er 
 jjd o'er my steps — and knock'd niy head against 
 ome fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 
 lOd bats in general insurrection, lill 
 'heir cursed pattering feet and whirling wings 
 leave me scarce hearing for anotner sound, 
 light! It is at distance (if I can 
 [easure in darkness distance) : but it blinks 
 s through a crevice or a key-hole, in 
 he inhibited direction ; I must on, 
 evertheless, from curiosity, 
 distant lamp-light is an incident 
 such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead me 
 nothing that may tempt me ! Else — Heaven aid me 
 obtain or to escape it ! Shining still ! 
 T^ere it tiie star of Lucifer himself, 
 r he himself girt with its beams, I could 
 ontain no longer. Softly! mighty well! 
 bat corner's turn'd — So — Ah ! no ; — right! it draws 
 earer. Here is a darksome angle — so, 
 bat's weather'd. — Let me pause. — Suppose it leads 
 ito some greater danger than that which 
 ,ii^ lave escaped? — no matter, 'tis a new one ; 
 id novel perils, like fresh mistresses, 
 'ear more magnetic aspects : — I will on, 
 id be it where it may — I have my dagger, 
 ^hich may protect me at a pinch. — Burn still, 
 lOu little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus! 
 y stationary Will o' the wisp ! — So! so ! 
 ^ hears my invocation, and fails not. [The Scene clones. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A Gaidcn. 
 Enter Wkk.neh. 
 
 )uld not sleep — and now the hour's at hand; 
 ll's ready. Idenstein has kept his word : 
 
 And, stationed in the outskirts of the town, 
 
 Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
 
 Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
 
 To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I 
 
 Look on these liorrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
 
 Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor. 
 
 But not dishonour'd : and I leave them with 
 
 A«tain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
 
 My heart! A never-dying canker-worm^ 
 
 Which all the coming splendour of the lands. 
 
 And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf, 
 
 Can scarcely lull a moment : I must find 
 
 Some means of restitution, which would ease 
 
 My soul in part; but how, without discovery .' — 
 
 It must be done, however ; and I'll pause 
 
 Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
 
 The madness of my misery led to this 
 
 Base infamy ; repentance must retrieve it : 
 
 I will have nought of Stralenheim's upon 
 
 My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine ; 
 
 Lands, freedom, life, — and yet he sleeps .' as soundly, 
 
 Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
 
 Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows. 
 
 Such as when — Hark! wljat noise is that? Again! 
 
 The branches shake; and some loose stones have fallen 
 
 From yonder terrace. [Ulric leaps down from the terrace. 
 
 Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
 Thrice welcome now ! this filial — 
 
 Vlric. Stop! before 
 We approach, tell me — 
 
 Werner. Why look you so? 
 
 Vlric. Do I 
 Behold my father, or — 
 
 Werner. What? 
 
 Ulric. An assassin ! 
 
 Werner. Insane or insolent! 
 
 Ulric. Reply, sir, as 
 You prize your life, or mine! 
 
 Werner, To what must I 
 Answer? 
 
 Ulric. Are you or are you not the assassin 
 Of Stralenheim ? 
 
 Werner. I never was as yet 
 The murderer of any man. What mean you? 
 
 Ulric. Did you not ths night (as the night before) 
 Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 
 Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber ? and — 
 
 [Ulric pauses. 
 
 Werner. Proceed. 
 
 Ulric. Z)«cd he not by your hand? 
 
 Werner. Great God ! 
 
 Ulric. You are innocent, then ! my father's innocent! 
 Embrace me! Yes, — your tone — your look — yes, yes, 
 Yet say so ! 
 
 Werner, If I e'er, in heart or mind. 
 Conceived deliberately such a thought. 
 But rather strove to trample back to licll 
 Such thouglits - if e'er they glared a moment through 
 The irritation of my oppressed spirit — 
 May Heaven be shut for ever from my hopes 
 As from mine eyes ! — 
 
488 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT 111 
 
 Ulric. But Stralenlieim is dead. 
 
 Werner. 'Tis horrible ! 'tis hideous, as 'tis hateful ! — 
 But what have I to do with this? 
 
 Ulric. No bolt 
 Is forced ; no violence can be detected, 
 Save on his body. Part of his own household 
 Have been alarm'd ; but, as the Intendant is 
 Absent, I took upon myself the care , 
 
 Of mustering the police. His chamber has. 
 Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
 If nature — 
 
 Werner, Oh, ray boy ! what unknown woes 
 Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
 Above our house! 
 
 Vlric. My father, I acquit you ! 
 But will the world do so ? Will even the judge, 
 If - but you must away this instant. 
 
 Werner. No! 
 I'll face it. Who shall dare suspect me ? 
 
 Ulric. Yet 
 You had no guests — no visitors — no life 
 Breathing around you, save my mother's? 
 
 Werner. Ah ! 
 The Hungarian ! 
 
 Ulric. He is gone ! he disappear'd 
 Ere sunset. 
 
 Werner. No ; I hid him in that very 
 Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 
 
 Ulric. There I'll find him. Clfirk is going. 
 
 Werner. It is too late : he had left the palace ere 
 I quitted it. I found the secret pannel 
 Open, and the doors which lead from tiiat liall 
 Which masks it: I but thought he had snatoh'dthe silent 
 And favourable moment to escape 
 The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
 Dogging him yester-even. 
 
 Ulric. You re-closed 
 The pannel ? 
 
 Werner. Yes; and not without reproach 
 (And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
 At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
 His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
 Of a discovery. 
 
 Ulric. You are sure you closed it? 
 
 Werner. Certain. 
 
 Ulric. That's well ; but had been better, if 
 You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for — I iie pauses. 
 
 Werner. Thieves! 
 Thou wouldst say: I must bear it, and deserve it ; 
 But not — 
 
 Ulric. No, father; do not speak of this; 
 This is no hour to think of petty crimes. 
 But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
 Why would you shelter this man ? 
 
 Werner. Could I shun it ? 
 A man pursued by my cliief foe; disgraced 
 For my own crime ; a victim to my safety, 
 imploring a few hours' concealment from 
 The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
 Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
 Have, in such circumstances, tlirust him fortlt. 
 
 Ulric. And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
 It is too late to ponder this : you must 
 Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
 Trace out the murderer, if 'tis possible. 
 
 Werner. But this my sudden flight will give the Molocli 
 Suspicion : two new victims, in the lieu 
 Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
 Who seems the culprit, and — 
 
 Ulric. Who seemsl Who else "^ 
 
 Can be so ? 
 
 Werner. Not /, though just now you doubted — 
 You, my son! — doubted — 
 
 Ulric. And do you doubt of him, 
 The fugitive ? 
 
 Werner. Boy ! since I fell into 
 The abyss of crime (though not oisueh crime), I, 
 Having seen the innocent oppress'd for me. 
 May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your heart 
 Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse 
 Appearances; and views a criminal 
 In innocence's shadow, it may be, 
 Because 'tis dusky. 
 
 Ulric. And if I do so, 
 What will mankind, who know you not, or knew 
 But to oppress ? You must not stand the hazard. 
 Away ! — I'll make all easy. Idenstein 
 Will, for his own sake and liis jewel's, hold 
 His peace — he also is a partner in 
 Your flight — moreover — 
 
 Werner. Fly ! and leave my name 
 Link'd with the Hungarian's, or prefcrr'd, as poorest, 
 To bear the brand of bloodshed ? 
 
 Ulnc. Pshaw ! leave any thing 
 Kxcept our fathers' sovereignty and castles, 
 For which you have so long panted and in vain ! 
 What naine ? You leave no name, since that you bear 
 Is feign'd. 
 
 Werner. Most true ; but still I would not have it 
 Engraved in crimson in men's memories. 
 Though in this most obscure abode of men — 
 Besides, the search — 
 
 Ulric. I will provide against 
 Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here 
 As heir of Siegendorf: if Idenstein 
 Suspects, 'tis but suspicion, and he is 
 A fool: his folly shall have such employment. 
 Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 
 To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er 
 Laws reach'd this village) are all in abeyance 
 With the late general war of thirty years. 
 Or crush'd, or rising slowly from the dust, 
 To which the march of armies trampled them. 
 Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
 Here, save as such — without lands, influence, 
 Save what hath perish'd with him; few prolong 
 A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 
 O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 
 Is roused ; such is not here the case ; he died 
 Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave, 
 Obscure as his deserts, without a'scutcheon. 
 Is all he'll have, or wants. If /discover 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 489 
 
 The assassin, 'twill be well — if not, believe me, 
 
 Xone else, though all the full-fed train of menials 
 
 May howl above his ashes, as they did 
 
 Around him in his danger on the Oder, 
 
 Will no more stir a finger now than then. 
 
 Hence ! hence ! I must not hear your answer — look ! 
 
 Phe stars are almost faded, and the gray 
 
 Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 
 
 Vou shall not answer — Pardon me, that I 
 
 Am peremptory ; 'tis your son that speaks. 
 
 Your long-lost, late-found son. — Let's call my mother ! 
 
 ^oftly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 
 
 To me; I'll answer for the event as far 
 
 As regards you, and that is the chief point, 
 
 As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
 
 We'll meet in Castle Siegendorf — once more 
 
 Our banners shall be glorious ! Think of that 
 
 Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me. 
 
 Whose youth may better battle with them — Hence! 
 
 And may your age be happy ! — I will kiss 
 
 My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with you ! 
 
 Werner. This counsel's safe — but is it honourable ? 
 
 Ulric, To save a father is a child's chief honoiir. [Eicunt 
 
 I 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf, near Prague. 
 Enter Ebic and Henrick, retainers of the Count. 
 
 Eric. So, better times are come at last ; to these 
 Hd walls new masters and high wassail, both 
 t long desideratum. 
 
 Henrick. Yes, for masters, 
 t might be unto those who long for novelty, 
 'hough made by a new grave : but as for wassail, 
 llethinks the old Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
 lis feudal hospitality as high 
 ls e'er another prince of the empire. 
 
 Eric. Why, 
 'or tlie mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
 ared passing well; but as for merriment 
 ind sport, without which salt and sauces season 
 'he cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
 !ven of the narrowest. 
 
 Henrick. The old Count loved not 
 'he roar of revel ; are you sure that this does ? 
 
 Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he's bounteous, 
 .nd we all love him. 
 
 Henrick. His reign is as yet 
 [ardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon, 
 
 nd the first year of sovereigns is bridal ; 
 
 non, we shall perceive his real sway 
 jad moods of mind. 
 
 Erie. Pray Heaven he keep the present ! 
 
 hen his brave son, Count Ulric — there's a knight! 
 'ity the wars are o'er ! 
 
 Henrick. Why so ? 
 
 Eric. Look on him ! 
 
 nd answer that yourself. 
 
 Henrick. He's very youthful, 
 
 nd strong and beautiful as a^young tiger. 
 
 Eric. That's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 
 
 Henrick. But 
 
 erhaps a true one. 
 
 Eric. Pity, as I said. 
 The wars are over: in the hall, who like 
 Count Ulric for a well-supported pride. 
 Which awes, but yet offends not ? In the field, 
 Who like him with his spear in hand, when, gnashing 
 His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
 The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket? 
 Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
 A sword like him? Whose plume nods knightlier ? 
 
 Henrick. No one's, I grant you : do not fear, if war 
 Be long in coming, he is of that kind 
 Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
 Already done as much. 
 
 Eric. What do you mean? 
 
 Henrick, You can't deny his train of followers 
 (But few our fellow-native vassals born 
 On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 
 
 As — (pauses) 
 
 Eric. Wliat? 
 
 Henrick. The war (you love so much) leaves living : 
 Like other parents, she spoils her worst children. 
 
 Eric. Nonsense! they are all brave iron-visagedfellows, 
 Such as old Tilly loved. 
 
 Henrick. And who loved Tilly ? 
 Ask that at Magdeburgh — or for that matter 
 Wallenstein either — they are gone to 
 
 Eric. Rest; 
 But what beyond, 'tis not ours to pronounce. 
 
 Henrick. I wish they had left us something of their rest: 
 The country (nominally now at peace) 
 Is overrun with — - God knows who — they fly 
 By night, and disappear with sunrise; but 
 Leave no less desolation, nay, even more 
 Than the most open warfare. 
 
 Eric. But Count Ulric — 
 What has all this to do with him ? 
 
 Henrick. With him! 
 He — might prevent it. As you say he's fond 
 Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders ? 
 31* 
 
490 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Eric. You'd better ask himself. 
 
 Henrick. I would as soon 
 Ask of the lion why he laps not milk. 
 
 Eric, And here he comes! 
 
 Henrick. The devil ! you'll hold your tong^ue? 
 
 Eric. Why do you turn so pale? 
 
 Henrick. 'Tis nothing — but 
 Be silent! 
 
 Eric. I will upon what you have said. 
 
 Henrick. 1 assure you I meant nothings ; a mere sport 
 Of words, no more; besides, had it been otherwise, 
 He is to espouse the gentle baroness 
 Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress, 
 And she no doubt will soften whatsoever 
 Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 
 Have given all natures and most unto those 
 Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
 The knees of homicide; sprinkled, as it were. 
 With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace, 
 On all that I have said! 
 
 Enter Ulkic and Rouolph. 
 
 Good morrow. Count! 
 
 Ulric. Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is 
 All ready for the chase? 
 
 Eric. The dogs are order'd 
 Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
 To beat the bushes, and tlie day looks promising. 
 Shall I call forth your Excellency's suite? 
 What courser will you please to mount? 
 
 Ulric. The dun, 
 Walstein. 
 
 Eric, I fear he scarcely has recover'd 
 The toils of Monday : 'twas a noble chase, 
 You spear'dybMr wi h your own hand. 
 
 Ulric. True, good Eric, 
 I had forgotten let it be the gray, then. 
 Old Ziska; he has not been out this fortnight. 
 
 Eric. He shall be straight caparison'd. How many 
 Of your immediate retainers shall 
 Escort you ? 
 
 Ulric. I leave that to Weilburgh, our 
 Master of the horse. [Exit Eric. 
 
 Rodolph! 
 
 Rodolph. My lord ! 
 
 Ulric. The news 
 Is awkward from the ~ (Rodolph points to Henrick) 
 How now, Henrick, why 
 Loiter you here? 
 
 Henrick. For your commands, my Lord. 
 
 Ulric. Go to my father, and present my duty, 
 And learn if he would aught with me before 
 
 I mount. [Exit Henrick. 
 
 Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
 Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and 
 Tis rumour'd that the column sent against them 
 Is to be strengthen'd. I must join them soon. 
 
 Rodolph. Best wait for further and more sure advices. 
 Ulric. I mean it — and indeed it could not well 
 Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
 To all my plans. 
 
 Rodolph. It will be difficult 
 To excuse your absence to the Count, your father. 
 
 Ulric. Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain 
 In High-Silesia w ill permit and cover 
 My jouniey. In the mean time, when we are 
 Engaged in the chase, draw oft' the eiglity men 
 Whom Wolft'e leads — keep the forests on your route 
 You know it well? 
 
 Rodolph. As well as on that night 
 When we — 
 
 Ulric. We will not speak of that until 
 We can repeat the same with like success; 
 And when you have join'd, give Rosenberg this letter. ? 
 
 [Gives a Icttw 
 Add further, that I have sent this slight addition 
 To our force with you and Wolff'e, as l^erald of 
 My coming, though I could but spare them ill 
 At this time, as my father loves to keep 
 Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
 Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries, j_ 
 
 Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 
 
 Rodolph. I thought you loved the lady Ida? 
 
 Ulric. Why, 
 I do so — but it follows not from that 
 I would bind in my youth and glorious years. 
 So brief and burning, with a lady's zone. 
 Although 'twere that of Venus ; — but I love her. 
 As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. ; 
 
 i?o<Zo//?/t. And constantly? 
 
 Ulric. I think so ; for I love 
 Nought else. — But I have not the time to pause 
 Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
 We have to do ere long. Speed ! Speed ! good Rodoipp 
 
 Rodolph. On my return, however, I shall find 
 The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Sicgendorf ? 
 
 Ulric. Perhaps: my father wishes it, and sooth 
 'Tis no bad policy; this union with 
 The last bud of the rival-branch at once 
 Unites the future and destroys the past. 
 
 Rodolph. Adieu! 
 
 Ulric. Yet hold — we had better keep togetlier 
 Until the chase begins ; then draw thou oft". 
 And do as I have said. 
 
 Rodolph. I will. But to 
 Return — 'twas a most kind act in the Count, 
 Your father, to send up to K onigsbcrg 
 For this fair orphan of the Baron, and 
 To hail her as his daughter. 
 
 Ulric. Wondrous kind ! 
 Especially^as little kindness till 
 Then grew between them. 
 
 Rodolph. The late Baron died 
 Of a fever, did he not? 
 
 Ulric. How should I know? [thing s<rant,n 
 
 Rodolph. I have heard it whisper'd there was some 
 About his death — and even the place of it 
 Is scan^ely known. 
 
 Ulric. Some obscure village on 
 T'le Saxon or Silesian frontier, 
 
 Rodolph. He 
 Has left no testament — no farewell -words? 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 491 
 
 Ulric. I am neither confessor nor notary, 
 So cannot say. 
 Rodolph. Ah ! here's the lady Ida. 
 
 Enter Ida Strale.nhelv. 
 
 Ulric. You are early, my sweet cousin ! 
 I Ida. Not too early, 
 JDear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
 Why do you call me ' cousin ?" 
 I Ulric (smiling). Are we not so ? 
 I Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name ; methinks 
 lit sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 
 Our pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 
 
 Ulric (starting). Blood ! 
 
 Ida. Why does yours start from your cheeks ? 
 
 Ulric. Ay! doth it? 
 
 Ida. It doth — but no! it rushes like a torrent 
 Even to your brow again. 
 
 Ulric (recovering himself). And if it fled, 
 
 It only was because your presence sent it 
 
 Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet cousin! 
 
 Ida. "Cousin" again. 
 
 Ulric. Nay, then I'll call you sister. 
 
 Ida. I like that name still worse — would we had ne'er 
 Been aught of kindred ! 
 
 Ulric (gloomily). Would we never had ! 
 
 Ida. Oh Heaven! d^adiCdinyou wish that! 
 
 Ulric. Dearest Ida! 
 Did I not echo your own wish? 
 
 Ida. Yes, Ulric, 
 bat then I wish'd it not with such a glance, 
 And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
 Bister, or cousin, what you will, so that 
 I still to you am something. 
 
 Ulric. You shall be 
 \ll-all — 
 
 Ida. And you to me are so already; 
 5ut I can wait. 
 
 Ulric. Dear Ida ! 
 
 Ida. Call me Ida, 
 'Xour Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 
 fndeed I have none else left, since my poor father — 
 
 [She pauses, 
 
 Ulric. You have mine — you have me. 
 
 Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish 
 My father could but view our happiness, 
 {vVliich wants but this ! 
 
 Ulric. Indeed! 
 
 Ida. You would have loved him, 
 Se you ; for the brave ever love each other : 
 ■lis manner was a little cold, his spirit 
 Proud (as is birth's prerogative) ; but under 
 This grave exterior — would you had known each other! 
 3ad such as you been near him on his journey, 
 3e had not died without a friend to soothe 
 3is last and lonely moments. 
 
 Ulric. Who says that? 
 
 Ida. What? 
 
 Ulric. That he died alone. 
 
 Ida. The general rumour, 
 ^nd disappearance of his servants, who 
 
 Have ne'er return'd : that fever was most deadly 
 Which swept them all away. 
 
 Ulric. If they were near him. 
 He could not die neglected or alone. 
 
 Ida. Alas ! what is a menial to a death-bed. 
 When the dim eye rolls mainly round for what 
 It loves ? — they say he died of a fever. 
 
 Ulric. Say! 
 It was so. 
 
 Ida. I sometimes dream otherwise. 
 
 Ulric. All dreams are false. 
 
 Ida. And yet I see him as I see you. 
 
 Ulric. Where? 
 
 Ida. In sleep — I see him lie 
 Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
 Beside him. 
 
 Ulric. But you do not see his face? 
 
 Ida (looking at him). No ! oh, my God ! do you? 
 
 Ulric. Why do you ask? 
 
 Ida. Because you look as if you saw a murderer ! 
 
 Ulric (agitatedly). Ida, this is mere childishness ; yout 
 Infects me, to my shame; but as all feelings [weaknes 
 Of yours are common to me, it affects me. 
 Prithee, sweet child, change — 
 
 Ida. Child, indeed! I have 
 Full fifteen summers ! [a bngie sounds. 
 
 Rodolph. Hark, my Lord, (he bugle! 
 
 Ida (peevishly to Rodolph). Why need you tell him that ? 
 Can he not hear it 
 Without your echo? 
 
 Rodolph. Pardon me, fair Baroness ! 
 
 Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you earn it 
 By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
 Count Ulric from the chase to-day. 
 
 Rodolph. You will not, 
 Lady, need aid of mine. 
 
 Ulric. I must not now forego it. 
 
 Ida. But you shall ! 
 
 Ulric. Shall! ' 
 
 Ida. Yes, or be 
 No true kniglit. — Come, dear Ulric ! yield to me 
 In this, for this one day ; the day looks heavy, 
 And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 
 
 Ulric. You jest. 
 
 Ida. Indeed I do not : ask of Rodolph. 
 
 Rodolph. Truly, 
 My Lord, within this quarter of an hour 
 You have changed more than I e'er saw you change 
 In years. 
 
 Ulric. 'Tis nothing ; but if 'twere, the air 
 Would soon restore me. I'm the true chameleon, 
 And live but on the atmosphere ; your feasts 
 In castle-halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
 My spirit — I'm a forester and breather 
 Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all 
 The eagle loves. 
 
 Ida. Except his prey, I hope. 
 
 Ulric. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 
 Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies home. 
 
 Ida. And will you not stay, Jlien? You shall not go! 
 Come ! I will sing to you. 
 
492 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Ulric. Ida, you scarcely 
 Will make a soldier's wife. 
 
 Ida. I do not wish 
 To be so ; for I trust these wars are over, 
 And you will live in peace on your domains. 
 
 Enter Wernbb as Count Siegendorf. 
 
 Ulric. My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 
 With such brief greeting. — You have lieard our bugle; 
 The vassals wait. 
 
 Siegend. So let them — you forget 
 To-morrow is the appointed festival 
 In Prague, for peace restored. You are apt to follow 
 The chase with such an ardour as will scarce 
 Permit you to return to-day, or if 
 Return'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
 Tl»e nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 
 
 Vlric. You, Count, 
 Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
 A lover of these pageantries. 
 
 Siet/end. No, Ulric; 
 It were not well that you alone of all 
 Our young nobility — 
 
 Ida, And far the noblest 
 In aspect and demeanour. 
 
 Siegend. (to Ida) True, dear child. 
 Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel. — 
 But, Ulric, recollect too our position, 
 So lately re-instated in our honours. 
 Believe me, 'twould be mark'd in any house. 
 But most in ours, that one should be found wanting 
 At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 
 Which gave us back our own, in the same moment 
 It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 
 On us for thanksgiving; first, for our country, 
 And next, that we are here to share its blessings. 
 
 Ulric (aside). Devout, too ! Well, sir, I obey at once. 
 
 (Then aloud to a servant.) 
 
 Ludwig, dismiss the train without! [Exit Ludwiij. 
 
 Ida, And so 
 You yield at once to him what I for hours 
 Might supplicate in vain. 
 
 Siegend. (smiling) You are not jealous 
 Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel! who 
 Would sanction disobedience against all 
 Except thyself? But fear not, thou shalt rule him 
 Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 
 
 Ida. But I should like to govern now, 
 
 Siegend. You shall. 
 Your harp; which by the way awaits you with 
 The Countess in her chamber. She complains 
 That you are a sad truant to your music : 
 She attends you. 
 
 Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen ! 
 Ulric, you'll come and hear me? 
 
 Ulric. By and by. 
 
 Ida. Be sure I'll sound it better than your bugles ; 
 Then pray you be as punctual to its notes : 
 I'll play you King Gustavus' march. 
 
 Ulric. And why not old Tilly's ? 
 
 Ida. Not that monster's ! I should think 
 
 My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with musn 
 Could aught oi his sound on it; but come quickly; 
 Your mother will be eager to receive you. [Exit \u-^ 
 
 Siegend. Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 
 
 Ulric. My time's your vassal. — (Aside to Rodoiii,. 
 
 Rodolph, hence! and cU 
 As I directed ; and by his best speed 
 And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 
 
 Rodolph. Count Siegendorf, command you aught? ] 
 Upon a journey past the frontier. [am bounc 
 
 Siegend. (starts). Ah ! — 
 Where ? on what frontier ? 
 
 Rodolph. The Silesian, on 
 My way — (aside to uiric.) Wliere shall I say ? 
 
 Ulric (aside to Rodoipii.) To Hamburgh. 
 
 (Aside toliimself) Tha 
 
 Word will I think put a firm padlock on 
 
 His further inquisition. 
 
 Rodolph. Count, to Hamburgh. [there, noi 
 
 Siegend. (agitated). Hamburgh ! No, I have nought to d( 
 
 Am aught connected with that city. Then 
 
 God speed you! 
 Rodolph, Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf! 
 
 [Exit Rodo.'ph 
 
 Siegend. Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is 
 One of those strange companions, whom I fain 
 Would reason with you on. 
 
 Ulric. My lord, he is 
 Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
 In Saxony. 
 
 Siegend. 1 talk not of his birth, 
 But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 
 
 Ulric. So they will do of most men. Even the monarcl 
 Is not fenced from his oJiamberlain's slander, or 
 Tlie sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 
 Great and ungrateful. 
 
 Siegend. If I must be plain. 
 The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodolph; 
 They say he is leagued with the "black bands" who still 
 Ravage the frontier. 
 
 Ulric. And will you believe 
 The world? 
 
 Siegend. In this case — yes. 
 
 Ulric. In ani/ case, 
 I thought you knew it better than to take 
 An accusation for a sentence. 
 
 Siegend, Son! 
 I understand you : you refer to — but 
 My destiny has so involved about me 
 Her spider-web, that I can only Hutter 
 Like the poor fiy, but break it not. Take heed, 
 Ulric; you have seen to what the passions led me; 
 Twenty long years of misery and famine 
 Quench'd them not — ■ twenty thousand more, perchance, 
 Hereafter (or even here in moments which 
 Might date for years, did Anguish make the dial) 
 May not obliterate or expiate 
 The madness and dishonour of an instant. 
 Ulric, be warn'd b}' a father! — I was not 
 By mine, and yon behold me ! 
 
 Ulric. I behold 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 493 
 
 The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
 Lord of a prince's appanage, and lionour'd 
 By tliose he rules, and those he ranks with. 
 
 Siegend. Ah ! 
 Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 
 For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ? 
 Ml hearts but one may beat in kindness for me — 
 Bat if my son's is cold ! — 
 
 Ulric. Who dare say that? 
 I Siegend. None else but I, who see it — feel it — keener 
 JTban would your adversary, who dared say so, 
 jfour sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 
 IThe wound. 
 
 Ulric. You err. My nature is not given 
 Po outward fondling ; how should it be so, 
 kfter twelve years' divorcement from my parents ? 
 
 Siegend. And did not / too pass those twelve torn years 
 D a like absence ? But 'tis vain to urge you — 
 ifature was never oall'd back by remonstrance, 
 jet's change the theme. I wish you to consider 
 ["hat these young violent nobles of high name, 
 lut dark deeds (ay, the darkest, if all rumour 
 leports be true), with whom thou consortest, 
 N\\\ lead thee — 
 Ulric (impatiently). I'll be led by no man. 
 Siegend. Nor 
 (e leader of such, I would hope: at once 
 'o wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
 ind haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
 •hat thou shouldst wed tlie lady Ida — more, 
 A thou appearst to love her. 
 Ulric. I have said 
 will obey your orders, were they to 
 Jnite with Hecate — can a son say more? 
 
 Siegend. He says too much in saying this. It is not 
 'he nature of thine age, nor of tiiy blood. 
 Tor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 
 Ir act so carelessly, in that which is 
 'he bloom or blight of all men's happiness, 
 For Glory's pillow is but restless if 
 lOve lay not down his cheek there) : some strong bias, 
 ome master-fiend is in thy service to 
 lisrule the mortal who believes him slave, 
 nd makes his every thought subservient ; else 
 hou'dst say at once, "I love young Ida, and 
 ViW wed her;" or, "I love her not,and all 
 he powers of earth shall never make me." — So 
 i^ould I have answer'd. 
 Ulric. Sir, gou wed for love. 
 Siegend. I did, and it has been my only refuge 
 1 many miseries. 
 Ulric. Which miseries 
 ad never been but for this love-match. 
 Siegend. Still 
 
 gainst your age and nature! Who at twenty 
 er answer'd thus till now? 
 Ulric. Did you not warn me 
 gainst your own example ? 
 Siegend. Boyish sophist! 
 I a word, do you love, or love not, Ida? 
 
 Ulric. What matters it, if I am ready to 
 Obey you in espousing her? 
 
 Siegend. As far 
 As yoij feel, nothing ; but all life for her. 
 She's young — all-beautiful — adores you — is 
 Endow'd with qualities to give happiness. 
 Such as rounds common life into a dream 
 Of something which your poets cannot paint, 
 And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
 For which philosophy might barter wisdom ; 
 And giving so much happiness, deserves 
 A little in return. I would not have her 
 Break her heart for a man who has none to break. 
 Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
 Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale, 
 According to the Orient-tale. She is — 
 
 Ulric. The daughter of dead Stralenheim, your foe; 
 I'll wed her, ne'ertheless ; though, to say truth, 
 Just now I am not violently transported 
 In favour of such unions. 
 
 Siegend. But she loves you. 
 
 Ulric. And I love her, and therefore would think tiviee. 
 
 Siege/id. Alas ! Love never did so. 
 
 Ulric. Then 'tis time 
 He should" begin, and take the bandage from 
 His eyes, and look before he leaps: till now 
 He hath ta'eu a jump i' the dark. 
 
 Siegend. But you »;onseut ? 
 
 Ulric. I did and do. 
 
 Siegend. Then fix the day. 
 
 Ulric. 'Tis usual. 
 And, certes, courteous, to leave that to the lady. 
 
 Siegend. /will engage for Iter. 
 
 Ulric. So will not / 
 For any woman ; and as w hat I fix, 
 I fain would see unshaken, whea she gives 
 Her answer, I'll give mine. 
 
 Siegend. But 'tis your office 
 To woo. 
 
 Ulric. Count, 'tis a marriage of your making. 
 So be it of your wooing ; but, to please you, 
 I will now pay my duty to my mother, 
 With whom, you know, tlie lady Ida is. — 
 What would you have? You have forbid my stirring 
 For manly sports beyond the castle-walls. 
 And I obey ; you bid me turn a chamberer. 
 To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting-needles. 
 And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles, 
 And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
 The eyes of feminine, as though they were 
 The stars receding early to our wish 
 Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle — 
 What can a son or man do more? [Exit Ulric. 
 
 Siegend. (solus). Too much ! — 
 Too much of duty and too little love ! 
 He pays me in the coin he owes me not: 
 For such hath been my wayward fate, I could not 
 Fullil a parent's duties by his side 
 Till now; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 
 Ne'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without tears 
 
494 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT 1 
 
 To see my child again, and now I have found Jiim ! 
 But how ! obedient, but with coldness; duteous 
 In my sight, but with carelessness; mysterious — 
 Abstracted — distant — much given to long absence, 
 And where — none know — in league with the most 
 
 riotous 
 Of our young nobles; though, to do him justice, 
 He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures ; 
 Yet there's some tie between them which I cannot 
 Unravel. They look up to him — consult him — 
 Throng round him as a leader : but with me 
 He hath no confidence ! Ah ! can I hope it 
 After — what ! doth my father's curse descend 
 Even to my child? Or is the Hungarian near 
 To shed more blood, or — oh! if it should be! 
 Spirit of Stralenheim, dost tJiou w alk these walls 
 To wither him and his — who, though they slew not, 
 Unlatch'd the door of death for thee? 'Twas not 
 Our fault, nor is our sin : thou wert our foe. 
 And yet I spared thee when my own destruction 
 Slept with thee, to awake with thine awakening, 
 And only took — accursed gold ! thou liest 
 Like poison in my hands; I dare not use thee, 
 Nor part from thee; thou earnest in such a guise, 
 Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
 Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee, 
 Thou villanous gold! and thy dead master's doom, 
 Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
 As if he were my brother ! I have ta'eu 
 His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
 Who will be mine. 
 
 Enter an Attendant, 
 
 Attendant. The Abbot, if it please 
 Your Excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
 
 Upon you. 
 
 [Exit Attendant. 
 
 Enter the Prior albert. 
 
 Prior Albert. Peace be with these walls, and all 
 Within them! 
 
 Siegend. Welcome, welcome, holy Father! 
 And may thy prayer be heard ! — all men have need 
 Of such, and I — 
 
 Prior Albert. Have the first claim to all 
 The prayers of our community. Our convent. 
 Erected by your ancestors, is still 
 Protected by their children. 
 
 Siegend. Yes, good Father; 
 Continue daily orisons for us 
 In these dim days of heresies and blood. 
 Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
 Gone home. 
 
 Prior Albert. To the endless home of unbelievers. 
 Where there is everlasting wail and woe, 
 Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
 Eternal, and the worm which dieth not! [one, 
 
 Siegend. True, Father : and to avert those pangs from 
 Who, though of our most faultless, holy church, 
 Yet died without its last and dearest offices. 
 Which smoothe the soul through purgatorial pains. 
 
 I have to offer humbly this donation 
 In masses for his spirit. 
 
 [Siegendorf offeis tlie gold whicli be had taken from Straleiih. ii 
 
 Prior Albert. Count, if I 
 Receive it, 'tis because I know too well 
 Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
 The largess shall be only dealt in alms, 
 And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
 Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours. 
 Which has of old endow'd it; but to you 
 And yours in all meet things 'tis fit we obey. 
 For whom shall mass be said ? 
 
 Siegend. (faltering). For — for — the dead. 
 
 Prior Albert. His name? 
 
 Siegend. 'Tis from a soul, and not a name, 
 I would avert perdition. 
 
 Prior Albert. I meant not 
 To pry into your secret. We will pray 
 For one unknown, the same as for the proudest. [g< mi 
 
 Siegend. Secret! I have none; but. Father, hewlio 
 Might have one; or, in short, he did bequeath — 
 No, not bequeath — but I bestow this sum 
 For pious purposes. 
 
 Prior Albert. A proper deed 
 In the behalf of our departed friends. [fo 
 
 Siegend. But he, who's gone, was not my friend, bi 
 The deadliest and the staunchest. 
 
 Prior Albert. Better still ! 
 To employ our means to obtain heaven for the souls 
 Of our dead enemies, is worthy those 
 Who can forgive them living. 
 
 Siegend. But I did not 
 Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last, 
 As he did me. I do not love him now, 
 But — 
 
 Prior Albert. Best of all! for this is pure religion ! 
 You fain would rescue him you hate from hell — 
 An evangelical compassion! — with 
 Your own gold too ! 
 
 Siegend. Father, 'tis not my gold. 
 
 Prior Albert. Whose then ? you said it was no Icgac; 
 
 Siegend. No matter whose — of this be sure that he 
 Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
 In that which it may purchase from your altars: 
 'Tis yours, or theirs. 
 
 Prior Albert. Is there no blood upon it? 
 
 Siegend. No : but there's worse than blood — eterni 
 shame ! 
 
 Prior Albert. Did he who own'd it die in his bed? 
 
 Siegend. Alas ! he did. 
 
 Prior Albert. Son! you relapse into revenge, 
 If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 
 
 Siegend. His death was fathomlessly deep in blood. 
 
 Prior Albert, You said he died in his bed, not battle. 
 
 Siegend. He 
 Died, I scarce know — but — he was stabb'd i' the dark^ 
 And now you have it — perish'd on his pillow 
 By a cut-throat! — ay ! - you may look upon me! '•' 
 /amno< theman. I'll meet your eye on that point, 
 As I can one day God's. ' 
 
ACT V. WERNER. 
 
 Prior Albert. Nor did he die 
 By means, or men, or instrument of yours? 
 
 Siegtmd. No! by the God who sees and strikes ! 
 
 Prior Albert. Nor know you 
 Who slew him? 
 
 Siegend. I could only guess at one, 
 And he to me a stranger, unconnected, 
 As unemploy'd. Except by one day's knowledge, 
 I never saw the man who was suspected. 
 
 Prior Albert. Then you are free from guilt. 
 
 Siegend. (eagerly) Oil ! ami? — say ! 
 
 Prior Albert. You have said so, and know best. 
 
 Siegend. Father! I have spoken 
 The truth, and nought but truth, if no^ the whole: 
 Yet say I am not guilty ! for the blood 
 Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it, 
 Though by the Power who abhorreth human blouJ, 
 [ did not! — nay, once spared it, when I might 
 ,j( And could — ay, perhaps, should (if our self-safety 
 Be e'er excusable in such defences 
 Against the attacks of over-potent foes) ; 
 
 495 
 
 But pray for him, for me. and all my house ; 
 
 For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
 
 I know not why, a like remorse is on me, 
 
 As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me, 
 
 Father ! I have pray'd myself in vain. 
 
 Prior Albert. I will. 
 Be comforted ! You are innocent, and should 
 Be calm as innocence. 
 
 Siegend. But calmness is not 
 Always the attribute of innocence. 
 I feel it is not. 
 
 Prior Albert. But it will be so, 
 When the mind gathers up its truth within it. 
 Remember the great festival to-morrow, 
 In which you rank amidst our chiefest nobles, 
 As well as your brave son; and smoothe your aspect; 
 Nor in the general orison of thanks 
 For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shed not rise 
 A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
 Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
 Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty. [Excuut. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 m 
 
 L large and magnificent Gothic Hall in tlie Castle of Siegendorf, deco- 
 rated with Trophies, Banuer9,and Arms of that Family. 
 
 Enter Arnhkim and Meister, Attendants of Count Siegenuorf. 
 
 Arnh. Be quick! the Count will soon return: the 
 ilready are at the portal. Have you sent [ladies 
 
 'he messengers in search of him he seeks for? 
 
 Meister. I have, in all directions, over Prague, 
 lS far as the man's dress and figure could 
 {y your description track him. The devil take 
 'hese revels and processions ! All tlie pleasure 
 If such there be) must fall to the spectators. 
 m sure none doth to us who make the show. 
 
 Arnh. Go to! my Lady Countess comes. 
 
 Meister. I'd rather 
 
 lide a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
 'ban follf)w in the train of a great man 
 a these dull pageantries. 
 
 Arnh. Begone ! and rail 
 Vithin. 
 
 [Exennt. 
 
 Enter the Cootkss Josephine Siegendorf and Ida Stralenheim. 
 
 Josephine. Well, Heaven be praised, the show is over! 
 
 Ida. How can you say so ! Never have I dreamt 
 'f aught so beautiful. Tiie flowers, the boughs, 
 he banners, and the nobles, and the knights, 
 he gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces, 
 he coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
 treaming through the stain'd windows ; even the tombs. 
 
 Which look'd so calm, and the celestial hymns, 
 Which seem'd as if they rather came front heaven 
 Than mounted there ; the bursting organ's peal 
 Rolling on high like an harmonious thunder; 
 The white robes, and the lifted eyes ; the world 
 At peace! and all at peace with one another! 
 
 Oh, my sweet mother! [Embracing osephU-. 
 
 Josephine. My beloved child ! 
 For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly. 
 
 Ida. Oh! 
 I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 
 
 Josephine. It does, my love; and never may it tlirob 
 With aught more bitter! 
 
 Ida. Never shall it do so! 
 How should it? What should make us grieve? I hate 
 To hear of sorrow: how can we be sad. 
 Who love each other so entirely? You, 
 The Count, and Ulric, and your daughter, Ida. 
 
 Josephine. Poor child! 
 
 Ida. Do you pity me ? 
 
 Josephine. No ; I but envy , 
 And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
 Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
 More general than another. 
 
 Ida. I'll not hear 
 A word against a world which still contains 
 You and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
 Aught like him? How he towcr'd amongst them all! 
 How all eyes follow'd him ! The flowers fell faster — 
 Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought, 
 
496 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Than before all the rest, and where he trod 
 I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 
 Will wither. 
 
 Josephine. You will spoil him, little flatterer, 
 If he should hear you. 
 
 Ida. But he never will. 
 I dare not say so much to him — I fear him, 
 
 Josephine. Why so ? he loves you well. 
 
 Ida. But I can never 
 Shape my thoug^hts of Wim into words to him. 
 Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 
 
 Josephine. How so? 
 
 Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
 Yet he says nothing. 
 
 Josephine. It is nothing: all men, 
 Especially in these dark troublous times. 
 Have much to think of. 
 
 Ida. But I cannot think 
 Of aught save him. 
 
 Josephine. Yet there are other men, 
 In the world's eye, as goodly. There's, for instance, 
 The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once withdrew 
 His eyes from yours to-day. 
 
 Ida. I did not see him. 
 But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
 When all knelt, and I wept ? and yet methought 
 Through my fast tears, though they were thick and warm, 
 I saw him smiling on me. 
 
 Josephine. I could not 
 See aught save heaven, to which my eyes were raised 
 Together with the people's. 
 
 Ida. I thought too 
 Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 
 
 Josephine. Come, 
 Let us retire; they will be here anon 
 Expectant of the banquet We will lay 
 Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains. 
 
 Ida. And, above all, these stiif and heavy jewels, 
 Whicli make my head and heart ache, as both throb 
 Eeneutli their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
 Dear mother, I am with you. [Exeun* 
 
 i;ut€r Cot'NT SiEOfi.NBOBF, iu full dress, from the solemuity, and 
 
 LUDWIG. 
 
 Siegend. Is he not found? 
 
 Ludwig. Strict search is making every where ; and if 
 The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 
 
 Siegend. Where's Ulric? 
 
 Ludwig. He rode round the other way 
 With some young nobles ; but he left them soon ; 
 And, if I err not, not a minute since 
 I lieard his Excellency, with his train. 
 Gallop o'er the west drawbridge. 
 
 Enter Ulrjc, splendidly dressed. 
 
 Siegend. (to Ludwig) See they cease not 
 Their quest of him I have described. (Exit Ludwig.) 
 
 Oh! Ulric, 
 How have I long'd for thee! 
 
 Vlric. Your wish is granted — 
 Behold me! 
 
 Siegend. I have seen the murderer. 
 
 Ulric. Whom? Where? 
 
 Siegend. The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim. 
 
 Ulric. You dream. 
 
 Siegend. I live ! and as I live, I saw him — 
 Heard him ! He dared to utter even my name. 
 
 Ulric. What name? 
 
 Siegend. Werner! 'twas mme. 
 
 Ulric. It must be so 
 No more: forget it. 
 
 Siegend. Never! never! all 
 My destinies were woven in that name : 
 It will not be engraved upon my tomb, 
 But it may lead me there. 
 
 Ulric. To the point — the Hungarian ? 
 
 Siegend. Listen ! — The church was throng'd ; 1 
 hymn was raised ; 
 '•Te Deum" peal'd from nations, ratlier than 
 From choirs, in one great cry of "God be praised" 
 For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread years, 
 Eaeh bloodier than the former : I arose, 
 With all the nobles, and as I look'd down 
 Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 
 Our banner'd and escutcheon'd gallery, I 
 Saw, like a flash of lightning, (for I saw 
 A moment, and no more) what struck me sightless 
 To all else — the Hungarian's face ! I grew 
 Sick ; and when I recover'd from the mist 
 Which curl'd about my senses, and again 
 Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 
 Was over, and we march'd back in procession. 
 
 Ulric. Continue. 
 
 Siegend. When we reach'd the Muldau's bridge. 
 The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
 Barks mann'd with revellers in their best garbs. 
 Which shot along the glancing tide below. 
 The decorated street, the long array, 
 The clashing music, and the thundering 
 Of far artillery, which seem'd to bid 
 A long and loud farewell to its great doings. 
 The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round. 
 The roar of rushing tliousands, all — all could not 
 Chase this man from my mind , although my senses 
 No longer held him palpable. 
 
 Ulric. You saw him 
 No more, then ? 
 
 Siegend, I look'd, as a dying soldier 
 Looks at a draught of water, for this man ; 
 But still I saw him not; but in his stead — 
 
 Ulric. What in his stead? 
 
 Siegend. My eye for ever fell 
 Upon your dancing crest ; the loftiest, 
 As on the loftiest and the loveliest head. 
 It rose the highest of the stream of plumes, 
 Which overflow'd the glittering streets of Prague, 
 
 Ulric. What's this to the Hungarian? 
 
 Siegend. Much ; for I 
 Had almost then forgot him in my son, 
 When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
 The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
 Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice, 
 
ACT V. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
 
 Than the late cannon's volume, this word — " Werner!" 
 
 Ulric. Uttered by — 
 
 Siegend. Him ! I turn'd — and saw — and fell. 
 
 Ulric. And wherefore? Were you seen ? 
 
 Siegend. The officious care 
 3f those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 
 seeing' my faiutness, ignorant of the cause ; 
 You, too, were too remote in the procession 
 ^The old nobles being divided from their children) 
 To aid me. 
 
 Ulric. But I'll aid you now. 
 
 Siegend. In what? [found, 
 
 Ulric. In searching for this man, or — When he's 
 jVhat shall we do with him? 
 y\ Siegend. I know not tliat. 
 
 Ulric. Then wherefore seek? 
 
 Siegend. Because I cannot rest 
 'ill he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 
 knd ours, seem intertwisted ; nor can be 
 Jnravell'd, till — 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Attendant. A stranger, to wait on 
 'our Excellency. 
 Siegend. Who? 
 Attendant. He gave no name. 
 Siegend. Admit him, ne'ertheless. 
 
 [The Attendant introduces Gabor, and afterwards exit. 
 
 h! 
 
 Gabor. 'Tis, then, Werner ! [name; and gou? 
 
 Siegend. (iiaughtiiy). The same you knew, Sir, by that 
 Gabor (looking round). I recognise you both; father 
 
 and son, 
 
 : seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours, 
 ave lately been in search of me : I am here. 
 Siegend. I have souglit you, and have found you ; you 
 
 are cliarged 
 iTour own heart may inform you why) with such 
 
 crime as — [He pauses. 
 
 Gabor. Give it utterance, and then 
 II meet the consequences. 
 Siegend. You shall do so — 
 nless — 
 
 Gabor, First, who accuses me? 
 Siegend. All things, 
 not all men : the universal rumour — 
 y own presence on the spot — the place — the time — 
 nd every speck of circumstance unite 
 fix the blot on you. 
 Gabor. And on me onlg ? 
 iuse ere you answer: Is no other name, 
 ive mine, stain'd in this business ? 
 Siegend. Trifling villain! 
 
 ho play'st with thine own guilt! Of all that breathe 
 lou best dost know the innocence of him 
 aiiist whom thy breath would blow thy bloody slander. 
 it I will talk no further with a wretch, 
 irther than justice asks. Answer at once, 
 ul without quibbling, to my charge. 
 Gabor. 'Tis false! 
 
 Siegend. Who says so ? 
 
 Gabor. I. 
 
 Siegend. And how disprove it ? 
 
 Gabor. By 
 The presence of the murderer. 
 
 Siegend. Name him! 
 
 Gabor, He 
 May have more names than one. Your lordship had so 
 Once on a time. 
 
 Siegend. If you mean me, I dare 
 Your utmost. 
 
 Gabor. You may do so, and in safety; 
 I know the assassin. 
 
 Siegend. Where is he ? 
 
 Gabor (pointing to Ulric). Beside you ! 
 
 [Ulric rustles forward to attack Gabor; Siegendorf interposes. 
 
 Siegend. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be slain ; 
 These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 
 
 [He turns to Ulric. 
 Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
 Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
 I could not deem it earth-born: but, be calm; 
 It will refute itself. But touch him not. 
 
 [Ulric endeavours to compose himself. 
 
 Gabor, Look at him, Count, and then hear me. 
 
 Siegend. (first to Gabor, and then looking at Ulric) I hear thee. 
 
 My God ! you look — 
 
 Ulric. How ? 
 
 Siegend. As on that dread night 
 When we met in the garden . 
 
 Ulric (composes himself). It is nothing. 
 
 Gabor. Count, you are bound to hear me. I came hither 
 Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt down 
 Amidst tlie people in the church, I dream'd not 
 To find the beggar'd Werner in the seat 
 Of senators and princes ; but you have call'd me, 
 And we have met. 
 
 Siegend. Go on. Sir. 
 
 Gabor. Ere I do so, 
 Allow me to inquire who profited 
 By Stralenheim's death? Was't I — as poor as ever; 
 And poorer by suspicion on my name. 
 The baron lost in that last outrage neither 
 Jewels nor gold ; his life alone was sought — 
 A life which stood between the claims of others 
 To honours and estates, scarce less than princely. 
 
 Siegend. These hints, as vague as vain^ attach no less 
 To me than to ray son. 
 
 Gabor. I can't help that. 
 But let the consequence alight on him 
 Who feels himself the guilty one amongst us. 
 I speak to you, Count Siegendorf, because 
 I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
 But ere I can proceed — Dare you protect me ? 
 Dare you command me? 
 
 [Siegendorf first looks at the Hungarian, and then at Ulrif, who 
 has unbuckled his sabre and is drawing lines with it on the floor 
 — still in its sheath. 
 
 Ulric (looks at his father and says) 
 
 Let the man go on ! [his sabre. 
 
 Gabor. I am unarm'd, Count — bid your son lay down 
 
 32 
 
498 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Ulnc (offers it to him contemptuously)* 
 
 Take it. 
 
 Gahor. No, Sir, 'tis enougli 
 That we are both unarm'd — I would not choose 
 To wear a steel which may be stain'd with more 
 Blood tlian came there in battle. 
 
 Ulric (casts the sabre from him in contempt). It — Or SOmC 
 
 Such other weapon, in my hands — spared yours 
 Once, wlien disarm'd and at my mercy. 
 
 Gabor. True — 
 I have not forgotten it : you spared me for 
 Your own especial purpose — to sustain 
 An ignominy not my own. 
 
 Ulric. Proceed. 
 The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 
 But is it of my father to hear further? [To SiegenUorf. 
 
 Siegend. (takes his son by the hand). 
 
 My son ! 1 know mine own innoccnee — and doubt not 
 Of yours — but I have promised this man patience ; 
 Let him continue. 
 
 Gahor, I will not detain you 
 By speaking of myself much ; I began 
 Life early — and am what the world has made me. 
 At Frankfort on the Oder, where I pass'd 
 A winter in obscurity, it was 
 My chance at several places of resort 
 (Which I frequented sometimes, but not often) 
 To hear related a strange circumstance. 
 In February last. A martial force, 
 Sent by the state, had, after strong resistance. 
 Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
 Marauders from the hostile camp. — They proved, 
 However, not to be so — but banditti. 
 Whom either accident or enterprise 
 Had carried from their usual haunt — the forests 
 Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 
 Many amongst them were reported of 
 High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 
 At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers. 
 And pleacedbeneaththecivil jurisdiction 
 Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate, 
 I know no more. 
 
 Siegend. And what is this to Ulric? 
 
 Gabor. Amongst them there was said to be one man 
 Of wonderful endowments: — birth and fortune, 
 Youth, strengtli, and beauty, almost superhuman. 
 And courage as unrivalled, were proclaim'd 
 His by the public rumour; and his sway 
 Not only over his associates, but 
 His judges, was attributed to witchcraft, 
 Such was his influence: — I have no great faith 
 In any magic save that of the mine — 
 I therefore deem'd him wealthy. — But my soul 
 Was roused with various feelings to seek out 
 This prodigy, if only to behold him. 
 
 Siegend. And did you so? 
 
 Gahor. You'll hear. Chance favour'd me : 
 A popular affray in the public square 
 Drew crowds together — it was one of those 
 Occasions, where men's souls look out of them. 
 And show them as they are — even in their faces : 
 
 The moment my eye met his — I exclaim'd, 
 "This is the man !" though he was then, as since, 
 With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
 I had not err'd, and watoh'd him long and nearly : 
 I noted down his form — his gesture — features, 
 Stature and bearing — and amidst them all, 
 'Midst every natural and acquiied distinction, 
 I could discern, methonght, the assassin's eye 
 And gladiator's heart. 
 
 Ulric (smiling). The tale sounds well. 
 
 Gabor. And may sound better. — He appear'd to m 
 One of those beings to whom Fortune bends 
 As she doth to the daring — and on whom 
 The fates of others oft depend; besides, 
 An indescribable sensation drew me 
 Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
 Was to be fixed by him. — There I was wrong. 
 
 Siegend. And may not be right now. 
 
 Gabor. I follow'd him. 
 Solicited his notice — and obtain'd it — 
 Though not his friendship: — it was his intention 
 To leave the city privately — we left it 
 Together — and together we arrived 
 In the poor town where Werner was conceal'd, 
 , And Stralenheim was succour'd — Now we are on 
 The verge — dare you hear further ? 
 
 Siegend. I must do so — 
 Or I have heard too much. 
 
 Gahor. I saw in you 
 A man above his station — and if not 
 So high, as now I find you, in my then 
 Conceptions — 'twas that I had rarely seen 
 Men such as you appear'd in heiglit of mind. 
 In the most high of worldly rank; you were 
 Poor — even to all save rags — I would have shared 
 My purse, though slender, with you — you refused it. 
 
 Siegend. Dotli my refusal make a debt to you, 
 That thus you urge it? 
 
 Gahor. StiU you owe me something, 
 Though not for that — and I owed you my safety, 
 At least my seeming safety — when the slaves 
 Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
 That /had robb'd him. 
 
 Siegend. 1 conceal'd you — I, 
 Whom, and whose house^ you arraign, reviving viperl 
 
 Gahor. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
 You, Count! have made yourself accuser — judge — 
 Your hall's my court, your heart is my tribunal. 
 Be just, and I'll be merciful. 
 
 Siegend. You merciful ! 
 You! base calumniator! 
 
 Gahor. I. 'Twill rest 
 With me at last to be so. You conceal'd me - - 
 In secret passages known to yourself. 
 You said, and to none else. At dead of night. 
 Weary with watdiing in the dark, and dubious 
 Of tracing back my way — I saw a glimmer 
 Through distant crannies of a twinkling light. ' 
 
 I follow'd it, and reach'd a door — a secret 
 Portal — which opeji'd to the chamber, where, 
 With cautious hand and slow, having first undone - 
 
kCT V. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 499 
 
 Is much as made a crevice of the fastening-, 
 look'd through, and beheld a purple bed, 
 Ind on it Stralenheim ! — 
 
 Sief/end. Asleep! And yet 
 if ou slew him ! - Wretch ! 
 
 Gabor. He was already slain, 
 Lnd bleeding- like a sacrifice. My own 
 Jlood became ice. 
 
 Siegend. But he was all alone! 
 fou saw none else? You did not see the — 
 
 [He pauses from agitation. 
 
 Gabor. No! 
 3i?, whom you dare not name — nor even I 
 scarce dare to recollect — was not then in 
 'he chamber. 
 
 Siegend.ixoViric). Then, my boy! thou art guiltless still — 
 i'hou bad'st me say /was so once — Oh ! now 
 )o thou as much ! 
 
 Gabor. Be patient ! I can not 
 Eccede now, though it shake the very walls 
 Vhich frown above us. You remember, or 
 f not, your son does, — that the locks were changed 
 Jeneath Jiis chief inspection — on the morn 
 Vhich led to this same night; how he had enter'd, 
 le best knows — but within an antechamber, 
 'he door of which was half ajar — I saw 
 L man who wash'd his bloody hands, and oft 
 V^ith stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
 'he bleeding body — but it moved no more. 
 
 Siegend. Oh! God of Fathers! 
 
 Gabor. I beheld his features 
 lS I sec yours — but yours they were not, though 
 Lesembling them — behold them in Count Ulric's ! 
 distinct — as I beheld them — though the expression 
 s not now what it then was ; — but it was so 
 Vlien I first charged him with the crime : — so lately. 
 
 Siegend. This is so - 
 
 Gabor (interrupting iiim). Nay — but hear me to the end ! 
 hw you must do so. — I conceived myself 
 tetray'd by you and him (for now I saw 
 'here was some tie between you) into this 
 'retended den of refuge, to become 
 'he victim of your guilt; and my first thought 
 Vas vengeance: but, though arm'd with a short poignard 
 Having left my sword without)! was no match 
 'or him at any time, as had been proved 
 'hat morning — either in address or force, 
 turn'd, and fled — i' the dark: chance, rather than 
 kill, made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
 iid thence the chamber where you slept — if I 
 lad found you waking. Heaven alone can tell 
 Vhat vengeance and suspicion might have prompted ; 
 Jut ne'er slept Guilt as Werner slept that night. 
 
 Siegend. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such brief 
 he stars had not gone down when I awoke — [sleep — 
 Vhy didst thou spare me? I dreamt of my father — 
 .nd now my dream is out ! 
 
 Gabor. 'Tis not my fault, 
 'I liave read it. — Well ! I fled and hid me — 
 !hance led me here after so many moons — 
 nd show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf ! 
 
 Werner, whom I had sought inliuts in vain, 
 Inhabited the palace of a Sovereign! 
 You sought me, and have found me — now you know 
 My secret, and may weigh its worth. 
 
 Siegend. (after a pause). Indeed ! 
 
 Gabor. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
 Your meditation? 
 
 Siegend. Neither — I was weighing 
 The value of your secret. 
 
 Gabor. You shall know it 
 At once — when you were poor, and I, though poor, 
 Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
 As might have envied mine, I ofler'd you 
 My purse — you would not share it: — I'll be franker 
 With you; you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 
 The Imperial powers — You understand me? 
 
 Siegend. Yes. — 
 
 Gabor. Not quite. You think me venal, and scarce true: 
 'Tis no less true, however, that my fortunes 
 Have made me both at present; you shall aid me: 
 I would have aided you — and also have 
 Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
 Yosrs and your son's. Weigh well what I have said. 
 
 Siegend. Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
 Deliberation? 
 
 Gabor (casts his eyes on Ulric, who is leaning against a pillar). If I 
 
 should do so ? 
 Siegend. I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw into 
 
 This tower. [Opens a turret-door. 
 
 Gabor (hesitatingly). This is the second safe asylum 
 You have ofler'd me. 
 
 Siegend. And was not the first so ? 
 
 Gabor. I know not that even now — but will approve 
 The second. I have still a further shield. — 
 I did not enter Prague alone — and should I 
 Be put to rest w ith Stralenheim — there are 
 Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
 Be brief in your decision ! 
 
 Siegend. I will be so. — 
 My word is sacred and irrevocable 
 Within these walls, but it extends no further. 
 
 Gabor. I'll take it for so much. 
 
 Siegend. (points to Ulric's sabre, still upon the ground) 
 
 Take also that — 
 I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
 Distrustfully. 
 
 Gabor (takes up the sabre). I will , and SO provide 
 To sell my life — not cheaply. 
 
 [Gabor goes into the turret, -nhitli Siegendorf closes. 
 
 Siegend. (advances to Ulric). Now, Count Ulric! 
 For son I dare not call thee — What sayst thou ? 
 
 Ulric. His tale is true. 
 
 Siegend. True, monster ! 
 
 Ulric. Most true, father ; 
 And you did well to listen to it: what 
 We know, we can provide against. He must 
 Be silenced. 
 
 Siegend. Ay, witli half of my domains; 
 And with the other half, could he and thou 
 Unsay this villany. 
 
 Ulric. It is no time 
 
500 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 For trifling- or dissembling. I have said 
 
 His story's true ; and he too must be silenced. 
 
 Siegend. How so? 
 
 Vlric. As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 
 As never to have hit on this before ? 
 When we met in the garden, what except 
 Discovery in the act could make me know 
 His death ? Or had the prince's household been 
 Then summon'd, would the cry for the police 
 Been left to such a stranger ? Or should I 
 Haveloiter'don the way? Or could yow, Werner, 
 The object of the baron's hate and fears, 
 Have fled — unless by many an hour before 
 Suspicion woke? I sought and fathom'd you — 
 Doubting if you were false or feeble; I 
 Perceived you were the latter ; and yet so 
 Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 
 At times your weakness. 
 
 Siegend, Parricide ! no less 
 Than common stabber ! What deed of my life, 
 Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit 
 For your accomplice ? 
 
 Ulric, Father, do not raise 
 The devil you cannot lay between us. This 
 Is time for union and for action, not 
 For family-disputes. While yow were tortured, 
 Could J be calm ? Think you that I have heard 
 This fellow's tale without some feeling? you 
 Have taught me feeling ior you and myself; 
 For whom or what else did you ever teach it? [now. 
 
 Siegend. Oh! my dead father's curse! 'tis working 
 
 Ulric. Let it work on! the grave will keep it down! 
 Ashes are feeble foes : it is more easy 
 To baffle such, than countermine a mole, 
 Which winds its blind but living path beneath you. 
 Yet hear me still! — Ifgou condemn me, yet 
 Remember tvho hath taught me once too often 
 To listen to him ! Who proclaim'd to me 
 That there were crimes made venial by the occasion? 
 That passion was our nature ? that the goods 
 Of heaven waited on the goods of fortune? 
 Who show'd me his humanity secured 
 By his nerves only? Who deprived me of 
 All power to vindicate myself and race 
 In open day ? By his disgrace which stamp'd 
 (It might be) bastardy on me, and on 
 Himself — a felon's brand ! The man Avho is 
 At once both warm and weak, invites to deeds 
 He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 
 That I should act what you could think? We have done 
 With right and wrong; and now must only ponder 
 Upon eflects, not causes. Stralenheim, 
 Whose life I saved, from impulse, as, unknown, 
 1 would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew, 
 Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. He 
 Was a rock in our way, which I cut through, 
 As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 
 And our true destination — but not idly. 
 As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me 
 His bfe; when due, I but resumed the debt. 
 He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf, wherein 
 
 I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first 
 
 The torch — j/ou show'd the path : now trace me that 
 
 Of safety — or let me! 
 
 Siegend. I have done with life ! 
 
 Ulric. Let us have done with that which cankers life 
 Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
 Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
 No more to learn or hide : I know no fear. 
 And have within these very walls men who 
 (Although you know them not) dare venture all thintis 
 You stand high with the state; what passes here 
 Will not excite her too great curiosity : 
 Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye. 
 Stir not, and speak not ; — leave the rest to me : 
 We must have no third babblers thrust between us. 
 
 [Exit Viii 
 
 Siegend. (solus). Am I awake? are these my fatlu r 
 halls? » 
 Andrew — my son? Mi/ son] mine! who have ever 
 Abhorr'd both mystery and blood, and yet 
 Am plunged into the deepest hell of both ! 
 I must be speedy, or more will be shed — 
 The Hungarian's! — Ulric — he hath partisans, 
 It seems: I might have guess'd as much. Oh fool ! 
 Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 
 (As I too) of the opposite door which leads 
 Into the turret. Now then ! or once more 
 To be the father of fresh crimes — no less 
 Than of the criminal! Ho! Gabor! Gabor! 
 
 [Exit into the turret, closing the door after bin 
 
 SCENE n. jfl 
 
 The Interior of the Turret. 
 Gabor and Siegundobf. 
 
 Gabor. Who calls? 
 
 Siegend. I — Siegendorf ! Take these, and fly ! 
 Lose not a moment ! 
 
 [Tears off a diamond- star and other jewels, and thrusts lUem M 
 Gabor's hand. 
 
 Gabor. What am I to do 
 With these? 
 
 Siegend. Whate'er you will : sell them, or hoard, 
 And prosper; but delay not — or you are lost ! 
 
 Gabor. You pledged your honour for my safety ! 
 
 Siegend. And 
 Must thus redeem it. Fly ! I am not master, 'f^ 
 
 It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
 Retainers — nay, even of these very walls. 
 Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Fly ! 
 Or you will be slain by — 
 
 Gabor. Is it even so ? 
 Farewell, then! Recollect, however, Count, 
 You sought this fatal interview ! 
 
 Siegend. I did : 
 Let it not be more fatal still : — Begone ! 
 
 Gabor. By the same path I enter'd? 
 
 Siegend. Yes; that's safe still: 
 But loiter not in Prague; — you do not know 
 With whom you have to deal. 
 
 Gabor. I know too well — 
 
(kCT V. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 501 
 
 And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire ! 
 Farewell! [Exit Gabor. 
 
 Siegend. (solus and listening). Hc hath clear'd the staircase. 
 Ah! I hear 
 , The door sound loud behind him ! He is safe ! 
 Safe! — Oh, my father's spirit ! — I am faint — 
 
 [He leans down upon a stone -scat, near the wall of the tower, in 
 a drooping posture. 
 
 Enter Ulkic, with others, armed, and with weapons drawn. 
 
 Ulric, Despatch ! — he's there ! 
 Ludwiff. The Count, my Lord! 
 
 Ulric (recognising Siegendorf). You here, Sir ! 
 
 Siegend. Yes : if you want another victim, strij^ ! 
 
 Ulric (seeing him stript of his jewels). J 
 
 Where is the ruffian who hath plunder'd you? 
 t as.sals, despatch in search of him ! You see 
 Twas as I said — the wretch hath stript my father 
 )f jewels which mig^ht form a prince's heir-loom! 
 tway ! I'll follow you forthwith. 
 
 [Exeunt all bat Stralenheim and Ulric. 
 
 What's tliis .' 
 Vhere is the villain? 
 
 Siegend. There are two, sir; wliich 
 ire you in quest of? 
 
 Ulric. Let us hear no more 
 )f this : he must be found. You have not let him escape? 
 
 Siegend. He's gone. 
 
 Ulric. With y our connivance ? 
 
 Siegend. With 
 ly fullest, freest aid. 
 
 Ulric. Then fare you^well! [Ulric is going. 
 
 Siegend. Stop ! I command — entreat — implore ! Oh, 
 |ViIl you then leave me? [Ulric ! 
 
 Ulric. What ! remain to be 
 ►enounced — dragg'd, it may be, in chains ; and all 
 «y your inherent weakness, half- humanity, 
 elfish remorse, and temporising pity, 
 'hat sacrifices your whole race to save 
 . wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, Count, 
 [enceforth you have no son ! 
 
 Siegend. I never had one; 
 
 And would you ne'er had borne the useless name! 
 Where will you go ? I would not send you fortli 
 Without protection. 
 
 Ulric. Leave that unto me. 
 I am not alone ; nor merely the vain heir 
 Of your domains : a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
 Swords, hearts, and hands, are mine. 
 
 Siegend. The foresters ! 
 With whom the Hungarian found you first at Frankfort? 
 
 Ulric. Yes — men — Avho are worthy of the name! 
 Go tell 
 Your senators that they look well to Prague; 
 Their feast of peace was early for the times; 
 There are more spirits abroad than have been laid 
 With Wallenstein ! 
 
 Enter Josephine and Ida. 
 
 Josephine. What is't we hear? My Siegendorf ! 
 Tliank Heaven, I see you safe ! 
 
 Siegend. Safe ! 
 
 Ida. Yes, dear father ! 
 
 Siegend. No, no ; I have no children : never more 
 Call me by that worst name of parent. 
 
 Josephine. What 
 Means my good Lord ? 
 
 Siegend. That you have given birth 
 To a demon! 
 
 Ida (taking uiric's hand). Who shall dare say this of Ulric? 
 
 Siegend. Ida, beware ! tiiere's blood upon that hand. 
 
 Ida (stooping to kiss it). I'd kiss it oftj though it were mine ! 
 
 Siegend. It is so ! 
 
 Ulric. Away! it is your father's ! [Exit Ulric. 
 
 Ida. Oh, great God! 
 And I have loved this man ! 
 
 [Ida falls senseless — Josephine stands speechless with horror. 
 
 Siegend. The wretch hatli slain 
 Them both ! — my Josephine ! we are now alone ! 
 Would we had ever been so ! — All is over 
 For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grave ; 
 Thy curse hatii dug it deeper for thy son 
 In mine! — The race of Siegendorf is past! 
 
 The tragedy of "Werner" was begun at Pisa, Decem- 
 er the 18th, 1821, completed January the 20th, 1822, and 
 ilblished in London in tiie November after. The reviews 
 P*'Werner" were, witliout exception, unfavourable. One 
 titique of the time thus opens : — "Who could be so ab- 
 ard as to think, that a dramatist has no right to make 
 tJe with other people's fables ? On the contrary, we are 
 uite aware that that particular species of genius which is 
 xhibited in the construction of plots, never at any period 
 «urished in England. We all know that Shakspearehim- 
 elf took his stories from Italian novels, Danish sagas, 
 
 iglish chronicles, Plutarch's Lives - from anywhere ra- 
 
 than from his own invention. But did he take the 
 
 le of Hamlet, or Juliet, or Richard tlie Third, or An- 
 
 and Cleopatra, from any of these foreign sources ? 
 
 Did he not invent,in the noblest sense of the word, all the 
 characters of his pieces ? Who dreams that any old Italian 
 novelist, or ballad-maker, could have formed the imagi- 
 nation of such a creature as Juliet? Who dreams that the 
 Hamlet of Shakspeare, the princely enthusiast, the me- 
 lancholy philosopher, that spirit refined even to pain, 
 that most incomprehensible and unapproachable of all 
 the creations of human genius, is the same being, in any 
 thing but thename,withtherough,strong-hearted,bloody- 
 handed Amlett of the north? Who is there that supposes 
 Goethe to have taken the character of his Faust from the 
 nursery-rhymes and penny-pamphlets about the Devil 
 and Doctor Faustus? Or who, to come nearer home, 
 imagines that Lord Byron himself found his Sardana- 
 palus in Dionysius of Halicarnassus? 
 
502 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 "But Acre Lord Byron has invented nothing — abso- 
 lutely NOTHING. There is not one incident in his play, not 
 even the most trivial, that is not to be found in Miss Lee's 
 novel, occurring exactly in the same manner, brought 
 about by exactly the same agents, and producing exactly 
 the same effects on the plot. And then as to the cha- 
 racters, — not only is every one of them to be found in 
 Kruitzner, but every one is to be found there more fully 
 and powerfully developed. Indeed, but for the prepa- 
 ration which we had received from our old familiarity 
 •with Miss Lee's own admirable work, we rather incline 
 to think that we should have been unable to comprehend 
 the gist of her noble imitator, or rather copier, in several 
 of what seem to be meant for his most elaborate deline- 
 ations. The fact is, that this undeviating closeness, this 
 humble fidelity oiimitation, is a thing so perfectly new in 
 any thing worthy of the name of literature, that we are 
 sure no one, who has not read the Canterbury Tales, will 
 be able to form the least conception of what it amounts to. 
 
 "Those who have never read Miss Lee's book, will, 
 however, be pleased with this production; for, in truth, 
 the story is one of the most powerfully conceived, one of 
 the most picturesque, and at the same time instructive 
 stories, that we are acquainted with. Indeed, thus led as 
 we are to name Harriet Lee, we cannot allow the oppor- 
 
 tunity to pass without saying, that we have always con- 
 sidered her works as standing upon the verge oithe very 
 Jirst rank of excellence ; that is to say, as inferior to no 
 English novels whatever, excepting those of Fielding, 
 Sterne, Smollett, Richardson, Defoe, Radcliffe, Godwin, 
 Edgeworth, and the author of Waverley. It would not, 
 perhaps, be going too far to say, that the Canterbury 
 Tales exhibit more of that species of invention which, as 
 we have already remarked, was never common in English 
 literature, than any of the works even of those first-rate 
 novelists we have named, with the single exception ot 
 Fielding. 
 
 "Kruitzner, or the German's Tale, possesses mystery, 
 and yM clearness as to its structure; strength of cha- 
 racters, and admirable contrast of characters ; and, above 
 all, the most lively interest, blended with and subservient 
 to the most affecting of moral lessons. The main idea 
 which lies at the root of it is, the horror of an erring fa- 
 ther, who, having been detected in vice by his son, lia? 
 dared to defend his own sin, and so to perplex the son's 
 notions of moral rectitude, on finding that the son, in lii; 
 turn, has pushed the false principles thus instilled to tlu 
 last and worst extreme — on hearing his own sophistric; 
 flung in his face by a — Murderer." 
 
'i-:' ''l:-4t\ 
 
 503 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 
 
 A DRAMA 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Strangkr, afterwards Ci£SAK. 
 
 Arnold. 
 
 Bourbon. 
 
 PjHLIBERT. 
 
 Cellini. 
 
 Bertha. 
 Olimpia. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Spirits, Soldiers, Citiij as of Rome, Priests, Peasants. 
 
 A C T I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Forest. 
 
 Enter Ar.nolo and his mother Bertha. 
 
 Bertha. Out, hunchback! 
 
 Arnold. I was born so, mother ! 
 
 Bertha. Out! 
 riiou Incubus! Thou Nightmare ! Of seven sons 
 rhe sole abortion ! 
 
 Arnold. Would that I had been so, 
 uid never seen the liglit! 
 
 Bertha. I would so too ! 
 Jut as thou hast — hence, hence — and do thy best. 
 Miat back of thine may bear its burthen; 'tis 
 lore high, if not so broad as that of others. 
 
 Arnold. It bears its burthen; — but, my heart! Will it 
 ustaitt that which you lay upon it, mother? 
 love, or, at the least, I loved you: nothing, 
 javc you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
 roa nursed me — do not kill me. 
 
 Bertha, Yes — I nursed thee, 
 iecause thou wert my first-born, and I knew not 
 f there would be another unlike thee, 
 'hat monstrous sport of nature. But gat lieuce, 
 .nd gather wood! 
 
 Arnold. I will ; but when I bring it, 
 peak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
 
 beautiful and lusty, and as free 
 
 s the free chase they follow, do not spurn me : 
 ur milk has been the same. 
 Bertha. As is the hedgehog's, 
 ^^liich sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam 
 
 1 tlic young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
 lie nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
 
 all not thy brothers brethren! Call me not 
 
 Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
 As foolish hens at times hatcli vipers, by 
 Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out! 
 
 [Exit Bertha 
 
 Arnold (solus). Oh mother ! — She is gone, audi must do 
 Her bidding ; — wearily but willingly 
 I would fulfil it, could I only hope 
 A kind word in return. What shall I do ? 
 
 [Arnold begins to cut wood '. in doing this he wonnds one of his 
 hands. 
 
 My labour for the day is over now. 
 
 Accursed be this blood that flows so fast; 
 
 For double curses will be my meed now 
 
 At home. — What home? I have no home, no kin, 
 
 No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
 
 To share their sports or pleasures.- Must I bleed too 
 
 Like them? Oh that each drop which falls to eartli 
 
 Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have stung me! 
 
 Or that the devil, to whom they liken me, 
 
 Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
 
 His form, why not his power? Is it because 
 
 I have not his will too ? For one kind word 
 
 From her who bore me, would jstill reconcile me 
 
 Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
 
 The wound. 
 
 [Arnold goes to a spring and stoops to wash bis hand : he starts baclc. 
 
 They are right; and Nature's mirror shows me 
 What she hath made me. I will not look on it 
 Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous wretch 
 That I am ! The very waters mock me with 
 My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
 Deep in the fountain to scare ba(;k the cattle 
 From drinking therein. [He pauses. 
 
 And shall I live on, 
 A burthen to the earth, myself, and shame 
 
504 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Unto what brought me into life? Thou blood, 
 Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
 Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream 
 Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself 
 On earth, to which I will restore at once 
 This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
 Resolve back to her elements, and take 
 The shape of any reptile save myself, 
 And make a world for myriads of new worms ! 
 This knife ! now let me prove if it will sever 
 This wither'd slip of nature's nightshade — my 
 Vile form — from the creation, as it hath 
 The green bough from the forest. 
 
 [Arnold places the knife in the ground, with the point upwards. 
 
 Now 'tis set. 
 And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
 On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
 Myself, and the sweet sun, which warmed me, but 
 In vain. The birds — how joyously they sing! 
 So let them, for I would not be lamented: 
 But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell ; 
 The falling leaves my monument; the murmur 
 Of the near fountain my sole elegy. 
 Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall! 
 
 [As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife, his eye is suddenly 
 caught by the fountain, which seems in motion. 
 
 The fountain moves without a wind: but shall 
 The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
 No. Yet it moves again ! The waters stir. 
 Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
 And rocking power of the internal world. 
 What's here? A mist! No more? — 
 
 [A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands gazing upon it j it is 
 dispelled, and a tall black man comes towards him. 
 
 Arnold. What would you? Speak! 
 Spirit or man? 
 
 Stranger. As man is both, why not 
 Say both in one? 
 
 Arnold. Your form is man's, and yet 
 You may be devil. 
 
 Stranger. So many men are that 
 Which is so called or thought, that you may add me 
 To which you please, without much wrong to either. 
 But come: you wish to kill yourself; — pursue 
 Your purpose. 
 
 Arnold. You have interrupted me. 
 
 Stranger. What is that resolution which can e'er 
 Be interrupted? If I be the devil 
 You deem, a single moment would have made you 
 Mine, and for ever, by your suicide ; 
 And yet my coming saves you. 
 
 Arnold. I said not 
 You were the demon, but that your approach 
 Was like one. 
 
 Stranger. Unless you keep company 
 With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
 Society) you can't tell how he approaches; 
 And for his aspect, look upon the fountain. 
 And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
 Looks likest what the boors believe to be 
 Their cloven-footed terror. 
 
 Arnold. Do you — dare you 
 To taunt me with my born deformity ? 
 
 Stranger, Were I to taunt a buflalo with this 
 Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
 With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
 Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
 Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty 
 In action and endurance than thyself. 
 And all the tierce and fair of the same kind '^ 
 
 With thee. Thy form is natural : 'twas only 
 Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
 The gifts which are of others upon man. 
 
 Arnold. Give me the strength then of the buffalo's foot, 
 When he spurns high the dust, beholding his 
 Near enemy; or let me have the long 
 And patient swiftness of the desert-ship. 
 The helm-less dromedary ; — and I'll bear 
 Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 
 
 Stranger. I will. 
 
 Arnold (with surprise). Thou canst? 
 
 Stranger. Perhaps. Would you aught else ? 
 
 Arnold. Thou mockest me. 
 
 Stranger. Not I. Why should I mock 
 What all are mocking? That's poor sport, methinks. 
 To talk to thee in human language (for 
 Thou canst not yet speak mine), the forester 
 Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar, 
 Or Avolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
 To petty burghers, who leave once a year 
 Their walls, to fill their household-caldrons with 
 Such scullion-prey. The meanest gibe at thee, — 
 Now J cau mock the mightiest. 
 
 Arnold. Then waste not 
 Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 
 
 Stranger. Your thoughts 
 Are not far from me. Do not send me back : 
 I am not so easily recalled to do 
 Good service. 
 
 Arnold. What wilt thou do for me ? 
 
 Stranger. Change 
 Shapes witli you, if you will, since yours so irks you; 
 Or form you to your wish in any shape. 
 
 Arnold. Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
 Noughfelse would wittingly wear mine. 
 
 Stranger. I'll show thee 
 The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give tliee 
 Thy choice. 
 
 Arnold. On what condition? 
 
 Stranger. There's a question ! 
 An hour ago you would have given your soul 
 To look like other men, and now you pause 
 To wear the form of heroes. 
 
 Arnold. No; I will not. 
 I must not compromise my soul. 
 
 Stranger. What soul, 
 Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ? 
 
 Arnold. 'Tis an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement 
 In which it is mislodged. But name your compact: " "!* 
 Must it be signed in blood ? 
 
 Stranger. Not in your own. ^'' 
 
 Arnold. Whose blood then? ' 
 
ACT I. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMER. 
 
 505 
 
 Stranger. We will talk of that hereafter. 
 But I'll be moderate with you, for I see 
 Great things within you. You shall have no bond 
 But your own will, no contract save your deeds. 
 Are you content? 
 
 Arnold. I take thee at thy word. 
 
 Stranger, Now then! — 
 
 CTbe Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns to Arnold. 
 
 A little of your blood. 
 Arnold. For what? 
 
 Stranger. To mingle with the magic of the waters, 
 A.nd make the charm effective. 
 
 Arnold, (holding out his wounded arm). Take it all. 
 
 Stranger, Not now. A few drops will suffice for this. 
 
 [The Stranger takes some of Arnold's blood in his hand, and casts it 
 into the fountain. 
 
 Shadows of Beauty! 
 
 Shadows of Power! 
 Rise to your duty — 
 
 This is the hour ! 
 Walk lovely and pliant 
 
 From the depth of this fountain, 
 As the cloud-shapen giant 
 
 Bestrides the Hartz-mountain. 
 Come as ye were, 
 
 That our eyes may behold 
 The model in air 
 
 Of the form I will mould. 
 Bright as the Iris 
 
 When ether is spann'd; — 
 Such Ms desire is, [Pointing to Arnold. 
 
 Such my command ! 
 Demons heroic — 
 
 Demons who wore 
 The form of the Stoic 
 
 Or Sophist of yore — 
 Or the shape of each Victor, 
 ;■<- From Macedon's boy 
 
 •i To each high Roman's picture, 
 
 Who breathed to destroy — 
 Shadows of Beauty! 
 
 Shadows of Power ! 
 Up to your duty — 
 
 This is the hour! 
 [Various Phantoms arise from the waters, and pass in succession before 
 the SUanger and Arnold. 
 
 Arnold. What do I see? 
 
 Stranger. The black-eyed Roman, with 
 The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er 
 Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
 The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became 
 His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 
 
 Arnold. The Phantom's bald; my quest is beauty. 
 Inherit but his fame with his defects! [Could I 
 
 Stranger, His brow was girt with laurels more than 
 You see his aspect — choose it, or reject. [hairs. 
 
 I can but promise you his form; his fame 
 l^ust be long sought and fought for. 
 
 Arnold. 1 will figlit too, 
 But not as a mock-Cajsar. Let him pass ; 
 His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 
 
 Stranger, Then you are far more difficult to please 
 Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother, 
 Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
 When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
 But be it so! Shadow, pass on ! 
 
 [The Phantom of Julius Caesar disappears. 
 
 Arnold. And can it 
 Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone 
 And left no footstep? 
 
 Stranger. There you err. His substance 
 Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
 More than enough to track his memory ; 
 But for his shadow, 'tis no more than yours, 
 Except a little longer and less crooked 
 
 r the sun. Behold another ! [A second Phantom passes. 
 
 Arnold. Who is he? 
 
 Stranger. He was the fairest and the bravest of 
 Athenians. Look upon him well. 
 
 Arnold. He is 
 More lovely than the last. How beautifull 
 
 Stranger. Such was thecurled son of Clinias ; — wouldst 
 Invest thee with his form ? [thou 
 
 Arnold. Would that I had 
 Been born with it ! But since I may choose further, 
 
 I will look further. [The Shade of Alcibiadcs disappears. 
 
 Stranger. Lo! Behold again! 
 
 Arnold. What ! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round- 
 eyed satyr. 
 With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect. 
 The splay feet and low stature ! I had better 
 Remain that which I am. 
 
 Stranger. And yet he was 
 The earth's perfection of all mental beauty. 
 And personification of all virtue. 
 But you reject him? 
 
 Arnold. If his form could bring me 
 That which redeemed it — no. 
 
 Stranger. I have no power 
 To promise that; but you may try, and find it 
 Easier in such a form, or in your own. 
 
 Arnold, No. I was not born for philosophy. 
 Though I have that about me which has need on't. 
 Let him fleet on. 
 
 Stranger. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 
 
 [The Shadow of Socrates disappears: another rifes. 
 
 Arnold. What's here? whose broad brow and whose 
 And manly aspect look like Hercules, [curly beard 
 
 Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
 Than the sad Purger of the infernal world. 
 Leaning dejected on his club of conquest. 
 As if he knew the worthlessness oftho.se 
 For whom he had fought. 
 
 Stranger. It was the man who lost 
 The ancient world for love. 
 
 Arnold. I cannot blame him, 
 Since I have risk'd my soul because 1 find not 
 That which he exchanged the earth for. 
 
 Stranger. Since so far 
 You seem congenial, will you wear his features ? 
 
 Arnold. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult. 
 If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
 
 32* 
 
506 
 
 THE DEFORAIED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
 Whence they float back before us. 
 
 Stranger. Hence, Triumvir ! 
 Thy Cleopatra 's waiting. 
 
 [The Shade of Anthony disappears: anotlier rise. 
 
 Arnold. Who is this ? 
 Who truly looketh like a demigod, 
 Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature, 
 If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
 In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 
 Which he wears as the sun his rays — a something 
 Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing 
 Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
 Was he e'er human only 1 
 
 Stranger. Let the earth speak, 
 If there be atoms of him left, or even 
 Of the more solid gold that formed his urn. 
 
 Arnold. Who was this glory of mankind .' 
 
 Stranger. The shame 
 Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war — 
 Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
 Taker of cities. 
 
 Arnold. Yet one shadow more. 
 
 S'^ran^cr. (addressing tiie Shadow). Get thce to Lamia^s lap! 
 
 [The Shade of Demetrius Polioixttts vanishes; another rises. 
 
 Stranger. I'll fit you still. 
 Fear not, my hunchback. If the shadows of 
 That which existed please not your nice taste, 
 I'll animate tlie ideal marble, till 
 Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 
 
 Arnold. Content ! I Avill fix here. 
 
 Stranger. I must commend 
 Your choice. The god-like son of the sea-goddess. 
 The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
 As beautiful and clear as the amber-waves 
 Of rich Pactolus, roll'd o'er sands of gold, 
 Softened by intervening crystal, and 
 Rippled like flowing waters by the wind. 
 All vowed to Sperchius as they were — behold them ! 
 And him — as he stood by Polixena, 
 With sanction'd and with soften'd love, before 
 The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride. 
 With some remorse within for Hector slain 
 And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion 
 For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand 
 Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 
 He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
 Greece look'd her last upon her best, the instant 
 Ere Paris' arrow flew. 
 
 Arnold. I gaze upon him 
 As if I were his soul, whose form sliall soon 
 Envelop mine. 
 
 Stranger. You have done well. The greatest 
 Deformity should only barter with 
 The extremest beauty, if the proverb's true 
 Of mortals, that extremes meet. 
 
 Arnold. Come ! Be quick ! 
 I am impatient. 
 
 Stranger. Asa youthful beauty 
 Before her glass. You both see what is not, 
 But dream it is what must be. 
 
 Arnold. Must I wait? 
 
 Stranger. No; that were a pity. But a word or tw<j : 
 His stature is twelve cubits: would you so far 
 Outstep these times, and be a Titan .' Or 
 (To talk canonically) wax a son 
 Of Anak? 
 
 Arnold. Why not? 
 
 Stranger, Glorious ambition! 
 I love thee most in dwarfs. A mortal of 
 Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
 His own Goliath down to a slight David ; 
 But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
 Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged, 
 If such be thy desire; and yet by being 
 A little less removed from present men 
 In figure, thou canst sway them more; for all 
 Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
 A new found mammoth ; and their cursed engine.", 
 Their culverins and so forth, would find way 
 Through our friend's armour there, with greater ease 
 Than the adulterer's arrow through his heel 
 Which Thetis had forgotten to baptise 
 In Styx. 
 
 Artiold. Then let it be as thou deemst best. 
 
 Stranger. Thou shalt be beauteous as tlic thing tlioi 
 And strong as what it was, and — [seest 
 
 Arnold. I ask not 
 For valour, since deformity is daring. 
 It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
 By lieart and soul, and make itself the equal — 
 Aye, the superior of the rest. There is 
 A spur in its halt movements, to become 
 All that the others cannot, in such things 
 As still are free to both, to compensate 
 For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 
 They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of Fortune, 
 And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win them. 
 
 Stranger. Well spoken ! And thou doubtless ^vill 
 Formed as thou art? I may dismiss the mould [reniai'.) 
 Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase 
 This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
 Without it? 
 
 Arnold. Had no power presented me 
 The possibility of change, I would 
 Have done the best which spirit may, to make 
 Its way, with all deformity's dull, deadly. 
 Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain. 
 In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders — 
 A hateful and unsightly molehill to 
 The eyes of happier man. I would have looked 
 On beauty in that sex, which is the type 
 Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
 Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh - 
 Not of love, but despair; nor sought to win, 
 Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 
 In turn, because of this vile crooked clog 
 Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne 
 It all, had not my mother spurned me from her. 
 The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
 Of shape; — my dam beheld my shape was hopeless. 
 Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
 
ACT I. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 
 
 507 
 
 I knew the passionate part of life, I liad 
 Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 
 Than what I am. But even tlms, the lowest. 
 Ugliest, and meanest of mankLnd, what courage 
 And perseverance could have done, perchance 
 Had made me something — as it has made heroes 
 Of the same mould as mine. You latel} saw me 
 j Master of my own life, and quick to quit it, 
 ! And he who is so, is the master of 
 I Whatever dreads to die. 
 j Stranger. Decide between 
 What you have been, or will be. 
 j Arnold. I have done so. 
 ) You have open'd brighter prospects to my eyes, 
 I And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
 I might be fear'd, admired, respected, loved 
 Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
 Would be beloved. As tliou showest me 
 A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
 iHaste ! haste! 
 1 iSiran^er. And what shall /wear? 
 
 Arnold, Surely he 
 [Who can command all forms, will choose the highest, 
 Something superior even to that which was 
 Pelides now before us. Perhaps Jiis 
 jWlio slew him, that of Paris : or — still higlier — 
 iTbe poet's God, clothed in such limbs as arc 
 rhemselves a poetry. 
 
 Stranger. Less will content me ; 
 ?or I too love a change. 
 
 Arnold. Your aspect is 
 Jusky, but not uncomely. 
 Stranger. If I chose, 
 might be whiter; but I have a penchant 
 'or black — it is so honest, and besides 
 'an neither blush with sliame nor pale with fear : 
 5ut I have worn it long enougli of late, 
 uid now I'll take your figure. 
 Arnold. Mine! 
 Stranger. Yes. You 
 
 liall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha 
 '^our mother's ofl'spring. People have their tastes ; 
 ou have yours — I mine. 
 Arnold. Despatch! despatch! 
 Stranger. Even so. 
 
 [The Stranger takes some earth and moulds it along the turf, and 
 tbea addresses the Phantom of Achilles. 
 
 Beautiful Shadow 
 
 OfThetis'sboy! 
 Who sleeps in the meadow 
 
 Whose grass grows o'er Troy ; 
 From the red earth, like xidam, 
 
 Tliy likeness I shape. 
 As the Being who made him. 
 
 Whose actions 1 ape. 
 Thou clay, be all glowing. 
 
 Till tlie rose in his cheek 
 Be as fair as, when blowing, 
 
 It wears its first streak ! 
 Ye violets, I scatter, 
 U * Now turn into eyes ! 
 
 And thou sunshiny water, 
 
 Of blood take the guise ! 
 Let these hyacinth-boughs 
 
 Be his long, flowing hair, 
 And wave o'er his brows. 
 
 As thou wavest in air! 
 Let his heart be this marble 
 
 I tear from the rock ! 
 But his voice as the warble 
 
 Of birds on yon oak ! 
 Let his flesh be the purest 
 
 Of mould, in which grew 
 The lily -root surest, 
 
 And drank the best dew ! 
 Let his limbs be the lightest 
 
 Which clay can compound ! 
 And his aspect the brightest 
 
 On eartli to be found ! 
 Elements, near me. 
 
 Be mingled and stirred, 
 Know me, and hear me, • 
 
 And leap to my word ! 
 Sunbeams, awaken 
 
 This earth's animation ! 
 'Tisdone! He hath taken 
 
 His stand in Creation! 
 
 [Arnold falls senseless; his soul passes into the shape of Achilles, 
 which rises from the ground; while the Phantom has disappeared, 
 part by part, as the figure was formed from the earth. 
 
 Arnold.i\n his new form). I love, and I shall be beloved ! 
 At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit ! [Oh life ! 
 
 Stranger. Stop! 
 What shall become of your abandoned garment, 
 Your hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness, 
 Which late you wore, or were? 
 
 Arnold. Who cares ! Let w olves 
 And vultures take it, if they will. 
 
 Stranger. And if 
 They do, and are not scared by it, you'll say 
 It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
 Abroad i' the fields. 
 
 Arnold. Let us but leave it there, 
 No matter what becomes on't. 
 
 Stranger. That's ungracious. 
 If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 
 It hath sustained your soul full many a day. 
 
 Arnold. Aye, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
 Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 
 
 Stranger. But if I give another form, it must be 
 By fair exchange, not robbery. For tliey 
 Who make men without women's aid, have l(jn^ 
 Had patents for the same, and do not love 
 Your interlopers. The devil may take men. 
 Not make them, — though he reap the benefit 
 Of the original workmanship : — and therefore 
 Some one must be found to assume the shape 
 You have quitted. 
 
 Arnold. Who would do so ? 
 
 Stranger. That I know not. 
 And therefore I must. 
 
 Arnold. You! 
 
508 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Stranger. I said it ere 
 You inhabited your present dome of beauty. 
 
 Arnold. True. I forget all things in the new joy 
 Of this immortal change. 
 
 Stranger. In a few moments 
 I will be as you were, and you shall see 
 Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow. 
 
 Arnold. I would be spared this. 
 
 Stranger. But it cannot be. 
 What! shrink already, being what you are, 
 From seeing what you were? 
 
 Arnold. Do as thou wilt. 
 
 Stranger.ito the late form of Arnold extended on the earth). 
 
 Clay ! not dead, but soul-less ! 
 
 Though no man would choose thee, 
 An immortal no less 
 
 Deigns not to refuse thee. 
 Clay thou art ; and unto spirit 
 All clay is of equal merit. 
 
 Fire ! without which nought can live ; 
 Fire! but in which nought can live, 
 
 Save the fabled salamander, 
 
 Or immortal souls which wander. 
 Praying what doth not forgive. 
 Howling for a drop of water, 
 
 Burning in a quenchless lot : 
 Fire ! the only element 
 
 Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm. 
 Save the worm which dieth not, 
 
 Can preserve a moment's form, 
 But must with thyself be blent: 
 Fire ! man's safeguard and his slaughter ! 
 Fire ! Creation's first born daughter. 
 
 And Destruction's threatened son. 
 
 When Heaven with the world hath done : 
 Fire ! assist me to renew 
 Life in what lies in my view 
 
 Stiff and cold! 
 His resurrection rests with me and you ! 
 One little, marshy spark of flame — 
 And he again shall seem the same; 
 
 But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
 
 [An Ignis-fatuus flits through the wood, and rests on the brow of tlie 
 body. The Stranger disappears : the body rises. 
 
 ^IrnoW. (inhis new form). Oh! horrible! 
 
 Stranger, (in Arnold's late shape). What! tremblest thou ? 
 
 Arnold. Not so — 
 I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
 Thou lately worest? 
 
 Stranger. To the world of shadows. 
 But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou ? 
 
 Arnold. Must thou be my companion ? 
 
 Stranger. Wherefore not? 
 Your betters keep worse company. 
 
 Arnold, My betters ! 
 
 Stranger. Oh! you wax proud, I see, of your new form: 
 I'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That's well ; 
 You improve apace : — two changes in an instant, 
 And you are old in the world's ways already. 
 But bear with me : indeed you'll find me useful 
 
 Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
 Where shall we now be errant? 
 
 Arnold. Where the world 
 Is thickest, that I may behold it in 
 Its workings. 
 
 Stranger. That's to say, where there is war 
 And woman in activity. Let's see !» 
 Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
 Afric with all its Moors. In very truth. 
 There is small choice; the whole race are just now 
 Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. 
 
 Arnold. I have heard great things of Rome. 
 
 Stranger. A goodly choice — 
 And scarce a better to be found on earth, 
 Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too ; 
 For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion 
 Of the old Vandals are at play along 
 The sunny shores of the world's garden. 
 
 Arnold. How 
 Shall we proceed? 
 
 Stranger. Like gallants, on good coursers. 
 What ho ! my chargers ! Never yet were better. 
 Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. 
 Our pages too ! 
 
 Enter two Pages, with four coal-black Horses. 
 
 Arnold. A noble sight ! 
 
 Stranger. And of 
 A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
 Or your Kochlini raceofAraby, 
 With these! 
 
 Arnold. The mighty stream, which volumes high 
 From their proud nostrils, burns the ver}' air ; 
 And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, wheel 
 Around their manes, as common insects swarm 
 Round common steeds towards sunset. 
 
 Stranger. Mount, my lord : 
 They and I are your servitors. 
 
 Arnold. And these. 
 Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names ? 
 
 Stranger. You shall baptise them. 
 
 Arnold. What ! in holy water? 
 
 Stranger. Why Jiot ! The deeper sinner, better saint. 
 
 Arnold. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be de 
 mons. 
 
 Stranger. True; the Devil's always ugly; and yen 
 Is never diabolical. [beam 
 
 Arnold. I'll call him 
 Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright 
 And blooming aspect, Huon; for he looks 
 Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest 
 And never found till now. And for the other 
 And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not, 
 But looks as serious though serene as night. 
 He shall be Memnon, from the Ethiop king 
 Whose statue turns a harper once a day. 
 And you ? 
 
 Stranger. I have ten thousand names, and twice 
 As many attributes : but as I wear 
 A human shape, will take a human name. 
 
 
ACT I. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 509 
 
 Arnold, More human than the shape (though it was 
 I trust. [mine once) 
 
 Stranger. Then call me Caisar. 
 Arnold. Why, that name 
 Belongs to empires, and has been butborne 
 By the world's lords. 
 
 Stranger. And therefore fittest for 
 The Devil in disguise — since so you deem me, 
 Unless you call me Pope instead. 
 
 Arnold. Well then, 
 Cajsar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 
 Shall be plain Arnold still. 
 
 CcEsar. We'll add a title — 
 "Count Arnold :" it hath no ungracious sound, 
 ' And will look well upon a billet-doux. 
 Arnold. Or in an order for a battle-field. 
 Ccesar. (sings). To horse ! to horse ! my coal-black steed 
 Paws the ground and snuffs the air; 
 There's not a foal of Arab's breed 
 
 More knows whom he must bear! 
 On the hill he will not tire. 
 Swifter as it waxes higher; 
 In the marsh he will not slacken, 
 On the plain be overtaken; 
 In the wave he will not sink, 
 Nor pause at the brook's side to drink; 
 In the race he will not pant, 
 In the combat he'll not faint; 
 On the stones he will not stumble. 
 Time nor toil shall make him humble; 
 In the stall he will not stiffen. 
 But be winged as a Griffin, 
 Only flying with his feet : 
 And will not such a voyage be sweet? 
 Merrily ! merrilly ! never unsound, 
 Shall oui bonny black horses skim over the ground ! 
 From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly ! 
 For we'll leave them behind in the glance of an eye. 
 
 [They mount their horses, and disappear. 
 
 SCENE 11. 
 
 A. Camp before the Walls of Rome. 
 Arnold and CjCsar. 
 
 Ccesar. You are well entered now. 
 
 Arnold. Aye; but my path 
 Has been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 
 Of blood. 
 
 Casar. Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why ! 
 Thou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 
 And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
 Iiate Constable of France; and now to be 
 Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 
 Under its emperor's, and — changing sex, 
 Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire — 
 Ixjdy of the Old World. 
 
 Arnold. How old? What ! are there 
 AW worlds? 
 
 Ccesar. To you. You'll find there are such shortly. 
 By their rich harvests, new disease, and gold; 
 From one half o{ the world named a whole new one, 
 
 Because you know no better than the dull 
 And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 
 
 Arnold. I'll trust them. 
 
 Casar. Do ! They will deceive you sweetly, 
 And that is better than the bitter truth. 
 
 Arnold. Dog ! 
 
 CcBsar. Man! 
 
 Arnold. Devil! 
 
 Ccesar. Your obedient, humble servant. 
 
 Arnold. Say Master rather. Thou hast lured me on, 
 Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 
 
 Ccesar. And where wouldst thou be ? 
 
 Arnold. Oh, at peace — in peace! 
 
 CcBsar. And where is that w hich is so ? From the star 
 To the winding worm, all life is motion; and 
 In life commotion is the extremest point 
 Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 
 A comet, and, destroying as it sweeps 
 The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way. 
 Living upon the death of other things. 
 But still, like them, must live and die, the subject 
 Of something which has made it live and die. 
 You must obey what all obey, the rule 
 Of fixed necessity : against her edict 
 Rebellion prospers not. 
 
 Arnold. And when it prospers — 
 
 Ccesar. 'Tis no rebellion. 
 
 Arnold. Will it prosper now ? 
 
 Ccesar. The Bourbon hath given orders for tlie assault, 
 And by the dawn there will be work. 
 
 Arnold. Alas ! 
 And shall the City yield? I see the giant- 
 Abode of the true God, and his true Saint, 
 Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 
 That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross. 
 Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
 Of joy (as once of torture unto him, 
 God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge). 
 
 Ccesar. 'Tis there, and shall be. 
 
 Arnold. What? 
 
 Ccesar. The Crucifix 
 Above, and many altar-shrines below. 
 Also some culverins upon the walls, 
 And harquebusses, and what not; besides 
 The men who are to kindle them to death 
 Of other men. 
 
 Arnold. And those scarce mortal arches. 
 Pile above pile of everlasting wall, 
 The theatre where emperors and their subjects 
 (Those subjects Romans^ stood at gaze upon 
 The battles of the monarchs of the wild 
 And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
 Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 
 In the arena (as right well they might. 
 When they had left no human foe uncouquered) ; 
 Made even the forest pay its tribute of 
 Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
 As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
 For a sole instant's pastime, and "Pass on 
 To a new gladiator !" — Must it fall ? 
 
 CcBsar. The city, or the amphitheatre ? 
 
510 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 ACT 
 
 The church, or one, or all ? for you confound 
 Both them and me. 
 
 Arnold. To-morrow sounds the assault 
 With the first cock-crow. 
 
 CcBsar. Which, if it end with 
 The evening^'s first nig-hting-ale, will be 
 Somethiiig new in the annals of great sieges : 
 For men must liave their prey after long toil. 
 
 Arnold. The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 
 More beautifully, than he did on Rome 
 On the day Remus leapt her wall. 
 
 CcBsar. I saw him. 
 
 Arnold. You! 
 
 CcBsar. Yes, Sir. You forget I am or was 
 Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 
 And a worse name. I'm Csesar and a hunch-back 
 Now. Well! the first of Caesars was a bald-head, 
 And loved his laurels better as a wig 
 (So history says) than as glory. Thus 
 The world runs on, but we'll be merry stilL 
 I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 
 Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same womb. 
 Because he leapt a ditch ('twas then no w all 
 Whate'er it now be) ; and Rome's earliest cement 
 Was brother's blood; and if its native blood 
 Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 
 As e'er 'twas yellow, it will never wear 
 The deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 
 Which the great robber-sons of Fratricide 
 Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter 
 For ages. 
 
 Arnold. But what have these done, their far 
 Remote descendants, who have lived in peace, 
 The peace of heaven, and in lier sunshine of 
 Piety? 
 
 C(Bsar. And what had they done, whom the old 
 Romans o'erswept? — Hark! 
 
 Arnold. They are soldiers singing 
 A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 
 Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 
 
 CcBsar. And why should they not sing as well as s w aus l 
 They are black ones, to be sure. 
 
 Arnold, So, you are learn' d, 
 I see, too. 
 
 Cctsar. In my grammar, certes. I 
 Was educated for a monk of all times. 
 And once I was well versed in the forgotten 
 Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 
 Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than 
 Your alphabet. 
 
 Arnold. And wherefore do you not? 
 
 CcBsar. It answers better to resolve the alphabet 
 Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, 
 And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist, 
 Philosopher, and what not, they have built 
 More Babels without new dispersion, than 
 The stammering young ones of the Flood's dull ooze, 
 Who fail'd and fled each other. Why ? why, marry. 
 Because no man could understand his neighbour. 
 They are wiser now, and will not separate 
 For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotlierhood. 
 
 Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, tlieir 
 Cabala; their best brick -work wherewithal 
 They build more — 
 
 ^r«o/(/.(iiiterruptiiig him). Oh, thou everlasting sneerer ! 
 Be silent! How the soldiers' rough strain seems 
 Softened by distance to a hymn- like cadence I 
 Listen ! 
 
 CcBsar. Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 
 
 Arnold. And demons howl. 
 
 Ccesar. And man too. Let us listen : 
 I love all music. 
 
 Song of the Soldiers -within. 
 
 The Black Bands came over 
 
 The Alps and their snow ; 
 With Bourbon, the rover, 
 
 They past the broad Po. 
 We have beaten all foemen. 
 
 We have captured a king, 
 We have turned back on no men, 
 
 And so let us sing! 
 Here's the Bourbon for ever ! 
 
 Though pennyless all, 
 We'll have one more endeavour 
 
 At yonder old wall. 
 Witli the Bourbon we'll gather 
 
 At day - dawn before 
 The gates, and together 
 
 Or break or climb o'er 
 The wall : on the ladder 
 
 As mounts each firm foot. 
 Our shout shall grow gladder, 
 
 And death only be mute. 
 With the Bourbon we'll mount o'er 
 
 The walls of old Rome, 
 And who then shall count o'er 
 
 The spoils of each dome? 
 Up! up! with the lily! 
 
 And down Avith the keys ! 
 In old Rome, the Seven-hilly, 
 
 We'll revel at ease. 
 Her streets shall be gory, 
 
 Her Tiber all red, 
 And her temples so hoary 
 
 Shall clang with our tread. 
 Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon ! 
 
 The Bourbon for aye ! 
 Of our song bear the burthen ! 
 
 And fire, fire away ! 
 With Spain for the vanguard, 
 
 Our varied host comes ; 
 And next to tlie Spaniard 
 
 Beat Germany's drums; 
 And Italy's lances 
 
 Are couched at their mother ; 
 But our leader from France is. 
 
 Who warred with his brother. 
 Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 
 
 Sans country or home. 
 We'll follow the Bourbon, 
 
 To plunder old Rome. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFOR:\rED. 
 
 511 
 
 Casar, An indifferent song 
 For those within the walls, methinks, to hear. 
 
 Arnold. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here 
 The General with his chiefs and men of trust. [comes 
 A goodly rebel ! 
 
 Enter the Constable Bourbon, cum auU. 
 
 Philihert How now, noble Prince, 
 You are not cheerful ? 
 
 Bourbon. Why should I be so J 
 
 Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours, 
 Most men would be so. 
 
 ^owrton. If I were secure! [mant, 
 
 Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of ada- 
 They'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 
 
 Bourbon. That they will falter is my least of fears. 
 That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 
 Tiieir chief, and all their kindled appetites 
 To marshal them on — were those hoary walls 
 Mountains, and those who guard them like the Gods 
 Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans; — 
 But now — 
 
 Phil. They are but men who war with mortals. 
 
 Bourbon. True: but those walls have girded in great 
 And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth [ages. 
 
 And present phantom of imperious Rome 
 Is peopled with those warriors ; and methinks 
 They flit along the eternal city's rampart, 
 And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands, 
 And beckon me away ! 
 
 Phil. So let them ! Wilt thou 
 Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows? 
 j Bourbon. They do not menace me. I could have faced, 
 'Methinks, a Sylla's menace; but they clasp 
 And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands, 
 And with their thin aspen faces and fixed eyes 
 iFascinate mine. Look there! 
 j Phil. Hook upon 
 W lofty battlement. 
 
 Bourbon. And there ! 
 ! Phil. Not even 
 
 j!\l guard in sight; tJiey wisely keep below, 
 sheltered by the gray parapet, from some 
 Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
 jPractise in the cool twilight. 
 I Bourbon. You are blind. 
 I Phil, If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
 jje so. 
 
 j Bourbon. A thousand years have manned thewalls 
 jiVith all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 
 |ind tears his bowels, rather than survive I ^ ** 
 
 'he liberty of that I would enslave. 
 I lid the first Csesar with his triumphs flits 
 'rom battlement to battlement. 
 
 Phil. Then conquer 
 
 lie walls for which he conquered, and be greater! 
 
 Bourbon. True : so I will, or perish. 
 
 Phil. You can not. 
 
 1 such an enterprise to die is rather 
 
 lie dawn of an eternal day, than death. 
 
 Count Arnolu and C^sar advance. 
 
 C(esar. And the mere men — do they toosweat beneath 
 The noon of this same ever-scorcliing glory? 
 
 Bourbon. Ah ! 
 Welcome the bitter Hunchback ! and his Master, 
 The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 
 And generous as lovely. We shall find 
 Work for you botli ere morning. 
 
 Ccesar. You will find, 
 So please your Highness, no less for yourself. 
 
 Bourbon. And if I do, there will not be a labourer 
 More forward. Hunchback! 
 
 CcBsar. You may well say so. 
 For you have seen that back — as general. 
 Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
 Have never seen it. 
 
 Bourbon. That's a fair retort. 
 For I provoked it: — but the Bourbon's breast 
 Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
 In danger's face as yours, were you the Devil. 
 
 CcEsar. And if I were, I might have saved myself 
 The toil of coming here. 
 
 Phil. Why so? 
 
 Ccesar. One half 
 Of your brave bands of their own bold accord 
 Will go to him, the other half be sent. 
 More swiftly, not less surely, 
 
 Bourbon. Arnold, your 
 Slight crooked friend 's as snake-like in his words 
 As his deeds. 
 
 CcEsar. Your Highness much mistakes me. 
 The first snake was a flatterer — I am none; 
 And for my deeds, I only sting when stung, [and quick 
 
 Bourbon. You are brave, and that's enough for me ; 
 In speech as sharp in action — and that's more. 
 I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
 Comrade. 
 
 Ccesar. They are but bad company, your Highness ; 
 And worse even for their friends than foes, as being 
 More permanent acquaintance. 
 
 Phil. How now, fellow ! 
 Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
 Of a buffoon. 
 
 Ccesar. You mean, I speak the truth. 
 I'll lie — it is as easy : then you'll praise me 
 For calling you a hero. 
 
 Bourbon. Philibert! 
 Let him alone ; he's brave, and ever has 
 Been first witli that swart face and mountain-shoulder 
 In field or storm, and patient in starvation; 
 And for his tongue, the camp is full of licence. 
 And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
 Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
 The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
 Of a mere famished, sullen, grumbling slave. 
 Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
 And wine, and sleep, and a few maravcdis, 
 With which he deems him rich. 
 
 Ccesar. It would be well 
 If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 
 
512 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Bourhon. Be silent ! 
 
 CcBsar. Aye, but not idle. Work yourself with words ! 
 You have few to speak. 
 
 Phil. What means the audacious prater? 
 
 CcBsar. To prate, like other prophets. 
 
 Bourhon. Pliilibert ! 
 Why will you vex him? Have we not enough 
 To think on? Arnold! I will lead the attack 
 To-morrow. 
 
 Arnold. I have heard as much, my Lord. 
 
 Bourbon. And you will follow? 
 
 Arnold. Since I must not lead. 
 
 Bourhon. 'Tis necessary for the further daring 
 Of our too needy army, that their chief 
 Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's 
 First step, 
 
 CcBsar. Upon its topmost, let us hope: 
 So shall he have his full deserts. 
 
 Bourhon. The world's 
 Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
 Through every change the seven -hilled city hath 
 Retained her sway o'er nations, and the Csesars 
 But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
 Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest, 
 Still the world's masters ! Civilized, barbarian, 
 Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
 Have been the circus of an empire. Well! 
 'Twas their turn — now 'tis ours; and let us hope 
 That we will fight as well, and rule much better. 
 
 CcBsar. No doubt, the camp's the school of civic rights. 
 What would you make of Rome? 
 
 Bourhon. That which it was. 
 
 Casar. In Alaric's time? 
 
 Bourhon. No, slave ! In the first Caesar's, 
 Whose name you bear like other curs. 
 
 CcBsar. And kings. 
 'Tis a great name for bloodhounds. 
 
 Bourhon. There's a demon 
 In that fierce rattle - snake, thy tongue. Wilt never 
 Be serious ? 
 
 CcEsar, On the eve of battle, no; — 
 That were not soldier -like. 'Tis'for the general 
 To be more pensive : we adventurers 
 
 Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think? 
 
 Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape. 
 
 Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts ! 
 
 If the knaves take to thinking, you will have 
 
 To crack those walls alone. 
 
 Bourhon. You may sneer, since 
 'Tis lucky for you that you fight no worse for't. 
 
 Ccesar. I thank you for the freedom ; 'tis the only 
 Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 
 
 Bourhon. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourse 
 Look on those towers; they hold my treasury. 
 But, Philibert, we'll in to council. Arnold, 
 We would request your presence. 
 
 Arnold. Prince ! my service 
 Is yours, as in the field. 
 
 Bourhon. In both we prize it. 
 And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak. 
 
 Ccesar. And mine ? 
 
 Bourhon. To follow glory with the Bourbon. 
 Good night ! 
 
 Arnold, (to Ca;sar). Prepare our armour for the assau 
 And wait within my tent. 
 
 [Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, Philibert, e 
 CcBsar.{so\vLi). Within thy tent ! 
 Thinkst tfiou that I pass from thee with my presence ? 
 Or tliat this crooked cofler, which contained 
 Thy principle of life, is aught to me 
 Except a mask? And these are men, forsootJi ! 
 Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards! 
 This is the consequence of giving matter 
 Tlie power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, 
 And thinks chaotically, as it acts. 
 Ever relapsing into its first elements. 
 Well! I must play with these poor puppets: 'tis 
 The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
 When I grow weary of it, I have business 
 Amongst tlie stars, which these poor creatures detm 
 Were made for them to look at. 'Twere a jest now 
 To bring one down amongst them and set fire 
 Unto their ant-hill: how the pismires then 
 Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing 
 From tearing down each others' nests, pipe forth 
 One universal orison ! Ha! ha! [Eiit Cais; 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Before the Walls of Rome. The assault; the army in motion, with lad- 
 
 dera to scale the walls; Bourbon, with a wliite scarf over his armour, 
 
 foremost. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits in the air. 
 
 'Tis the morn, but dim and dark, 
 Whither flies the silent lark? 
 Whither shrinks the clouded sun? 
 
 Is the day indeed begun? 
 Nature's eye is melancholy 
 O'er the city high and holy : 
 But without there is a din 
 Should arouse the saints within. 
 And revive the heroic ashes 
 Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 
 Oil ye seven hills ! awaken, 
 Ere your very base be shaken ! 
 
ACT II. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 513 
 
 I 
 
 Hearken to the steady stamp! 
 
 Mars is in their every tramp ! 
 
 Not a step is out of tune, 
 
 As the tides obey the moon! 
 
 On tliey march, though to self- slaughter, 
 
 Regular as rolling water. 
 
 Whose high waves o'ersweep the border 
 
 Of huge moles, but keep their order, 
 
 Breaking only rank by rank. 
 
 Hearken to the armour's clank! 
 
 Look down o'er each frowning warrior, 
 
 How he glares upon the barrier ; 
 
 Look on each step of cacli ladder, 
 
 As the stripes that streak an adder. 
 
 Look upon the bristling wall, 
 Mann'd without an interval ! 
 Round and round, and tier on tier, 
 Cannon's black moutli, shining spear, 
 Lit match, bell-mouth'd musquetoon, 
 Gaping to be murderous soon. 
 All the warlike gear of old, 
 Mix'd with what we now behold, 
 In this strife 'twixt old and new, 
 Gather like a locusts' crew. 
 Shade of Remus ! 'tis a time 
 Awful as thy brother's crime! 
 Christians war against Christ's shrine: — 
 Must its lot be like to thine? 
 
 Near — and near — and nearer still, 
 
 As the earthquake saps the hill. 
 
 First with trembling, hollow motion, 
 
 Like a scarce -awaken'd ocean. 
 
 Then with stronger shock and louder. 
 
 Till the rocks are crush'd to powder, — 
 
 Onward sweeps the rolling host! 
 
 Heroes of the immortal boast! 
 
 Mighty Chiefs! Eternal Shadows! 
 
 First flowers of the bloody meadows 
 
 Which encompass Rome, the mother 
 
 Of a people without brother! 
 
 Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 
 
 Plough the root up of your laurels? 
 
 Ye whowepto'erCarthage burning, 
 
 AVeep not — strike ! for Rome is mourning ! 
 
 Onward sweep the varied nations! 
 Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
 To the wall, with Hate and Hunger, 
 Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 
 On they sweep. Oh ! glorious city, 
 Must thou be a theme for pity ! 
 Fight, like your first sire, each Roman! 
 Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
 Match'd w ith Bourbon's black banditti ! 
 Rouse thee, thou eternal City! 
 Rouse thee ! Rather give the torch 
 With thy own hand to thy porch, 
 Than behold such hosts pollute 
 Your worst dwelling with their foot. 
 
 Ah ! behold yon bleeding spectre ! 
 Ilion's children iind no Hector; 
 Priam's offspring loved their brother; 
 Rome's great sire forgot his mother, 
 When he slew his gallant twin, 
 With inexpiable sin. 
 See the giant -shadow stride 
 O'er the ramparts high and wide! 
 When he first o'erleapt thy wall, 
 Its foundation mourn'd thy fall. 
 Now, though towering like a Babel, 
 Who to stop his steps are able ? 
 Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
 Remus claims his vengeance, Rome ! 
 
 Now they reach thee in their anger : 
 Fire, and smoke, and hellish clangour 
 Are around thee, thou world's wonder ! 
 Death is in thy walls and under. 
 Now the meeting steel first clashes; 
 Downward then the ladder crashes, 
 With its iron load all gleaming, 
 Lying at its foot blaspheming! 
 Up again ! for every warrior 
 Slain, another climbs the barrier. 
 Thicker grows the strife: thy ditches 
 Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
 Rome! Although thy wall may perish. 
 Such manure thy fields will cherish, 
 Making gay the harvest- home; 
 But thy hearths, alas! oh, Rome! — 
 Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish, 
 Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish ! 
 
 Yet once more, ye old Penates! 
 
 Let not your quenched hearths be Ate's ! 
 
 Yet again, ye shadowy heroes, 
 
 Yield not to these stranger Neroes ! 
 
 Though the son who slew his mother, 
 
 Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother : 
 
 'Twas the Roman curb'd the Roman: — 
 
 Brennus was a baffled foeman. 
 
 Yet again, ye Saints and Martyrs, 
 
 Rise, for yours are holier charters. 
 
 Mighty Gods of temples falling, 
 
 Yet in ruin still appalling ! 
 
 Mightier founders of those altars. 
 
 True and Christian, — strike the assaulters! 
 
 Tiber! Tiber! let thy torrent 
 
 Show even Nature's self abhorrent. 
 
 Let each breathing heart dilated 
 
 Turn, as doth the lion baited! 
 
 Rome be crush'd to one wide tomb, 
 
 But be still the Roman's Rome ! 
 
 BouRBO.N, Arnold, C^sak, and others, arrive at the loot of tlie uall. 
 ^ Arnolu is about to plant his ladder. 
 
 Bourbon. Hold, Arnold: I am first 
 
 Arnold. Not so, my Lord. 
 
 Bourbon, Hold, sir, I charge you! Follow! I am proud 
 
 33 
 
514 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 ACT 
 
 Of such a follower, bnt will brook no leader. 
 
 [Bourbon plaiiU his ladder, and begins to meant. 
 Now, boys! On! Ou! [a shot strikes him, and Bourbon fails. 
 
 Ccesar, And off! 
 Arnold. Eternal powers ! 
 The liost will be appalled, — But vengeance! vengeance! 
 Bourbon. 'Tis nothing — lend me your hand. 
 
 [Bourbon takes Arnold by the hand and rises; bnt as he puts his foot 
 on the step, falls again. 
 
 Arnold ! I am sped. 
 Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal it! 
 Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon ; 
 Let not the soldiers see it. 
 
 Arnold, You must be 
 Removed ; the aid of — 
 
 Bourbon. No, my gallant boy; 
 Death is upon me. But what is one life? 
 The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
 Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay. 
 Till they are conquerors — then do as you may. 
 
 CcBsar. Would not your highness choose to kiss the 
 We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword [cross? 
 May serve instead : — it did the same for Bayard. 
 
 Bourbon. Thou bitter slave ! to name him at this time! 
 But I deserve it. 
 
 Arnold, (to Caesar). Villain, hold your peace ! 
 
 CcEsar. What, when a Christian dies? Shall I not offer 
 A christian "Vade in pace?" 
 
 Arnold. Silence! Oh! 
 Those eyes are glazing, which o'erlook'd the world. 
 And saw no equal. 
 
 Bourbon. Arnold, shouldst thou see [Oh ! 
 
 France — But hark ! hark ! the assault grows warmer — 
 For but an hour, a minute more of life 
 To die within the wall ! Hence, Arnold ! hence! 
 You lose time — they will conquer Rome without thee. 
 
 Arnold. And without thee .' 
 
 Bourbon. Not so; I'll lead them still 
 In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not 
 That I have ceased to breathe. Away ! and be 
 Victorious ! 
 
 Arnold. But I must not leave thee thus. 
 
 Bourbon. You must — farewell— Up! up! the world 
 is winning. [Bourbon dies. 
 
 CcEsar, (to Arnold). Come, Count, to business. 
 
 Arnold. True. I'll weep hereafter. 
 
 [Arnold covers Bourbon's body with a mantle, and mounts the ladder, 
 crying: 
 
 The Bourbon ! Bourbon ! On boys ! Rome is ours ! 
 CcEsar. Good night, Lord Constable ! thou wert a man. 
 
 [Czesar follows Arnold; they reach the battlement; Arnold and 
 Caesar are struck down. 
 
 A precious somerset! Is your Countship injured? 
 
 Arnold. No. [Remounts the ladder. 
 
 Ccesar. A rare blood -hound, when his own is heated ! 
 And 'tis no boy's-play. Now he strikes them down ! 
 His hand is on the battlement — he grasps it 
 As though it were an altar ; now his foot 
 Is on it, and — What have we here, a Roman ? [a man fails. 
 The first bird of the covey ! he has fallen 
 On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow ? 
 
 [Di 
 
 Wounded Man. A drop of water 
 
 CcEsar. Blood's the only liquid 
 Nearer than Tiber. 
 
 Wounded Man. I have died for Rome. 
 
 CcBsar. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 
 Oh these immortal men ! and their great motives ! 
 But I mustafter my young charge. He is 
 By this time i' the forum. Charge ! charge! 
 
 [Caesar mounts the ladder ; the Scene clos 
 
 SCENE IL 
 
 The City. — Combats between the Besiegers and Besieged in the stret 
 Inhabitants flying in confusion. 
 
 Enter Cm&lk. 
 
 Ccesar. I cannot find my hero ; he is mixed 
 With the heroic crowd that now pursue 
 The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 
 What have we here? A Cardinal or two 
 That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
 How the old red-shanks scamper ! Could they doff 
 Their hose as they have dolled their hats, 'twould be 
 A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
 But let them fly, the crimson kennels now 
 Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 
 Is of the self-same purple hue. 
 
 Enter a party fighting — Arnold at the head of the Besiegers. 
 
 He comes. 
 Hand in hand with the mild twins — Gore and Glory. 
 Holla! hold. Count! 
 
 Arnold. Away! they must not rally. 
 
 CcBsar. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden bridge 
 Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 
 A form of beauty, and an 
 Exemption from some maladies of body. 
 But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 
 But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 
 I dipt thee not in Styx ; and 'gainst a foe 
 I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
 More than Pelides' heel; why then, be cautious, 
 And know thyself a mortal still. 
 
 Arnold. And who 
 With aught of soul would combat if he were 
 Invulnerable? That were pretty sport. 
 Thinkst thou I beat for hares when lions roar ? 
 
 [Arnold rashes into the coinbi 
 
 CcEsar. A precious sample of humanity ! 
 Well, his blood's up, and if a little's shed, 
 'Twill serve to curb his fever. 
 
 [Arnold engages with a Roman, who retires towards a portic 
 
 Arnold. Yield thee, slave ! 
 I promise quarter. 
 
 Roman. That's soon said. 
 
 Arnold. And done — 
 My word is known 
 
 Roman. So shall be my deeds. 
 
 [They re-engage. Caesar comes forwani 
 
 CcBsar. Why, Arnold! Hold thine own ; thou hast i 
 A famous artizan, a cunning sculptor ; [han 
 
 Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
 
iCT n. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 515 
 
 ^ot so, my musquctcer ; 'twas he who slew 
 rhe Bourbon from the wall. 
 
 Arnold. Aye, did he so? 
 rhen he hath carved his monument. 
 
 Roman. I yet 
 \Iay live to carve your betters. 
 
 Cmsar. Well said, my man of marble! Benvenuto, 
 rhou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 
 »Vho slays Cellini, will have work'd as hard 
 IS e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 
 
 [Arnold disarms and wounds Cellini, but slightly; the latter draws a 
 pistol and fires ; then retires and disappears through the portico. 
 
 CcEsar. How farest thou? Thou hast a taste, methinks, 
 )f red Bellona's banquet. 
 
 Arnold, (staggers). 'Tis a scratch, 
 lend me tliy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus. 
 
 CcBsar. Where is it? 
 
 Arnold. In the shoulder, not the sword-arm, 
 Lnd that's enoug^h. I am thirsty: would I had 
 . helm of water ! 
 
 CcBiar. That's a liquid now 
 ji requisition, but by no means easiest 
 o come at. 
 
 Arnold. And my thirst increases; — but 
 U find a way to quench it, 
 
 C<esar. Or be quench'd thyself? 
 
 Arnold. The chanfie is even ; we will throw 
 he dice thereon. But I lose time in prating ; 
 
 rithee be quick. [C?Bsar binds on the scarf. 
 
 And what dost thou so idly ? 
 Thy dost not strike ? 
 Casar. Your old philosophers 
 leheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
 he Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
 Torth wrestling for, I may be found a Milo. 
 Arnold. Aye, 'gainst an oak. 
 Ceesar. A forest, when it suits me. 
 bombat with a mass, or not at all. 
 Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine : 
 '^hich is just now to gaze, since all these labourers 
 '^ill reap my harvest gratis. 
 Arnold. Thou art still 
 fiend! 
 
 CcEsar. And thou — a man. 
 Arnold. Why, such I fain would show me. 
 CcEsar. True — as men are. 
 Arnold. And what is that? 
 CcBsar. Thou feelest and thou seest. 
 
 [Exit Arnold, joining in the pombat which still continues bctwctn 
 detached parties. The Scene closes. 
 
 SCENE HI. 
 
 \ Peter's. The Interior of the Church. The Pope at the Altar. Priests 
 [crowding in confusion, and Citizens flying for refuge, pursued by 
 Soldiery. 
 
 Enter Caesar. 
 
 A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, comrades ! seize 
 
 upon those lamps ! 
 cave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine ! 
 3 rosary's of gold ! 
 
 Lutheran Soldier. Revenge! Revenge! 
 Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now — 
 Yonder stands Anti-Christ ! 
 
 Ceesar. (interposing). How now, Schismatic! 
 What wouldst thou? 
 
 Lutheran Soldier. In the holy name of Christ, 
 Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 
 
 Ceesar. Yea, a disciple that would make tlie founder 
 Of your belief renounce it, could he sec 
 Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 
 
 Lutheran Soldier. I say he is the Devil. 
 
 Ceesar. Hush ! keep that secret, 
 Lest he should recognize you for his own. 
 
 Lutheran Soldier. Why would you save him ? I re- 
 peat he is 
 The Devil, or the Devil's Vicar uponJEarth. 
 
 Ceesar. And that's the reason; would you make a 
 quarrel 
 With your best friends? You had far best be quiet; 
 His hour is not yet come. 
 
 Lutheran Soldier. That shall be seen ! 
 
 [The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward ; a shot stiikes him from one 
 of the Pope's Guards, and he fulls at the foot of the Altar. 
 
 Cetsar (to the Lutheran). I told yOU SO. 
 
 Lutheran Soldier. And will you not avenge me? 
 
 Ceesar. Not I! You know that "Vengeance is the 
 You see he loves no interlopers. [Lord's : " 
 
 Lutheran Soldier, (dyinf). Oh ! 
 Had I but slain liim, I had gone on high, 
 Crown'd with eternal glory ! Heaven, forgive 
 My feebleness of arm that reach'd him not, 
 And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'Tis 
 A glorious triumph still; proud Babylon's 
 No more; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
 Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
 
 And ashes ! [The Lutheran dies. 
 
 Ceesar. Yes, thine own amidst the rest. 
 Well done, old Babel! 
 
 [The Guards defend themselves desperately, while the Pontiff escapes, 
 by a private passage, to the Vatican and the Castle of St. Angelo. 
 
 Ceesar. Ha ! right nobly battled ! 
 Now, Priest! now. Soldier! the two great professions, 
 Together by the ears and hearts ! I have not 
 Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus 
 Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best then; 
 Now they must take their turn. 
 
 Soldiers. He hath escaped ! Follow ! [up, 
 
 Another Soldier. They have barr'd the narrow passage 
 And it is clogg'd with dead even to the door. [for't 
 
 Ceesar. I am glad he hath escaped : he may thank me 
 In part. I would not liave his bulls abolished — 
 'Twere worth one half our empire: his indulgences 
 Demand some in return; — no, no, he must not 
 Fall ; — and besides, his now escape may furnish 
 A future miracle, in future proof 
 
 Of his infallibility. [To the Spanish Soldiery. 
 
 Well, Cut-throats! 
 What do you pause for? If you make not haste, 
 There will not be a link of pious gold left: 
 AndyoM too. Catholics! Would ye return 
 From such a pilgrimage without a relic? 
 
516 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 The very Lutherans have more true devotion : 
 See how they strip the shrines ! 
 
 Soldiers. By holy Peter ! 
 He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bear 
 Tlie best away. 
 
 CcBsar. And that were shame ! Go to ! 
 Assist in their conversion. 
 
 [The Soldiers disperse; many quit the Church, others enter. 
 
 CcEsar. They are gone, 
 And others come: so flows the wave on wave 
 Of what these creatures call eternity, 
 Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean, 
 While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
 That foam is their foundation. So, anotlier ! 
 
 Enter Olimpia, flying from the pursuit — She springs upon the altar. 
 
 Soldier, She's mine. 
 
 Another Soldier, (opposing the former). 
 
 You lie, I track'd her first ; and, were she 
 The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. [They fight. 
 
 Third Soldier (advancing towards Olimpia). 
 
 You may settle 
 Your claims ; I'll make mine good. 
 
 Olimpia. Infernal slave ! 
 You touch me not alive. 
 
 lliird Soldier. Alive or dead! 
 
 Olimpia (embracing a massive crucinx). Respect yOUr God ! 
 
 77iird Soldier. Yes, when he shines in gold. 
 Girl, you but grasp your dowry. 
 
 [As be advances, Olimpia, with a strong and sudden effort, casts down 
 the crucifix ; it strikes the Soldier, who falls. 
 
 Third Soldier. Oh, great God ! 
 
 Olimpia. All ! now you recognize him. 
 
 Third Soldier. My brain's crushed! 
 Comrades, help, ho ! All's darkness ! [He dies. 
 
 Other Soldiers (coming up). Slay her, although she had 
 a thousand lives : 
 She hath killed our comrade. 
 
 Olimpia. Welcome such a death ! 
 You have no life to give, which the worst slave 
 Would take. Great God ! through thy redeeming Son, 
 And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
 I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, and thee! 
 
 Enter Arnold. 
 
 Arnold. What do I see? Accursed jackals ! 
 Forbear ! [dogs 
 
 C«*ar. (aside, and laughing). Ha! ha! here's equity ! The 
 Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! 
 
 Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade. 
 
 Arnold. With what weapon? 
 
 Soldier. The cross, beneath which he iscrush'd; be- 
 hold liim 
 Lie there, more like a worm than man; she cast it 
 Upon his head. 
 
 Arnold. Even so ; there is a woman 
 Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such. 
 Ye would have honoured her. But get ye hence, 
 And thank your meanness, other God you have none, 
 For your existence. Had you touched a hair 
 Of those dishevelled locks, I would have thinned 
 
 Your ranks more than the enemy. Away ! 
 Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the lion leaves. 
 But not even these till he permits. 
 
 A Soldier (murmuring). The lion 
 Might conquer for himself then. 
 
 Arnold (cuts him down). Mutineer ! 
 Rebel in hell — you shall obey on earth ! 
 
 [The Soldiers assault Amok 
 
 Come on ! I'm glad on't ! I will show you, slaves. 
 How you should be commanded, and who led you 
 First o'er the wall you were as shy to scale. 
 Until I waved my banners from its height, 
 As you are bold within it. 
 
 [Arnold mows down the foremost; the rest throw down their arm; 
 
 Soldiers. Mercy! mercy! 
 
 Arnold. Then learn to grant it. Havel taught you «;/«( 
 Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements ? 
 
 Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it; yet forgive 
 A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
 The conquest which you led to. 
 
 Arnold. Get you hence ! 
 Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fixed 
 In the Colonna-palace. 
 
 Olimpia (aside). In my father's house I 
 
 Arnold (to the Soldiers). Leave your arms ; ye have m 
 further need 
 Of such: the City's rendered. And mark well 
 You keep your hands clean, or I'll find out a stream, 
 As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 
 
 Soldiers (deposing their arras and departing). We obey. 
 
 Arnold (to oiimpia). Lady ! you are safe. 
 
 Olimpia. I should be so, 
 Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
 Death hath a thousand gates : and on Uie marble, 
 Even at the altar-foot, whence I look down 
 Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd, 
 Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man ! 
 
 Arnold. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and 
 Thine own, although I have not injured thee. 
 
 Olimpia. No! Thouhastonly sackedmy native land,- 
 No injury ! — and made my father's house 
 A den of thieves — No injury! — this temple — 
 Slippery with Roman and holy gore. 
 No injury ! — And now thou wouldst preserve me, 
 To be — but that shall never be ! 
 
 [She raises her eyes to heaven, folds her robe round her, and prep; 
 res to dash herself down on the side of the Altnr oppo:itc to th;i 
 where Arnold stands. 
 
 Arnold. Hold ! hold ! I swear. 
 
 Olimpia. Spare thine already forfeit soul 
 A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. 
 I know thee. 
 
 Arnold. No, thou knowst me not; I am not 
 Of these men, though — 
 
 Olimpia. I judge thee by thy mates ; 
 It is for God to judge thee as thou art. 
 I see thee purple with the blood of Rome; 
 Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er shalt have of me! 
 And here, upon the marble of this temple. 
 Where the baptismal font baptised me God's, 
 I offer him a blood less holy 
 
ACT II. 
 
 THE DEFORiMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 517 
 
 But no less pure (pure as it left me tlien, 
 A redeemed infant) than the holy water 
 The saints have sanctified ! 
 
 [Oliiiipia waves her hand to Arnold with disdain, and da.'lies herself 
 on tlie pavement from the Altar. 
 
 Arnold. Eternal God ! 
 I feel thee now ! Help ! Help ! She's g^one. 
 CcBsar (approaches). I am here. 
 Arnold, Thou ! but oh, save her! 
 CtBSar (assisting him to raise Olirapia). 
 
 She liath done it well ; 
 The leap was serious. 
 I Arnold. Oh! she is lifeless ! 
 i CcBsar. If 
 
 jShe be so, I liave nought to do with that: 
 jThe resurrection is beyond me. 
 ( Arnold. Slave! 
 
 ! CcBsar. Aye, slave or master, 'tis all one: methinks 
 iGrood words, however, are as well at times. 
 
 Arnold. Words ! — Canst thou aid lier? 
 
 CcBsar. I will try. A sprinkling 
 )f that same holy water may be useful. 
 
 [He brings some in his helmet from the font 
 
 Arnold. 'Tis mixed with blood. 
 Casar. There is no cleaner now in Rome. 
 Arnold. How pale, how beautiful ! how lifeless ! 
 Mive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
 ! love but tliee ! 
 
 i CcBsar, Even so Achilles loved 
 Penthesilea ; with his form it seems 
 fou Jiave liis heart, and yet it was no soft one. 
 I Arnold. She breathes I But no, — 'twas nothing, or 
 I'aint flutter life disputes with death. [the last 
 
 t Ccesar. She breathes. 
 Arnold. Thou sayst it ? Then 'tis truth. 
 Ccesar. You do me right — 
 'he Devil speaks truth much oftener than he's deem'd : 
 ■ [e hath an ignorant audience. 
 Arnold (without attending to him). Yes ! her heart beats. 
 Jas ! that the fij;st beat of the only heart 
 ever w ish'd to beat with mine, should vibrate 
 o an assassin's pulse. 
 CcBsar. A sage reflexion, 
 ■ut somewhat late i' the day. Where shall we bear her? 
 say she lives. 
 
 Arnold. And will she live? 
 Ccesar. As much 
 s dust can. 
 
 Arnold. Then she is dead ! 
 
 Ccesar. Bah ! bah ! You are so, 
 And do not know it. She will come to life — 
 Such as you think so, such as you now are; 
 But we must work by human means. 
 
 Arnold. We will 
 Convey her unto the Colonna-palace, 
 Where I have pitched my banner. 
 
 Ccesar. Come then ! raise her up ! 
 
 Arnold. Softly! 
 
 Caisar. As softly as they bear the dead, 
 Perliaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 
 
 Arnold. But doth she live indeed? 
 
 Ccesar. Nay, never fear ! 
 But if you rue it after, blame not me. 
 
 Arnold. Let her but live ! 
 
 Ccesar. The spirit of her life 
 Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
 Count! Count! I am your servant in all things, 
 And this is a new office : — 'tis not oft 
 I am employed in such ; but you perceive 
 How staunch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
 On earth you have often only fiends for friends ; 
 Mow /desert not mine. Soft ! bear her hence, 
 The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit! 
 I am almost enamoured of her, as 
 Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 
 
 Arnold. Thou! 
 
 Ccesar. I. But fear not. I'll not be your rival. 
 
 Arnold. Rival ! 
 
 Ccesar. I could be one right formidable; 
 But since I slew the seven husbands of 
 Tobias' future bride (and after all 
 'Twas sucked out by some incense) I have laid 
 Aside intrigue: 'tis rarely worth the trouble 
 Of gaining, or — what is more difficult — 
 Getting rid of your prize again; for there's 
 The rub ! at least to mortals. 
 
 Arnold. Prithee^ peace ! 
 Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 
 
 Ccesar. Like stars, no doubt; for that's a metaphor 
 For Lucifer and Venus. 
 
 Arnold. To the palace 
 Colonna, as I told you ! 
 
 Ccesar. Oh ! I know 
 My way through Rome. 
 
 Arnold. Now onward, onward! Gently ! 
 
 [Kxeunt, bearing Olinipia. — The Scene cIojck. 
 
518 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a wild but smiling country. 
 Chorus of Peasants singing before the Gates. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The wars are over, 
 
 The spring is come ; 
 The bride and her lover 
 Have sought their home : 
 They are happy, we rejoice ; 
 Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 
 
 The spring is come ; the violet's gone. 
 
 The first-born child of the early sun ; 
 
 With us she is but a winter's flower. 
 
 The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 
 
 And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 
 
 To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 
 
 And when the spring comes with her host 
 Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
 Shrinks froni the crowd that may confuse 
 Her heavenly odour and virgin hues. 
 
 Pluck the otliers, but still remember 
 Their herald out of dim December — 
 The morning-star of all the flowers, 
 The pledge of day-liglit's Icngthen'd hours ; 
 Nor, 'midst the roses, e'er forget 
 The virgin, virgin Yiolet. 
 
 Enter C^ssar (singing). 
 
 The wars are all over, 
 
 Our swords are all idle. 
 
 The steed bites the bridle. 
 The casque's on the wall. 
 There's rest for the rover ; 
 
 But his armour is rusty. 
 
 And the veteran grows crusty. 
 As he yawns in the hall. 
 He drinks — but what's drinking ? 
 
 A mere pause from thinking ! 
 
 No bugle awakes him with life-and-death-call. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 But the hound bayeth loudly, 
 
 The boar 's in the wood, 
 And the falcon longs proudly 
 
 To spring from her hood : 
 On the wrist of the noble 
 
 She sits like a crest, 
 And the air is in trouble 
 
 With birds from their nest. 
 CcBsar. Oh ! shadow of glory! 
 
 Dim image of war ! 
 But the chase hath no story. 
 
 Her hero no star, 
 Since Nimrod, the founder 
 
 Of empire and chase. 
 Who made the woods wonder. 
 
 And quake for their race. 
 When the lion was young, 
 
 In the pride of his migiit, 
 Then 'twas sport for the strong 
 
 To embrace him in fight; 
 To go forth, with a pine 
 
 For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth. 
 Or strike through the ravine 
 
 At the foaming beliemoth ; 
 While man was in stature 
 
 As towers in our time, 
 The first-born of Nature, 
 
 And, like lier, sublime ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 But the wars are over, 
 The spring is come ; 
 The bride and her lover 
 Have sought their liome ; 
 They are happy, and we rejoice; 
 Let their hearts have an echo from every voice ! 
 
 [Exeunt the Peasantry, singii 
 
mL-Amw''&m mMMm^ * 
 
 919 
 
 THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 Long years ! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear 
 And eag-Ie-spirit of a child of song — 
 Long years of outrage, calumny and wrong; 
 Imputed madness, prison'd solitude, 
 And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 
 When the impatient thirst of light and air 
 Parches the heart, and the abhorred grate. 
 Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 
 Works tiirough the throbbing eyeball to the brain 
 With a hot sense of heaviness and pain; 
 And bare, at once. Captivity display'd 
 Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate. 
 Which nothing through its bars admits, save day 
 And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
 rill its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
 And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 
 'Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
 iWhich is my lair, and — it may be — my grave . 
 All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear. 
 Put must be borne. I stoop not to despair; 
 For I have battled with mine agony, 
 \nd made me wings wherewith to overfly 
 The narrow circus of my dungeon-wall, 
 \nd freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; 
 ^nd revoH'd among men and things divine, 
 \nd pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 
 [n honour of the sacred war for him, 
 ' the God who was on earth and is in heaven, 
 ?'or he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb. 
 jThat through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 
 have employ'd my penance to record 
 How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. 
 
 i But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done. 
 
 ^ly long-sustaining friend of many years! 
 
 f I do blot thy final page with tears, 
 
 Cnow that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 
 
 Jut thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 
 
 jiVhich ever playing round me came and smiled, 
 
 Knd woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight, 
 
 IPhou too art gone — and so is my delight: 
 
 lud therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
 
 V ith this last bruise upon a broken reed. 
 
 'hou too art ended — what is left me now? 
 
 or I have anguish yet to bear — and how? 
 
 know not that — but in the innate force 
 j)f my own spirit shall be found resource. 
 i have not sunk, for I had no remorse, 
 
 ^or cause for such : they call'd me mad — and why ? 
 
 Oh Leonora! wilt not tJiotl reply? 
 
 I was indeed delirious in my heart 
 
 To lift my love so lofty as thou art; 
 
 But still my frenzy was not of the mind; 
 
 I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 
 
 Not less because I suffer it unbent. 
 
 That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind. 
 
 Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; 
 
 But let them go, or torture as they will, 
 
 My heart can multiply thine image still ; 
 
 Successful love may sate itself away, 
 
 The wretched are the faithful ; 'tis their fate 
 
 To have all feeling save the one decay. 
 
 And every passion into one dilate. 
 
 As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 
 
 But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 
 
 Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 
 
 Of minds and bodies in captivity. 
 
 And hark! the lash and the increasing howl. 
 
 And the half inarticulate blasphemy ! 
 
 There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, 
 
 Some who do still goad on the o'er-Iabour'd mind, 
 
 And dim the little light that's left behind 
 
 With needless torture, as their tyrant -will 
 
 Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 
 
 With these and with their victims am I class'd, 
 
 'aMid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd; 
 
 'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close: 
 
 So let it be — for then I shall repose. 
 
 I have been patient, let me be so yet; 
 I had forgotten half I would forget. 
 But it revives — oh ! would it were my lot 
 To be forgetful as I am forgot! — 
 Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 
 In this vast lazar- house of many woes? 
 Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind. 
 Nor words a language, nor even men mankind; 
 Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows. 
 And each is tortured in his separate hell — 
 For we are crowded in our solitudes — 
 Many, but each divided by the wall, 
 WHiich echoes Madness in her babbling moods ; — 
 While all can hear, none heeds his neighbour's call — 
 None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all. 
 Who was not made to be the mate of these, 
 Nor bound between distraction and disease. 
 Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here? 
 
520 
 
 LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 Who have debased me in tlie minds of men, 
 Debarring me the usage of my own, 
 Blighting my life in best of its career, 
 Branding my thouglits as tilings to shun and fear. 
 Would I not pay them back these pangs again, 
 And teach them inward sorrow's stifled groan? 
 The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 
 Which undermines our stoical success? 
 No ! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 
 Have pardon'd princes' insults, and Avould die. 
 Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 
 I weed all bitterness from out my breast. 
 It hath no business where thou art a guest; 
 Thy brother hates — but I can not detest; 
 Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 
 
 Look on a love which knows not to despair, 
 But all unquench'd is still my better part. 
 Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart 
 As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
 Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, 
 Till struck, — forth flies the all-etherial dart! 
 And thus at the collision of thy name 
 The vivid thought still flashes through my frame. 
 And for a moment all tilings as they Avere 
 Flit by me; — they are gone — I am the same. 
 And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
 I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
 A princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
 I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
 Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
 And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas! 
 Were punish'd by the silentness of tliine. 
 And yet I did not venture to repine. 
 Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
 Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around . 
 Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground; 
 Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
 Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
 Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — 
 Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above; 
 And in that sweet severity there was 
 A something which all softness did surpass — 
 I know not how — thy genius master'd mine — 
 My star stood still before thee: — if it were 
 Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
 That sad fatality hath cost me dear; 
 But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
 Fit for this cell, which wrongs me, but for thee. 
 The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
 Hath lighten'd half its weight; and for the rest, 
 Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain, 
 And look to thee with undivided breast, 
 And foil the ingenuity of pain. 
 
 It is no marvel — from my very birth 
 My soul was drunk Avith love, which did pervade 
 And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth; 
 Of objects all inanimate I made 
 Idols, and out of Avild and lonely floAvers, 
 And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 
 
 Where I did lay me down within the shade 
 
 Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours. 
 
 Though I was chid for wandering; and the Avise 
 
 Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
 
 Of such materials Avretched men were made. 
 
 And such a truant boy would end in woe. 
 
 And that the only lesson was a blow ; 
 
 And then they smote me, and I did not weep. 
 
 But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
 
 Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 
 
 The visions Avhich arise without a sleep. 
 
 And Avith my years my soul began to pant 
 
 With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain; 
 
 And the Avhole heart exhaled into one Avant, 
 
 But undefined and wandering, till the day 
 
 I found the thing I sought — and that was thee; 
 
 And then I lost my being all to be 
 
 Absorb'd in thine — the world A\'as past aw ay — 
 
 Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 
 
 I loved all solitude — but little thought 
 To spend I know not Avhat of life, remote 
 From all communion Avith existence, save 
 Tlie maniac and his tyrant; had I been 
 Their felloAv, many years ere this had seen 
 My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave ; 
 But Avho hath seen me Avrithe, or heard me rave? 
 Perchance in such a cell Ave suffer more 
 Than the Avreck'd sailor on his desert shore; 
 The AV'orld is all before him — mine is here. 
 Scarce tAvice the space they must accord my bier. 
 What though he perish, -he may lift his eye 
 And Avith a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
 I Avill not raise my own in such reproof, 
 Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon -roof. 
 
 Yet do I feel at times my mind decline 
 But with a sense of its decay: — I see 
 UiiAvonted lights along my prison shine, 
 And a strange demon, Avho is vexing me 
 With pilfering pranks and petty pains, beloAV 
 The feeling of the healthful and the free; 
 But much to one, who long hath suffer'd so, 
 Sickness of heart, and narrOAvness of place, 
 And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
 I tliought mine enemies had been but men, 
 But spirits may be leagued with them — all Earth 
 Abandons — Heaven forgets me; — in the dearth 
 Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 
 It may be, tempt me further, and prevail 
 Against the outAvorn creature they assail. 
 Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
 Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved? 
 Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
 Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 
 
 I once Avas quick in feeling — that is o'er; — 
 My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 
 My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd 
 In mockery through them; — if I bear and bore 
 The much I have recounted, and the more 
 Which hath no Avords, 'tis that I would not die 
 
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 521 
 
 And sanction with self - slaughter the dull Jic 
 
 Whicli snared me here, and with the brand of shame 
 
 Stamp madness deep into my memory, 
 
 And woo compassion to a blighted name. 
 
 Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
 
 No — it shall be immortal ! — and I make 
 
 A future temple of my present cell. 
 
 Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 
 
 While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 
 
 The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, 
 
 And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls, 
 
 A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, 
 
 A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, 
 
 While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls ! 
 
 And thou, Leonora! thou — who wert ashamed 
 
 That such as 1 could love — who blush'd to hear 
 
 To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear. 
 
 Go ! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed 
 
 By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 
 
 A taint of that he would impute to me, 
 
 From long infection of a den like this. 
 
 Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, — 
 
 Adores thee still; — and add — that when the towers 
 
 And battlements which guard his joyous hours 
 
 Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot. 
 
 Or left untended in a dull repose. 
 
 This — this shall be a consecrated spot! 
 
 But Thou — when all that birth and beauty throws 
 
 Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
 
 One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
 
 No power in death can tear our names apart. 
 
 As none in life could rend thee from my heart 
 
 Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 
 
 To be entwined for ever — but too late I 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 Tis the sunset of life gives ine mystical lore. 
 And coining events cast tlieir shadows before. 
 
 Caupbei.l. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 ADv! if for the cold and cloudy clime 
 iVhere I was born, but where I would not die, 
 )f the great Poet-Sire of Italy 
 
 dare to build the imitative rhyme. 
 Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, 
 Thou art the cause; and, howsoever I 
 •"all short of his immortal harmony, 
 ["by gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 
 
 Thou, in the pride of beauty and of jputh, 
 
 Spakest; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
 
 Are one; but only in the sunny Soutli 
 
 Such sounds are utter'd, and such'charms display'd, 
 
 So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 
 
 Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade? 
 
 Ravenna, June 21, 1819. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna, in the 
 ttmmcrof 1819, it was suggested to the author that, having 
 omposed something on the subject of Tasso's confine- 
 iient, he should do the same on Dante's exile — the tomb 
 if the poet forming one of the principal objects of interest 
 a that city, both to the native and to the stranger. 
 
 "On this hint I spake," and the result has been the 
 bllowing four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the 
 e&der. If they are understood and approved, it ismy pur- 
 KJSe to continue the poem in various other cantos to its 
 latural conclusion in the present age. The reader is re- 
 [uested to suppose thatDante addresses him in theintcr- 
 al between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia and 
 
 his death, and shortly before the latter event, foretelling 
 the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensuing centuries. 
 In adopting this plan I have had in my mind the Cassan- 
 dra ofLycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by Horace, 
 as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The measure 
 adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am not aware 
 to have seen hitherto tried in our language, except it may 
 be by INIr. Hayley, of whose translation I never saw but 
 one extract, quoted in the notes to Caliph Vathck; so 
 that — if I do not err — this poem may be considered as 
 a metrical experiment. The cantos are short, and about 
 the same length of those of the poet, whose name I have 
 borrowed, and most probably taken in vain. 
 
 33* 
 
522 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 CANTO 
 
 Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the present 
 da}', it is diflicult for any who have a name, good or bad, 
 to escape translation. I have had tlie fortune to see the 
 fourth canto of Childe Harold, translated intoltalian versi 
 sciolti - that is, a poem written in the Spenserean stanza 
 into blank verse, without regard to the natural divisions 
 of the stanza, or of the sense. If the present poem, being 
 on a national topic, should chance to undergo tlie same 
 fate, I would request the Italian reader to remember, that 
 when I liave failed in tlie imitation of his great "Padre 
 Alighier," I have failed in imitating that which all study 
 and few understand, since to this very day it is not yet 
 settled wiiat was the meaning of the allegory in the first 
 canto of the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious 
 and probable conjecture may be considered as having 
 decided the question. 
 
 He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am iit 
 quite sure that he would be pleased with my success, sine 
 the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, are particuj 
 larly jealous of all that is left them as a nation — their lil 
 terature; and, in the present bitterness of the classic ami 
 romantic war, are but ill disposed to permit a foreignei 
 even to approve or imitate them, without finding som! 
 fault with his ultramontane presumption. I can easily en 
 ter into all this, knowing what would be thought in Eng 
 land of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a translation o 
 Monti, or Pindemonte, or Arici, should be held up to th 
 rising generation as a model for their future poetical es 
 says. But I perceive that I am deviating into an addres 
 to the Italian reader, when my business is with the l"3ng 
 lish one, and be they few or many, I must take my Icav 
 of both. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 Once more in man's frail world! which I had left 
 So long that t'was forgotten; and I feel 
 The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 
 
 Of the immortal vision which could heal 
 My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
 Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, 
 
 Where late my ears rung with the damned crie :? 
 Of souls in liopeless bale; and from that place 
 Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 
 
 Pure from tlie fire to join the angelic race ; 
 Midst whom my own briglit Beatrice bless'd 
 My spirit with her liglit ; and to the base 
 
 Of the Eternal Triad! first, last, best, 
 
 Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God! 
 Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 
 
 Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 
 
 From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 
 Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 
 
 So long hath press'd, and the cold marble-stone, 
 Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, 
 Love so ineffable, and so alone. 
 
 That nought on earth could more my bosom move, 
 And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
 That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, 
 
 Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 
 Relieved her wing till found ; without thy light 
 My Paradise had still been incomplete. 
 
 Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
 Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, 
 Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright 
 
 Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 
 
 With the world's war, and years, and banishment. 
 And tears for thee, by other woes untaught; 
 
 For mine is not a nature to be bent 
 
 By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd ; 
 And though the long, long contlict hath been spent 
 
 In vain, and never more, save when the cloud, 
 Whicli overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye 
 Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 
 
 Of me, can I return, though but to die. 
 Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
 Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. 
 
 But the sun, though not overcast, must set. 
 And the night cometli ; I am old in days, 
 And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 
 
 Destruction face to face in all his ways. 
 
 The world hath left me, what it found me — pure, 
 And if I have not gather 'd yet its praise, 
 
 I sought it not by any baser lure ; 
 
 Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
 May form a monument not ail obscure, 
 
 Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, 
 To add to the vain-glorious list of those 
 Who dabble in the pettiness of fame. 
 
 And make men's fickle breath the wind tliat blows 
 Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
 Witli conquerors, and virtue's other foes. 
 
 In bloody chronicles of ages past. » 
 
 I would have had my Florence great and free : 
 Oh Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast 
 
 Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
 
 Wept over: "but thou wouldst not; " as tiie bird 
 Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee 
 
 Beneath a parent-pinion, hadst thou heard 
 My voice; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
 Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd 
 
 T hy venom, and my state thou didst amerce. 
 And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
 Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 
 
 To him who/or that country would expire, 
 But did not merit to expire by her. 
 And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 
 
CANTO I. 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 523 
 
 The day may come when she will cease to err, 
 The day may come she would be proud to have 
 The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer 
 
 Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave ! 
 But this shall not be granted; let my dust 
 Lie where it falls; nor shall the soil which gave 
 
 Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
 Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
 My indignant bones, because her angry gust 
 jiJForsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom. 
 
 No, — she denied me what was mine — my roof. 
 And shall not have what is not hers — my tomb. 
 m|Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof 
 
 The breast which would have bled for her, the heart 
 That beat, the mind that was temptation-proof, 
 
 The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each part 
 Of a true citizen fultiU'd, and saw 
 For his reward the Guelfs ascendant art 
 
 pass his destruction even into a law. 
 These things are not made for forgetfulness — 
 Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw 
 
 frhe wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress 
 Of such endurance too proloug'd, to make 
 My pardon greater, her injustice less, 
 
 [Though late repented ; yet — yet for her sake 
 I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine. 
 My own Beatrice, I would hardly take 
 
 V engeance upon the land which once was mine. 
 And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, 
 Which would protect tlie murderess like a slirine, 
 
 |ind save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 
 Though, like old Marius from Minturnaj's marsh 
 And Carthage' ruins, my lone breast may burn 
 
 ^t times with evil feelings hot and harsh. 
 And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
 Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch 
 
 tfy brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go! 
 Such are the last infirmities of those 
 Who long have sufler'd more than mortal woe, 
 
 |knd yet, being mortal still, have no repose 
 But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
 Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows 
 ^ith the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change, 
 When we shall mount again, and tliey that trod 
 Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 
 )'er humbled heads and sever'd necks — Great God ! 
 Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands I yield 
 My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 
 Vill fall on those who smote me, — be my shield ! 
 As thou hast been in peri!, and in pain, 
 In turbulent cities, and the tented field — 
 a toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
 For Florence. — I appeal from her to Thee ! 
 Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign. 
 
 Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
 
 And live was never granted until now. 
 
 And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 
 Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 
 
 The sense of earth and earthly things come back. 
 
 Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low. 
 The heart's quick tlirob upon the mental rack. 
 
 Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect 
 
 Of half a century bloody and black. 
 And the frail few years I may yet expect 
 
 Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear, 
 
 For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd 
 On the lone rock of desolate despair 
 
 To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
 
 Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare; 
 Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wail ? 
 
 I am not of this people, nor this age, 
 
 And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 
 Which shall preserve these times w hen not a page 
 
 Of their perturbed annals could attract 
 
 An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 
 Did not my verse embalm full many an act 
 
 Worthless as they who wrought it: 'tis tlic doom 
 
 Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 
 In life, to wear tlieir hearts out, and consume 
 
 Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 
 
 Then future thousands crowd around their tomb. 
 And pilgrims come from climes where they have known 
 
 The name of him — who now is but a name, 
 
 And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone 
 Spread his — by him unheard,unheeded — fame ; 
 
 And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 
 
 Is nothing; but to wither thus — to tame 
 My mind down from its own infinity — 
 
 To live in narrow ways with little men, 
 
 A common sight to every common eye, 
 A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 
 
 Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all tilings 
 
 That make communion sweet, and soften pain — , 
 To feel me in the solitude of kings 
 
 Without the power that makes them bear a crow n -— 
 
 To envy every dove his nest and wings 
 Which waft him where the Apennine looks down 
 
 On Arno, till he perches, it may be. 
 
 Within my all-inexorable town, 
 Where yet my boys are, and tliat fatal she, 
 
 Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought 
 
 Destruction for a dowry — this to see 
 And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 
 
 A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 
 
 I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, — 
 They made an exile — not a slave of me. 
 
524 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 CANTO I 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 The spirit of the fervent days of old, 
 
 When words were things that came to pass, andthouglit 
 
 FJash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 
 Their children's children's doom already brought 
 
 Fortlj from the abyss of time which is to be, 
 
 The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 
 Shapes that must undergo mortality ; 
 
 What the great Seers of Israel wore within, 
 
 That spirit was on tliem, and is on me ; 
 And if, Cassandra-like, amidst tlie din 
 
 Of conflict none will hear or hearing heed 
 
 This voice from out the wilderness, the sin 
 Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed. 
 
 The only guerdon I have ever known. 
 
 Hast tliou not bled? and hast thou still to bleed, 
 Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 
 
 With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 
 
 In thine irreparable wrongs my own; 
 We can have but one country, and even yet 
 
 Thou'rt mine — my bones shall be within thy breast, 
 
 My soul within thy language, which once set 
 With our old Roman sway in the wide West ; 
 
 But I will make another tongue arise 
 
 As lofty and more sweet, in which exprest 
 The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs. 
 
 Shall find alike such sounds for every theme 
 
 That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, 
 Shall realise a poet's proudest dream. 
 
 And make thee Europe's nightingale of song; 
 
 So that all present speech to thine sliall seem 
 The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 
 
 Confess its barbarism when compared with thine. 
 
 This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, 
 Thy Tuscan Bard, the banish'd Glubelline. 
 
 Woe! woe! the veil of coming centuries 
 
 Is rent, — a thousand years which yet supine 
 Lie like the ocean-waves ere winds arise. 
 
 Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, 
 
 Float from eternity into these eyes ; 
 ' The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station. 
 
 The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb. 
 
 The bloody chaos yet expects creation, 
 But all things are disposing for thy doom; 
 
 Tlie elements await but for the word, 
 
 "Let there be darkness!" and thou growst a tomb ! 
 Yes! thou, so beautiful, slialt feci the sword. 
 
 Thou, Italy ! so fair that Paradise, 
 
 Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored: 
 Ah! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 
 
 Thou, Italy ! whose ever golden fields, 
 
 Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, w ould suffice 
 
 For the wortd's granary; thou, whose sky heaven gilds 
 With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue; 
 Thou, in w hose pleasant places Summer builds 
 
 Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew. 
 And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments 
 From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew ; 
 
 Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints, 
 
 Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 
 Her home; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, 
 
 And finds her prior vision but portray'd 
 
 In feeble colours, when the eye — from the Alp 
 Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade 
 
 Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 
 
 Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee. 
 And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for help 
 
 To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 
 
 Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 
 
 The more approach'd, and dearest were they free ; - 
 
 Thou — Thou must wither to each tyrant's will: 
 
 The Goth hath been, — the German, Frank, and Huii 
 Are yet to come, — and on the imperial hill 
 
 Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 
 
 By the old barbarians, theire awaits the new, 
 Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won 
 
 Rome at her feet lies bleeding; and the hue 
 Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
 Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue. 
 
 And deepens into red the saflron water 
 
 Of Tiber, thick with dead ; the helpless priest. 
 And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, 
 
 Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased 
 Their ministry : the nations take their pre}', 
 Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 
 
 And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they 
 Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore 
 Of the departed, and then go their way ; 
 
 But those, the human savages, explore 
 All paths of torture, and insatiate yet. 
 With Ugolino-hunger prowl for more. 
 
 Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set ; 
 The chiefless army of the dead, which late 
 Beneath the traitor prince's banner met. 
 
 Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; 
 Had but the royal rebel lived, perchance 
 Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. 
 
 Oh ! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, 
 From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 
 Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance. 
 
 But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 
 
 Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 
 Crush them, ye rocks! floods, whelm them, and forever! 
 
fcA 
 
 NTO III. 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 525 
 
 Why sleep the idle avalandies so, 
 To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? 
 Why doth Eridanus but overflow 
 
 The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed? 
 Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey ? 
 Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 
 
 ■ler sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway 
 RoH'd over Pharaoh and his thousands, — why, 
 Mountains and waters, do ye not as they? 
 
 Ind you, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die, 
 Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
 Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie 
 
 'he dead whose tomb oblivion never knew, 
 Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylie? 
 Their passes more alluring to the view 
 ►fan invader ? is it they, or ye. 
 That to each host the mountain-gate unbar. 
 And leave the march in peace, the passage free? 
 V^hy, Nature's self detains the victor's car 
 And makes your land impregnable, if earth 
 Could be so ; but alone she will not war, 
 et aids the warrior worthy of bis birth 
 
 In a soil where the mothers bring forth men : 
 Not so with those whose souls are little worth ; 
 
 For them no fortress can avail, — the den 
 Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 
 Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 
 
 The hearts of tliose within are quivering. 
 
 Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 
 
 Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring 
 
 Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil, 
 While still Division sows the seeds of woe 
 And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. 
 
 Oh! my own beauteous land! so long laid low, 
 So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, 
 When there is but required a single blow 
 
 To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger stops, 
 And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and tliee. 
 And join their strength to that which with thee copes: 
 
 What is there wanting then to set thee free. 
 And show thy beauty in its fullest light ? 
 To make the Alps impassable ; and we. 
 
 Her sons, may do this with one deed — Unite! 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 lOM out the mass of never-dying ill. 
 The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Sword, 
 Vials of wrath but emptied to retill 
 id flow again, I cannot all record 
 That crowds on my prophetic eye: the earth 
 And ocean written o'er would not afford 
 lace for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 
 Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, 
 [There where the farthest suns and stars have birth, 
 read like a banner at the gate of heaven. 
 The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
 Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 
 hvvart the sound of archangelic songs, 
 /Ind Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore, 
 SV^ill not in vain arise to where belongs 
 aoipotence and mercy evermore : 
 ILike to a harpstring stricken by tlie wind. 
 The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 
 e seraph-voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
 Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
 Earth's dust by immortality refined 
 sense and sufl'ering, though the vain may scoff, 
 Vnd tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 
 Before the storm because its breath is rough, 
 thee, my country ! whom before, as now, 
 loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 
 ^nd melancholy gift high powers allow 
 ''. read the future ; and if now my fire 
 s not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 
 but foretell thy fortunes — then expire; 
 
 fl 
 
 Think not that I would look on them and live. 
 
 A spirit forces me to see and speak. 
 
 And for my guerdon grants not to survive ; 
 My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break: 
 
 Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
 
 Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 
 Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom 
 
 A softer glimpse ; some stars shine through thy night, 
 
 And many meteors, and above thy tomb 
 Leans sculptured Beauty, which I>eath cannot blight; 
 
 And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise 
 
 To give thee honour and the earth delight; 
 Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise. 
 
 The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave, 
 
 Native to thee as summer to thy skies, 
 Conquerors on foreign shores and the far wave. 
 
 Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name ; 
 
 For thee alone they have no arm to save. 
 And all thy recompense is in their fame, 
 
 A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
 
 Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same? 
 Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 
 
 The being — and even yet he may be born — 
 
 The mortal saviour who shall set thee free. 
 And see thy diadem, so changed and worn 
 
 By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced; 
 
 And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn. 
 Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced 
 
 And noxious vapours from Avernus risen. 
 
 Such as all they must breathe who are debased 
 
526 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE, 
 
 CANTO 
 
 By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 
 
 Yet througli this centuried eclipse of woe 
 
 Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen; 
 Poets shall follow in the path I sliow, 
 
 And make it broader; the same brilliant sky 
 
 Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow, 
 And raise their notes as natural and liigh ; 
 
 Tuneful shall be their numbers : they shall sing 
 
 Many of love, and some of liberty, 
 But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing. 
 
 And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze 
 
 All free and fearless as the feather'd king. 
 But fly more near the earth; how many a phrase 
 
 Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prince 
 
 In all the prodigality of praise ! 
 And language, eloquently false, evince 
 
 The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty. 
 
 Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, 
 And looks on prostitution as a duty. 
 
 He who once enters in a tyrant's hall 
 
 Asguestjis slave, his thoughts become a booty. 
 And the first day which sees the chain enthral 
 
 A captive, sees his half of manhood gone — 
 
 The soul's emasculation saddens all 
 His spirit ; thus the bard too near the throne 
 
 Quails from his inspiration, bound to please, — 
 
 How servile is the task to please alone ! 
 To smooth the verse to suit liis sovereign's ease 
 
 And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 
 
 Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 
 Or force, or forge fit argument of song ! 
 
 Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to flattery's trebles. 
 
 He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong : 
 For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels. 
 
 Should rise up in high-treason to his brain. 
 
 He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 
 In's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his strain. 
 
 But out of the long file of sonneteers 
 
 There shall be some who will not sing in vain. 
 And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers. 
 
 And love shall be his torment; but his grief 
 
 Shall make an immortality of tears. 
 And Italy shall hail him as the Chief 
 
 Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song 
 
 Of freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 
 But in a farther age shall rise along 
 
 The banks of Po two greater still than he; 
 
 The world which smiled on him shall do them wrong 
 Till they are ashes and repose with me. 
 
 The first will make an epoch with his lyre, 
 
 And fill the earth with feats of chivalry : 
 His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire. 
 
 Like that of heaven, immortal, and his thought 
 
 Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire; 
 Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new cauglit. 
 
 Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme, 
 
 And art itself seem into nature wrought 
 By the transparency of his bright dream. — 
 
 The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood. 
 
 Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem; 
 
 He, too, shall sing of arms, and christian blood 
 
 Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his liigli liai [) 
 Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood. 
 
 Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 
 Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 
 And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 
 
 Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave. 
 The red-cross banners where the first red Cross 
 Was crimson'd from his veins who died to save. 
 
 Shall be his sacred argument; the loss 
 Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame 
 Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 
 
 Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, 
 And call captivity a kindness, meant 
 To shield him from insanity or shame, — 
 
 Such shall be his meet guerdon ! who was sent 
 To be Christ's Laureate — they reward him well ! 
 Florence dooms me but death or banishment, 
 
 Ferrara him a pittance and a cell. 
 
 Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 
 
 Had stung the factions which I strove to quell ; 
 
 But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 
 
 Will look on earth and heaven, and who will deign 
 To embalm with his celestial flattery 
 
 As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign. 
 What will he do to merit such a doom ? 
 Perhaps he'll love, — and is not love in vain 
 
 Torture enough without a living tomb ? 
 Yet it will be so — he and his compeer, 
 The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 
 
 In penury and pain too many a year, 
 And, dying in despondency, bequeath 
 To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, 
 
 A heritage enriching all who breathe 
 
 With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul, 
 And to their country a redoubled wreath, 
 
 Unmatch'd by time; not Hellas can unroll 
 
 Through her Olympiads two such names, though ofl 
 Of hers be mighty; — and is this the whole 
 
 Of such men's destiny beneath the sun? 
 
 Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense. 
 The electric blood with which their arteries run. 
 
 Their body's self turn'd soul with the intense 
 Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
 That which should be, to such a recompense 
 
 Conduct? shall their bright plumage on the rough 
 Storm be still scatter'd ? Yes, and it must be. ■ 
 For, form'd of far too penetrable stuft". 
 
 These birds of paradise but long to flee 
 
 Back to their native mansion, soon thej' find 
 Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree. 
 
 And die, or are degraded, for the mind 
 Succumbs to long infection, and despair. 
 And vulture-passions flying close behind. 
 
 Await the moment to assail and tear ; 
 
 And when at length the winged wanderers stoo[H'' 
 Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then they sha 
 
 The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoopi 
 Yet some have been untouch'd, who learn'd to beM^ 
 Some Avhom no power could ever force to droop, 
 
ANTO IV. 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 527 
 
 Vlio could resist themselves even, hardest care, 
 And task most hopeless ! but some such Jiave been, 
 And if my name amongst the number were 
 
 'hat destiny austere, and yet serene. 
 Were prouder than more dazzling- fame unblest j 
 The Alp's snow-summit nearer heaven is seen 
 
 han the volcano's fierce eruptive crest, 
 
 Whose splendour from the black abyss is flung, 
 While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning 
 breast 
 
 A temporary torturing flame is wrung. 
 Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
 Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, 
 
 The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 ANY are poets who have never penn'd 
 
 Their inspiration, and perchance the best: 
 
 They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 
 
 leir thoughts to meaner beings ; they compress'd 
 
 The god within them, and rejoin'd tbe stars 
 
 Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more blest 
 
 lan those who are degraded by the jars 
 
 Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame, 
 
 Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 
 
 my are poets but without the name, 
 
 F'or what is poesy but to create 
 
 From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 
 
 an external life beyond our fate, 
 
 Vnd be the new Prometheus of new men, 
 
 bestowing fire from heaven, and then too late, 
 
 iding the pleasure given repaid with pain, 
 
 Lnd vultures to the heart of the bestower, 
 
 iVho, having lavish'd his high gift in vain, 
 
 chain'd to bis lone rock by the sea-shore? 
 \o be it : we can bear. — But thus all they, 
 Vhose intellect is an o'ermastering power, 
 lich still recoils from its encumbering clay 
 ►t lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
 'he form whicli their creations may essay, 
 bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
 tore poesy upon its speaking brow 
 han aught less than the Homeric page may bear ; 
 jioble stroke with a whole life may glow, 
 t deify the canvass till it shine 
 Fith beauty so surpassing all below, 
 t they who kneel to idols so divine 
 reak no commandment, for high heaven is there 
 ransfused, transfigurated : and the line 
 [Oesy, w hich peoples but the air 
 i/ith thought and beings of our thought reflected, 
 an do no more : then let the artist share 
 T palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 
 lints o'er the labour unapproved — Alas ! 
 espair and Genius are too oft connected. 
 ^ hin the ages which before me pass, 
 jrt shall resume and equal even the sway 
 ■ I'^hich with Apelles and old Phidias 
 31 held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 
 a shall be taught by ruin to revive 
 lie Grecian forms at least from their decay. 
 
 And Roman souls at last again shall live 
 In Roman works wrought by Italian hands. 
 And temples, loftier than the old temples, gi\e 
 
 New wonders to the world; and while still stands 
 The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
 A dome, its image, while the base expands 
 
 Into a fane surpassing all before. 
 
 Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in: ne'er 
 Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 
 
 As this, to which all nations shall repair. 
 
 And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven. 
 And the bold architect unto whose care 
 
 The daring charge to raise it shall be given. 
 Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord. 
 Whether into the marble-chaos driven 
 
 His chisel bid the Hebrew, at whose word 
 Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone, 
 Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd 
 
 Over the damn'd before the judgment-throne. 
 Such as I saw them, such as all shall see. 
 Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, 
 
 The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me. 
 The Ghibelline, who traversed the tJiree realms 
 Which form tlie empire of eternity. 
 
 Amidst the clash of swords and clang of helms, 
 The age which I anticipate, 'no less 
 Shall be the age of beauty, and while whelms 
 
 Calamity the nations with distress. 
 The genius of my country shall arise, 
 A cedar towering o'er the wilderness. 
 
 Lovely in all its branches to all eyes. 
 Fragrant as fair, and recognized afar, 
 Wafting its native incense through the skies. 
 
 Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, 
 Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 
 On canvass or on stone; and they who mar 
 
 All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise. 
 
 Shall feel the power of that which they destroy ; 
 And art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 
 
 To tyrants, who but take her for a toy, 
 Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
 Her charms to pontiff's proud, who but employ 
 
 The man of genius as the meanest brute 
 To bear a burthen, and to serve a need. 
 To sell his labours, and his soul to boot . 
 
528 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 Who toils for nations may be poor indeed, 
 But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no more 
 Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd, 
 
 Stands sleek and slavish bowing at his door. 
 Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest ! liow 
 Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 
 
 Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
 Least like to thee in attributes divine, 
 Tread on the universal necks that bow. 
 
 And then assure us that their rights are thine? 
 And how is it that they, the sons of fame, 
 Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 
 
 From high, they whom the nations oftest name. 
 Must pass their days in penury or pain, 
 Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame. 
 
 And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ? 
 Or if their destiny be borne aloof 
 From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, 
 
 In their own souls sustain a harder proof. 
 The inner war of passions deep and fierce? 
 Florence! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof, 
 
 I loved thee, but the vengeance of my verse, 
 The hate of injuries, which every year 
 Makes greater and accumulates my curse, 
 
 Shall live, outliving all thou boldest dear. 
 Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that, 
 The most infernal of all evils here. 
 
 The sway of petty tyrants in a state; 
 For such sway is not limited to kings, 
 And demagogues yield to them but in date 
 
 As swept off sooner ; in all deadly tilings 
 
 Which make men hate themselves, and one anotlier. 
 In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all tliat springs 
 
 From Death the Sin-born's incest with his mother, 
 In rank oppression in its rudest sliape. 
 The faction-chief is but the sultan's brotlier, 
 
 And the worst despot's far less human ape: 
 Florence ! when this lone spirit, which so long 
 Yearn'd as the captive toiling at escape, 
 
 To fly back to thee in despite of wrong. 
 An exile, saddest of all prisoners. 
 Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, 
 
 Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars, 
 Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth 
 Where — whatsoe'er his fate — he still were hers, 
 
 His country's, and might die where he had birth — 
 Florence ! when this lone spirit shall return 
 To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth. 
 
 And seek to honour with an empty urn 
 The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain. — A las ! 
 "What have I done to thee, my people?" Stern 
 
 Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 
 The limits of man's common malice, for 
 All that a citizen could be I was ; 
 
 Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war. 
 
 And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 'Tis done 
 I may not overleap the eternal bar 
 
 Built up between us, and will die alone. 
 Beholding, with the dark eye of a seer. 
 The evil days to gifted souls foreshown. 
 
 Foretelling them to those who will not hear, 
 As in the old time, till the hour be come 
 When truth shall strike their eyes through ma 
 a tear. 
 
 And make them own the Prophet in his tomb. 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 Our life his twofold: Sleep hath its own world, 
 A boundary between the things misnamed 
 Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, 
 And a wide realm of wild reality; 
 And dreams in their development have breath, 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
 Tliey leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. 
 They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
 They do divide our being; they become 
 A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
 And look like heralds of eternity ; 
 They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
 Like sibyls of the future; they have power — 
 The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; 
 They make us what we were not — what they will, 
 And shake us with the vision that's gone by. 
 
 The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so? 
 Is not the past all shadow? What are they? 
 Creation of the mind ? — The mind can make 
 Substance, and people planets of its own 
 With beings brighter than have been, and give 
 A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
 I would recall avision which I dream'd 
 Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
 A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
 And curdles a long life into one hour. 
 
 I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill. 
 Green and of mild declivity, the last 
 As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such. 
 Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 529 
 
 Hut a most living landscape, and the wave 
 3f woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men 
 scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 Vrising from sucli rustic roofs ; — the hill 
 k\'^as crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
 )f trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 
 ifot by the sport of nature, but of man: 
 i'hese two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
 lazing — the one on all that was beneath 
 'air as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
 Ind both were young, and one was beautiful: 
 iLnd both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
 
 the sweet moon on the horizon's verge 
 I'he maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 
 he boy had fewer summers, but iiis heart 
 [ad far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
 
 here was but one beloved face on earth, 
 nd that was shining on him; he had look'd 
 
 pon it till it could not pass away ; 
 
 c had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 
 
 lie was his voice; he did not speak to her, 
 
 ut trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 
 
 3r his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, 
 
 riuch colour'd all his objects : — he had ceased 
 
 3 live within himself; she was his life, 
 
 le ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
 
 'hich terminated all: upon a tone, 
 
 touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
 
 hd his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 
 
 iknowiug of its cause of agony. 
 
 it sfie in these fond feelings had no share: 
 
 ;r sighs were not for him; to her he was 
 
 'en as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much, 
 
 ir brotherless she was, save in the name 
 
 jf infant -friendship had bestow'd on him; 
 
 jrself the solitary scion left 
 
 a time-honour'd race. — It was a name 
 
 hich pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why? 
 
 me taught him a deep answer — when she loved 
 
 [other; even now she loved another, 
 
 d on the summit of that hill she stood 
 
 oking afar if yet her lover's steed 
 
 pt pace with her expectancy, and flew. 
 
 K change came o'er the spirit of my dream, 
 ere was an ancient mansion, and before 
 walls there was a steed caparison'd : 
 fcttiin an antique oratory stood 
 e boy of whom I spake; — he was alone, 
 d pale, and pacing to and fro ; anon 
 sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
 lords which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
 } bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
 ith a convulsion — then arose again, 
 d with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
 iiat he had written, bnt he shed no tears, 
 
 Sjd he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
 
 iaakindof quiet; as he paused, 
 
 3 2 lady of his love re -entered there; 
 
 5 J was serene and smiling then, and yet 
 
 £ ! knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 
 
 For quickly comes such knowledge, that iiis heart 
 
 Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw 
 
 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
 
 He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps 
 
 Retired, but not as bidding her adieu. 
 
 For they did part with mutual smiles: he pass'd 
 
 From out the massy gate of that old hall, 
 
 And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 
 
 And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds 
 Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
 And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt 
 With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
 Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
 And on the shore he was a Avanderer ; 
 There was a mass of many images 
 Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
 A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
 Reposing from the noon -tide sultriness, 
 Couch'd among fallen columns, in the sliade 
 Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
 Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goddly steeds 
 Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 
 Clad in a flowing garb did watch the w hile, 
 While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
 And they were canopied by the blue sky. 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
 That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The lady of his love was wed with one 
 Who did not love her better ; — in her home , 
 A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 
 She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy. 
 Daughters and sons of beauty, — but behold! 
 Upon her face there Avas the tint of grief, 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife. 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye. 
 As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
 What could her grief be? — she had all she loved, 
 And he who had so loved her was not there 
 To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
 Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
 What could her grief be? — she had loved him not. 
 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved. 
 Nor could he be a part of that which prey 'd 
 Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 
 Before an altar — with a gentle bride ; 
 Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
 The starlight of his boyhood; — as he stood 
 Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came v ,u 
 
 34 
 
530 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 
 
 That in the antique oratory shook 
 
 His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
 
 As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
 
 The tablet of unutterable thoug-hts 
 
 Was traced, — and then it faded, as it came , 
 
 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words. 
 
 And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 
 
 Not that which was, nor that which sliould have been ■ 
 
 But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 
 
 And the remember'd chambers, and the place. 
 
 The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade. 
 
 All things pertaining to tlmt place and hour. 
 
 And lier w ho was his destiny, came back 
 
 And tlirust themselves between him and the light; 
 
 What business had they there at such a time ? 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The lady of his love; — Oh! she was changed 
 As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
 Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes 
 They had not their own lustre, but the look 
 Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
 The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
 Were combinations of disjointed things* 
 And forms, impalpable and unperceived 
 Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
 And this the world calls phrensy ; but the wise 
 Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
 
 Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
 What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
 Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
 And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
 Making the cold reality too real! 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The wanderer was alone as heretofore. 
 The beings which surrounded him were gone, 
 Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
 For blight and desolation, compass'd round 
 With hatred and contention ; pain was mix'd 
 In all which was served up to him, until 
 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. 
 He fed on poisons, and they had no power. 
 But were a kind of nutriment; he lived 
 Through that which had been death to many men, 
 And made him friends of mountains: with the stars 
 And the quick Spirit of the Universe 
 He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 
 To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
 To him the book of night was open'd wide, 
 And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 
 A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 
 
 My dream was past; it had no further change. 
 It was of a strange order, that the doom 
 Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
 Almost like a reality — the one 
 To end in madness — both in misery. 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. 
 The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 
 Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
 Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
 Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 
 Mom came, and went — and came, and brought no day, 
 And men forgot their passions in the dread 
 Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
 Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: 
 And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones, 
 The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
 The habitations of all things which dwell, 
 Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
 And men were gathered round their blazing liomes 
 To look once more into each other's face ; 
 Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
 Of the volcanos and their mountain-torch ; 
 A fearful hope was all the world contain'd ; 
 Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
 They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 
 Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 
 The brows of men by the despairing light 
 
 Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
 
 The flashes jell upon them ; some lay down 
 
 And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest 
 
 Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; 
 
 And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
 
 Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up 
 
 With mad disquietude on the dull sky. 
 
 The pall of a past world ; and then again 
 
 With curses cast them down upon the dust, [shriek'd 
 
 And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild bird 
 
 And, terrified, did flutter on the ground. 
 
 And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes 
 
 Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd 
 
 And twined themselves among the multitude, 
 
 Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
 
 And War, which for a moment was no more, 
 
 Did glut himself again; a meal was bought 
 
 With blood, and each sate sullenly apart. 
 
 Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; 
 
 All earth was but one thought — and that was death. 
 
 Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
 
 Of famine fed upon all entrails ; men 
 
PROMETHEUS. 
 
 531 
 
 )ied, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
 'he meagre by the meagre were devoured, 
 !ven dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
 .nd he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
 'he birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
 ill Imnger clung them, or the dropping dead 
 lUred their lanlc jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
 ut with a piteous and perpetual moan 
 jad a quick desolate cry licking the haiid 
 Vhich answered not with a caress — he died, 
 he crowd was famisli'd by degrees; but two 
 fan enormous city did survive, 
 nd they were enemies ; they met beside 
 he dying embers of an altar-place 
 ji'here had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
 or an unholy usage; they raked up, 
 nd shivering scraped with their cold skeleton-hands 
 fhe feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
 lew for a little life, and made a flame 
 
 Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
 
 Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
 
 Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — 
 
 Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
 
 Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
 
 Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, 
 
 The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
 
 Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless, 
 
 A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
 
 The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood stilj, 
 
 And nothing stirred within their silent depths; 
 
 Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea. 
 
 And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd 
 
 They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
 
 The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave. 
 
 The moon, their mistress>had expired before; 
 
 The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air. 
 
 And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had no need 
 
 Of aid from tliem — She was the Universe. 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 TAN ! to whose immortal eyes 
 The suff"erings of mortality, 
 Seen in their sad reality, 
 \ete not as things that gods despise; 
 hat was thy pity's recompense? 
 Isilent suftering, and intense; 
 le rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
 1 that the proud can feel of pain, 
 le agony they do not show, 
 le suffocating sense of woe. 
 Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
 kd then is jealous lest the sky 
 ould have a listener, nor will sigh 
 Until its voice is eeholess. 
 
 tan! to thee the strife was given 
 Between the suftering and the will, 
 Which torture where they cannot kill; 
 id the inexorable heaven, 
 d the deaf tyranny of fate, 
 le ruling principle of hate, 
 hich for its pleasure doth create 
 e things it may annihilate, 
 J fused thee even the boon to die : 
 e wretched gift eternity 
 Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
 . 1 that the Thunderer wrung from thee 
 
 as but the menace which flung back 
 < him the torments of thy rack; 
 ' e fate thou didst so well foresee, 
 ] t wouldst not to appease him tell : 
 
 And in thy silence was his sentence, 
 And in his soul a vain repentance, 
 And evil dread so ill dissembled 
 That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 
 
 Thy godlike crime was to be kind. 
 
 To render with thy precepts less 
 
 The sum of human wretchedness, 
 And strengthen man with his own mind ; 
 But baffled as thou wert from high. 
 Still in thy patient energy, 
 In the endurance, and repulse 
 
 Of thine impenetrable spirit. 
 Which earth and heaven could not convulse, 
 
 A mighty lesson we inherit : 
 Thou art a symbol and a sign 
 
 To mortals of their fate and force ; 
 Like thee, man is in part divine, 
 
 A troubled stream from a pure source , 
 And man in portions can foresee 
 His own funereal destiny ; 
 His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
 And his sad unallied existence: 
 To which his spirit may oppose 
 Itself — an equal to all woes, 
 
 And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
 Which even in torture can descry 
 
 Its own concentred recompense, 
 Triumphant where it dares defy, 
 And making death a victory. 
 
532 
 
 CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. 
 
 CHURCHILL'S GRAVE, 
 
 A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. 
 
 I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 
 The comet of a season, and I saw 
 The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 
 With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
 On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
 With name no clearer than the names unknown 
 Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 
 The gardener of that ground, why it might be 
 That for this plant strangers his memory task'd 
 Through the thick deaths of half a century; 
 And thus he answered — "Well, I do not know 
 Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so; 
 He died before my day of sextonship. 
 And I had not the digging of this grave." 
 And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 
 The veil of immortality ? and crave 
 I know not what of honour and of liglit 
 Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? 
 So soon and so successless? As I said, 
 The architect of all on which we tread, 
 For earth is but a tombstone, did essay . 
 To extricate remembrance from the clay. 
 
 Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought, 
 
 Were it not that all life must end in one. 
 
 Of which we are but dreamers; — as he caught 
 
 As 'twere the twilight of a former sun. 
 
 Thus spoke he: — "I believe the man of whom 
 
 You wot, who lies in this selected tomb. 
 
 Was a most famous writer in his day. 
 
 And therefore travellers step from out their way 
 
 To pay him honour, — and myself whate'er 
 
 Your honour pleases ;" — then most pleased I sliook 
 
 From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
 
 Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 
 
 Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
 
 So much but inconveniently ; — Ye smile, 
 
 I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while. 
 
 Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
 
 You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
 
 With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, 
 
 On that old sexton's natural homily. 
 
 In which there was obscurity and fame. 
 
 The glory and the nothing of a name. 
 
 MONODY 
 
 DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. 
 
 SPOKEN AT DRURY - LANE THEATRE. 
 
 When the last sunshine of expiring day 
 
 In summer's twilight weeps itself away. 
 
 Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
 
 Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? 
 
 With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes. 
 
 While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 
 
 Her breathing-moment on the bridge where Time 
 
 Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime. 
 
 Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, 
 
 The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep, 
 
 A holy concord — and a bright regret, 
 
 A glorious sympathy with suns that set? 
 'Tis not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer woe, 
 Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below. 
 Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 
 A sweet dejection — a transparent tear 
 Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain. 
 Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 
 Even as the tenderness that hour instils 
 When Summer's day declines along the hills, 
 So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 
 When all of Genius which can perish dies. 
 
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN. 
 
 533 
 
 A mighty spirit is eclipsed — a power 
 
 Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose hour 
 
 Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name, 
 
 Focus at once of all the rays of fame ! 
 
 Tlie flash of wit — the bright intelligence. 
 
 The beam of song — the blaze of eloquence, 
 
 Set with their sun — but still have left behind 
 
 The enduring produce of immortal mind ; 
 
 Fruitsof a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
 
 A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
 
 But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 
 
 These sparkling segments of that circling soul, 
 
 Which all embraced — and lighten'd over all. 
 
 To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 
 
 From the charm'd council to the festive board. 
 
 Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 
 
 |In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied. 
 
 The praised — the proud — who made his praise their 
 
 IWhen the loud cry of trampled Hindostan [pride. 
 
 Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 
 
 iHis was the thunder — his the avenging rod. 
 
 The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! 
 
 Which shook the nations through his lips — and blazed 
 
 rill vanquisk'd senates trembled as they praised. 
 
 And here, oh ! here, where yet all young and warm 
 The gay creations of his spirit charm. 
 The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit, 
 Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 
 the glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 
 Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring ; 
 These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought 
 Co fulness by the iiat of his thought, 
 iere in their first abode you still may meet, 
 Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat, 
 i halo of the light of other days, 
 irVhich still the splendour of its orb betrays. 
 
 But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
 i)f failing wisdom yields a base delight, 
 jrlen who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
 lar in the music which was born their own, 
 jitill let them pause — Ah ! little do they know 
 'hat what to them seem'd vice might be but woe. 
 lard is his fate on whom the puBlic gaze 
 s fix'd for ever to detract or praise; 
 lepose denies her requiem to his name, 
 ind Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
 'he secret enemy whose sleepless eye 
 tands sentinel — accuser — judge — and spy, 
 
 The foe — the fool — the jealous and the vain. 
 
 The envious who but breathe in others pain. 
 
 Behold the host ! delighting to deprave. 
 
 Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, 
 
 Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
 
 Half to the ardour which its birth bestows. 
 
 Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, 
 
 And pile the pyramid of calumny ! 
 
 These are his portion — but if joined to these 
 
 Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 
 
 If the high spirit must forget to soar. 
 
 And stoop to strive with misery at the door. 
 
 To soothe indignity — and face to face 
 
 Meet sordid rage — and wrestle with disgrace, 
 
 To find in hope but the renew 'd caress. 
 
 The serpent-fold of further faithlessness, — 
 
 If such may be the ills which men assail. 
 
 What marvel if at last the mightiest fail? 
 
 Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling's given 
 
 Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from heaven. 
 
 Black with the rude collision, inly torn. 
 
 By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne. 
 
 Driven o'er tlie lowering atmosphere that nurst 
 
 Tlioughts which have turn'd to tliunder — scorch — and 
 
 But far from us and from our mimi^i scene [burst. 
 
 Such things should be — if such have ever been; 
 
 Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 
 
 To give the tribute glory need not ask. 
 
 To mourn the vanish'd beam — and add our mite 
 
 Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
 
 Ye orators ! whom yet our councils yield, 
 Mourn for the veteran hero of your field! 
 The worthy rival of the wondrous Three.' 
 Whose words were sparks of immortality ! 
 Ye bards ! to whom the drama's muse is dear, 
 He was your master — emulate him here! 
 Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 
 He was your brother — bear his ashes hence ! 
 While powers of mind almost of boundless range, 
 Complete in kind — as various in their change. 
 While eloquence — wit — poesy — and mirth. 
 That humbler harmonist of care on earth, 
 Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 
 Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence. 
 Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain. 
 And turn to all of him which may remain. 
 Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man. 
 And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 
 
 it 
 
534 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 I. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
 
 And all that 's best of dark and bright 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less, 
 Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
 
 Which waves in every raven tress, 
 Or softly ^ghtens o'er her face; 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 A heart whose love is innocent! 
 
 n. 
 
 The Harp the Monarch-Minstrel swept, 
 The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 
 
 Which Music hallow'd while she wept 
 O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, 
 Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven ! 
 
 It soften'd men of iron mould. 
 
 It gave them virtues not their own; 
 
 No ear so dull, no soul so e^ld, 
 That felt not, fired not to the tone. 
 Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne! 
 
 It told the triumphs of our King, 
 
 It wafted glory to our God ; 
 It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 
 
 The cedars bow, the mountains nod; 
 
 Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode ! ' 
 Since then, though heard on earth no more, 
 
 Devotion and her daughter Love 
 Still bid the bursting spirit soar 
 
 To sounds that seem as from above. 
 
 In dreams that day's broad light can not remove. 
 
 III. 
 If that high world, which lies beyond 
 Our own, surviving love endears; 
 
 If there the cherish'd heart be fond. 
 The eye the same, except in tears — 
 
 How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 
 How sweet this very hour to die ! 
 
 To soar from earth, and find all fears 
 Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 
 
 It must be so : 'tis not for self 
 
 That we so tremble on the brink ; 
 And striving to o'erleap the gulph, 
 
 Yet cling to being's severing link. 
 Oh ! in that future let us think 
 
 To hold each heart the heart that shares. 
 With them the immortal waters drink. 
 
 And soul in soul grow deathless theirs I 
 
 IV. 
 
 The wild Gazelle on Judah's hills 
 
 Exulting yet may bound. 
 And drink from all the living rills 
 
 That gush on holy ground ; 
 Its airy step and glorious eye 
 May glance in tameless transport by : — 
 
 A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 
 
 Hath Judah witness'd tlicre; 
 And o'er her scenes of lost delight 
 
 Inhabitants more fair. 
 The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
 But Judah's statelier maids are gone! 
 
 More blest each palm that shades those plains 
 
 Than Israel's scatter'd race; 
 For, taking root, it there remains 
 
 In solitary grace: 
 It cannot quit its place of birth, 
 It will not live in other earth. 
 
 But we must wander witheringly, 
 
 In other lands to die; 
 And where our fathers' ashes be. 
 
 Our own may never lie: 
 Our temple hath not left a stone. 
 And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 
 
 Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream. 
 Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 535 
 
 Weep for the harp of Judah's broken sliell ; 
 
 Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the godless dwell ! 
 
 And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet? 
 And when shall Sion's songs again seem sweet? 
 And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
 The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice? 
 
 Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
 How shall ye flee away and be at rest! 
 The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
 Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! 
 
 On Jordan's banks the Arabs' camels stray, 
 
 On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 
 
 The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 
 
 Yet there — even there — Oh God! thy thunders sleep : 
 
 There — where thy finger scorch'd the tablet-stone ! 
 There — where thy shadow to thy people shone! 
 rhy glory shrouded in its garb of fire: 
 Thyself — none living see and not expire! 
 
 Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ! 
 
 jSweep from his shivcr'd hand the oppressors' spear : 
 
 ow long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
 
 ;ow long thy temple worshipless, oh God! 
 
 VII. 
 
 JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Since our country, our God — Oh, my Sire! 
 Demand that thy Daughter expire; 
 Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
 Strike the bosom that's bared for tliee now ! 
 
 And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
 And the mountains behold me no more: 
 If the hand that I love lay me low. 
 There cannot be pain in the blow ! 
 
 And of this, oh, my Father ! be sure — 
 That the blood of thy child is as pure 
 As the blessing I beg ere it flow. 
 And the last thought that soothes me below. 
 
 Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
 Be the judge and the hero unbent! 
 I have won the great battle for thee. 
 And my Father and Country are free ! 
 
 When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd. 
 When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
 Let my memory still be thy pride. 
 And forget not I smiled as I died! 
 
 vm. 
 
 Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year; 
 , And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, ' 
 
 And feed deep thought with many a dream. 
 And lingering pause and lightly tread : 
 Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead ! 
 
 Away ! we know that tears are vain. 
 
 That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
 
 Will tliis unteach us to complain? 
 Or make one mourner weep tlic less? 
 
 And thou — who tellst me to forget 
 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 IX. 
 
 My soul is dark. — Oh! quickly string 
 
 The harp I yet can brook to hear; 
 And let thy gentle fingers fling 
 
 Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
 If in this heart a hope be dear. 
 
 That sound shall charm it forth again; 
 If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
 
 'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain : 
 
 But bid the strain be wild and deep, 
 
 Nor let thy notes of joy be first: 
 1 tell thee. Minstrel, I must weep. 
 
 Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
 For it hath been by sorrow nurst. 
 
 And ached in sleepless silence long; 
 And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst, 
 
 And break at once — or yield to song. 
 
 X. 
 
 I SAW thee weep — the big bright tear 
 
 Came o'er that eye of blue; 
 And then methought it did appear 
 
 A violet dropping dew : 
 I saw thee smile — tlie sapphire's blaze 
 
 Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
 It could not match the living rays 
 
 That fill'd that glance of thine. 
 
 As clouds from yonder sun receive 
 
 A deep and mellow die. 
 Which scarce the shade of coming eve 
 
 Can banish from the sky, 
 Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 
 
 Their own pure joy impart ; 
 Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 
 
 That lightens o'er the heart. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Thy days are done, thy fame begun; 
 
 Thy country's strains record 
 The triumphs of her chosen son, 
 
 The slaughters of his sword ! 
 The deeds he did, the fields he won. 
 
 The freedom he restored ! 
 
 Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 
 Thou Shalt not taste of death I 
 
536 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 The generous blood that flow'd from thee 
 » Disdain'd to sink beneath : 
 
 Within our veins its currents be. 
 Thy spirit on our breath ! 
 
 Thy name, our charging- liosts along, 
 
 Shall be the battle-word! 
 Thy fall, the theme of choral song 
 
 From virgin-voices pour'd! 
 To weep would do thy glory wrong! 
 
 Thou shalt not be deplored. 
 
 XII. 
 
 SONG OP SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE. 
 
 Warriors and Chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
 Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
 Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path : 
 Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 
 
 Thou, who art bearing my buckler and bow. 
 Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe. 
 Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet! 
 Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 
 
 Farewell to others, but never we part. 
 Heir to my royalty, son of my heart! 
 Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway. 
 Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day ! 
 
 XIIL 
 
 SAUL. 
 
 Thou, whose spell can raise the dead, 
 
 Bid the prophet's form appear. 
 "Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
 King, behold the phantom-seer !" 
 Earth yawn'd; he stood tlie centre of a cloud: 
 Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud; 
 Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye; 
 His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry ; 
 His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, 
 Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
 From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame. 
 Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. 
 Saul saw, and fell to eartli, as falls the oak, 
 At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 
 
 "Why is my sleep disquieted? 
 Who is he that calls the dead? 
 Is it thou, oh King? Behold, 
 Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
 Such are mine; and such shall be 
 Thine to-morrow, Avhen with me; 
 Ere the coming day is done, 
 Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
 Fare thee well, but for a day ; 
 Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
 Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 
 Pierced by shafts of many a bow : 
 And the falchion by thy side 
 To thy heart thy hand shall guide: 
 Crownless, breathless, headless fall. 
 Son and sire, the house of Saul !" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER." 
 
 Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 
 
 And health and youth possess'd me; 
 My goblets blush'd from every vine, 
 
 And lovely forms caress'd me; 
 I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 
 
 And felt my soul grow tender ; 
 All earth can give, or mortal prize. 
 
 Was mine of regal splendour. 
 
 I strive to number o'er what days 
 
 Remembrance can discover. 
 Which all that life or earth displays 
 
 Would lure me to live over. 
 There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 
 
 Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 
 And not a trapping deck'd my power 
 
 That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 
 
 The serpent of the field, by art 
 
 And spells, is won from harming; 
 But that which coils around tlie heart. 
 
 Oh! who hath power of charming? 
 It will not list to wisdom's lore, 
 
 Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
 But there it stings for evermore 
 
 The soul that must endure it. 
 
 XV. 
 When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 
 
 Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind ! 
 It cannot die, it cannot stay. 
 
 But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
 Then, unembodied, doth it trace 
 
 By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
 Or iill at once the realms of space, 
 
 A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 
 
 Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 
 
 A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
 All, all in earth, or skies display'd. 
 
 Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
 Each fainter trace that memory holds. 
 
 So darkly of departed years, 
 In one broad glance the soul beholds. 
 
 And all, that was, at once appears. 
 
 Before Creation peopled earth. 
 
 Its eye shall roll through chaos back; 
 And where the furthest heaven had birth, 
 
 The spirit trace its rising track. 
 And where the future mars or makes. 
 
 Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
 While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 
 
 Fix'd in its own eternity. 
 
 Above or love, hope, hate, or fear, 
 It lives all passionless and pure : 
 
 An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 
 Its years as moments shall endure. 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 531 
 
 Away, away, without a wing, 
 
 O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly; 
 A nameless and eternal thing, 
 
 Forgetting what it was to die. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 The King was on his throne. 
 
 The Satraps throng'd the hall; 
 A thousand bright lamps shone 
 
 O'er that high festival. 
 A thousand cups of gold, 
 
 In Judah deem'd divine — 
 Jehovah's vessels hold 
 
 The godless heathen's wine ! 
 
 In that same hour and hall, 
 
 The fingers of a hand 
 Came forth against the wall, 
 
 And wrote as if on sand: 
 The fingers of a man j — 
 
 A solitary hand 
 Along the letters ran. 
 
 And traced them like a wand. 
 
 The monarch saw, and shook, 
 
 And bade no more rejoice; 
 All bloodless wax'd his look, 
 
 And tremulous his voice. 
 "Let the men of lore appear, 
 
 The wisest of the earth. 
 And expound the words of fear. 
 
 Which mar our royal mirth." 
 
 Chaldea's seers are good, 
 
 But here they have no skill : 
 And the unknown letters stood 
 
 Untold and awful still. 
 And Babel's men of age 
 
 Are wise and deep in lore ; 
 But now they were not sage. 
 
 They saw — but knew no more. 
 
 A captive in the land, 
 
 A stranger and a youth. 
 He heard the king's command, 
 
 He saw that writing's truth. 
 The lamps around were bright. 
 
 The prophecy in view ; 
 He read it on that night, — 
 
 The morrow proved it true. 
 
 "Belshazzar's grave is made. 
 
 His kingdom pass'd away, 
 He, in the balance weigh' d, 
 
 Is light and worthless clay. 
 The shroud, his robe of state. 
 
 His canopy, the stone; 
 The Mede is at his gate ! 
 
 The Persian on his throne !" 
 
 XVIL 
 
 1^ of the sleepless ! melancholj' star ! 
 kose tearful beam glows tremulously far. 
 
 That showst the darkness thou canst not dispel, 
 
 How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 
 
 So gleams the past, the light of other days. 
 
 Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays; 
 
 A night-beam sorrow watcheth to behold. 
 
 Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh how cold ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Were my bosom as false as thou deemst it to be, 
 
 I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 
 
 It was but abjuring my creed to efiace 
 
 The curse which, thou sayst, is the crime of my race. 
 
 If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
 If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free I 
 If the exile on earth is an outcast on high. 
 Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 
 
 I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow. 
 As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know; 
 In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
 The land and the life which for him I resign. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 
 Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 
 
 The heart for which thou bledst is bleeding; 
 Revenge is lost in agony. 
 
 And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
 Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 
 
 Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading: 
 Ah ! couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 
 
 Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 
 
 And is she dead? — and did they dare 
 
 Obey my phrensy's jealous raving? 
 My wrath but doom'd my own despair : 
 
 The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving. — 
 But thou art cold, my murder'd love! 
 
 And this dark heart is vainly craving 
 For her who soars alone above, 
 
 And leaves my soul unworthy savmg. 
 
 She's gone, who shared my diadem; 
 
 She sunk, with her my joys entombing; 
 I swept that flower from Judah's stem 
 
 Whose leaves for me alone were blooming; 
 And mine 's the guilt, and mine the hell, 
 
 This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
 And I have earn'd those tortures well. 
 
 Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 
 
 ON THE DAY OF 
 
 XX. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION 
 BY TITUS. 
 
 OF JERUSALEM 
 
 From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
 I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome: 
 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall 
 Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 
 
 I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, 
 And forgot for a moment my bondage to come; 
 34* 
 
538 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 
 
 And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. 
 
 On many an eve, the high spot Avhence I gazed 
 Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed; 
 While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
 Of the rays from the mountain that shone on tliy shrine. 
 
 And nowr on that mountain I stood on that day. 
 But I mark'd not the twilight-beam melting away ; 
 Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 
 And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head ! 
 
 But the gods of the pagan shall never profane 
 The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign ; 
 And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be, 
 Our worship, oh Father ! is only for thee. 
 
 XXI. 
 We sat down and wept by the waters 
 
 Of Babel, and thought of the day 
 When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 
 
 Made Salem's high places his prey ; 
 And ye, oh her desolate daugiitcrs ! 
 
 Were scatter'd all weeping away. 
 
 While sadly we gazod on the river 
 Which roll'd on in freedom below, 
 
 They demanded the song; but, oh never 
 That triumph the stranger shall know ! 
 
 May this right hand be wither'd for ever, 
 Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 
 
 On the willow that harp is suspended. 
 Oh Salem ! its sound should be free; 
 
 And the hour when thy glories were ended, 
 But left me that token of thee: 
 
 And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
 With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,^ 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew sti 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
 But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride : 
 And the foam of hisgasping lay white on the turf, 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
 With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! 
 
 XXIII. 
 FROM JOB. 
 A SPIRIT pass'd before me; I beheld 
 The face of Immortality unveil'd — 
 Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — 
 And there it stood, — all formless — but divine: 
 Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake; jj 
 And as my damp hair stiften'd, thus it spake: ^ 
 
 "Is man more just than God? Is man more pure 
 Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure? 
 Creatures of day — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
 The moth survives you, and are ye more just ? 
 Things of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
 Heedless and blind to wisdom's wasted light!" 
 
539 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 
 
 Expcnde Annibalein: -* quot libras in duce suinmo 
 Invcnies? — Juvbnal. 
 
 The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by tlie Senate, by 
 the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues, 
 and military talents were loudly celebrated; and those who 
 derived any private benefit from his government announced 
 in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. 
 
 By this shameful abdication, he protrncted his life a few years, 
 in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, 
 till Gibbon's Decline and Fall, Chapt. J6. 
 
 'Tis done — but yesterday a king! 
 
 And arm'd with kings to strive — 
 And now thou art a nameless thing : 
 
 So abject — yet alive! 
 Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
 Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones? 
 
 And can he thus survive ? 
 Since he, miscall'd the morning-star, 
 Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 
 
 Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 
 Who bow'd so low the knee? 
 
 By gazing on thyself grown blind, 
 Thou taughtst the rest to see. 
 
 With might unquestion'd, — power to save 
 
 Thine only gift hath been the grave 
 To those that worshipp'd thee; 
 
 Nor, till thy fall, could mortals guess 
 
 Ambition's less than littleness ! 
 
 Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 
 
 To after-warriors more 
 Than high philosophy can preach, 
 
 And vainly preach'd before. 
 That spell upon the minds of men 
 Breaks never to unite again. 
 
 That led them to adore 
 Those pagod-things of sabre-sway. 
 With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 
 
 The triumph, and the vanity. 
 The rapture of the strife — 
 7, The earthquake-shout of victory, 
 [i- To th ee the breath of life ; 
 
 The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
 Which man seem'd made but to obey. 
 
 Wherewith renown was rife — 
 All quell'd! — Dark Spirit! Avhat imist be 
 The madness of thy memory ! 
 
 The Desolator desolate ! 
 
 The Victor overthrown! 
 The Arbiter of others' fate 
 
 A Suppliant for his own! 
 Is it some yet imperial hope 
 That with such change can calmly scope? 
 
 Or dread of death alone? 
 To die a prince — or live a slave — 
 Thy choice is most ignobly brave! 
 
 He who of old would rend the oak, 
 
 Dream'd not of the rebound ; 
 Chaln'd by the trunk he vainly broke. 
 
 Alone — how look'd he round? — 
 Thou, in the sternness of thy strength 
 An equal deed hast done at length. 
 
 And darker fate hast found : 
 He fell, the forest -prowlers' prey; 
 But thou must eat thy heart away ! 
 
 The Roman, when his burning heart 
 
 Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
 Threw down the dagger — dared depart. 
 
 In savage grandeur, home. 
 He dared depart, in utter scorn 
 Of men that such a yoke had borne. 
 
 Yet left him such a doom ! 
 His only glory was that hour 
 Of self- upheld abajidon'd power. 
 
540 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 
 
 The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 
 
 Had lost its quickening spell, 
 Cast crowns for rosaries away. 
 
 An empire for a cell; 
 A strict accountant of his beads, 
 A subtle disputant on creeds. 
 
 His dotage trifled well : 
 Yet better had he neither known 
 A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 
 
 But thou — from thy reluctant hand 
 
 The thunderbolt is wrung — 
 Too late thou leavest the higli command 
 
 To which thy weakness clung; 
 All Evil Spirit as thou art. 
 It is enough to grieve the heart. 
 
 To see thine own unstrung; 
 To think that God's fair world hath been 
 The foostool of a thing so mean ; 
 
 And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 
 
 Who thus can hoard his own ! 
 And monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 
 
 And thank'd him for a throne ! 
 Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear, 
 When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 
 
 In humblest guise have shown. 
 Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
 A brighter name to lure mankind ! 
 
 Thine evil deeds are writ in gore. 
 
 Nor written thus in vain — 
 Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 
 
 Or deepen every stain. 
 If thou hadst died as honour dies, 
 Some new Napoleon might arise, 
 
 To shame the world again — 
 But who would soar the solar height, 
 To set in such a starless night? 
 
 Weigh'd in the balance, hero - dust 
 
 Is vile as vulgar clay; 
 Tliy scales, Mortality ! are just 
 
 To all that pass away; 
 But yet methought the living great 
 Some higher sparks should animate, 
 
 To dazzle and dismay ; 
 Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth 
 Of tliese, the Conquerors of the earth! 
 
 And She, proud Austria's mournful flower. 
 
 Thy still imperial bride ; 
 How bears her breast the torturing hour? 
 
 Still clings she to thy side? 
 Must she too bend, must she too share 
 Thy late repentance, long despair. 
 
 Thou throneless Homicide? 
 If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 
 'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem! 
 
 Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 
 
 And gaze upon the sea ; 
 That element may meet thy smile, 
 
 It ne'er was ruled by tliee ! 
 Or trace with thine all idle hand. 
 In loitering mood, upon the sand. 
 
 That earth is now as free ! 
 That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
 Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 
 
 Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage 
 What thoughts will there be thine. 
 While brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 
 But one — "The world was mine :" 
 Unless, like he of Babylon, 
 All sense is with tliy sceptre gone, 
 
 Life will not long confine 
 That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
 So long obey'd — so little worth ! 
 
 Or, like the thief of fire from lieaven. 
 
 Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
 And share with him, the unforgiven. 
 
 His vulture and his rock! 
 Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst, 
 And that last act, though not tliy worst, 
 
 The very Fiend's arch mock ; 
 He in his fall preserved his pride. 
 And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 
 
 There was a day — there was an hour. 
 
 While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine — 
 When that immeasurable power 
 
 Unsated to resign. 
 Had been an act of purer fame 
 Than gathers round Marengo's name. 
 
 And gilded thy decline. 
 Through the long twilight of all time, 
 Despite some passing clouds of crime. 
 
 But thou forsooth must be a king. 
 
 And don the purple vest, — 
 As if that foolish robe could wring 
 
 Remembrance from thy breast. 
 Where is that faded garment? where 
 The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 
 
 The star — the string — the crest ? 
 Vain froward cliild of empire! say. 
 Are all thy playthings snatch'd away? 
 
 Where may the wearied eye repose 
 
 When gazing on the Great; 
 Where neither guilty glory glows. 
 
 Nor despicable state? 
 Yes — one — the first — the last — the best ■ 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Whom envy dared not hate, 
 Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 
 To make man blush there was but one! 
 
541 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS 
 
 AND 
 
 SCOTCH REVIEWERS; 
 
 A SATIRE. 
 
 I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew! 
 
 Than one of these same metre -ballad -mongers. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Such shameless Bards we have ; and yet,'tis true. 
 There are as mad, abaudou'd Critics too. 
 
 POPB. 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged 
 me not to publisli this Satire with my name. If I were to 
 be "turn'd from the career of my humour by quibbles 
 quick, and paper-bullets of the brain," I should Lave 
 complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified 
 by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. 
 [ can safely say that I have attacked none personally who 
 iid not commence on the ofl'ensive. An author's works 
 ire public property : he who purchases may judge, and 
 publish his opinion if he pleases ; and the authors I have 
 indeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have 
 IJone by them. I dare say they will succeed better in con- 
 lemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But 
 ny object is not to prove that I can write well, but, ifpos- 
 tible, to make others write better. 
 
 As the Poem has met with far more success than I ex- 
 bected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some 
 idditions and alterations to render it more worthy of 
 ^blic perusal. 
 
 In the first edition of this Satire, published anony- 
 ISiOusly, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope 
 iere written and inserted at the request of an ingenious 
 iiend of mine, who has now in the press a volume of 
 [fcetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some 
 )f my own substituted in their stead : my only reason for 
 this being that which I conceive would operate with any 
 Jther person in the same manner — a determination not 
 ,0 publisli with my name any production which was not 
 mtirely and exclusively my own composition. 
 
 With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical 
 persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded 
 to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author 
 that there can be little difference of opinion in the public 
 at large ; though, like other sectaries, each has his sepa- 
 rate 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 censured, renders their mental 
 prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pi- 
 tied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted 
 powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one 
 can wish more tliau the author, that some known and able 
 writer had undertaken their exposure; but Mr. Gifford 
 has devoted 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 
 nostrum, 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 recover the 
 numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent 
 and distressing rahies for rhyming. — As to the Edin- 
 hurgh 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," tliough his 
 own hand should sufier in the encounter, he will be am- 
 ply satisfied. 
 
 I 
 
 Still must I hear? — shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl 
 3is creaking couplets in a tavern-hall, 
 Vnd I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews 
 
 Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse.' 
 Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish, right or wrong: 
 Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song. 
 
542 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Oh ! Nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quilU 
 Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, ^* 
 
 Torn from tliy 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! 
 Condenin'd at length to be forgotten quite. 
 With all tiie pages which 'twas thine to write. 
 But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! 
 Once laid aside, but now assumed again. 
 Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free ; 
 Tho' 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 ! 
 I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
 I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme — 
 A schoolboy-freak, unworthy praise or blame : 
 I printed — older children do the same. 
 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 
 A book's a book, altho' there's nothing in't. 
 Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
 Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
 This Lamb must own, since his patrician name 
 Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 
 No matter, George continues still to write, 
 Tho' 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, 'twill seem a lucky hit ; 
 Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit; 
 Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest. 
 And stand a critic, hated, yet caress'd. 
 
 And shall we own such judgment? no — as soon 
 Seek roses in December, ice in June; 
 Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff. 
 Believe a woman, or an epitaph; 
 Or any other thing tiiat's false, before 
 You trust in critics, who themselves are sore ; 
 Or yield one single thought to be misled 
 By Jeffrey's heart, or Lamb's Boeotian head. 
 
 To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, 
 Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste; 
 To these, w hen authors bend in humble awe. 
 And hail their voice as truth, their word as law ; 
 While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare; 
 While such are critics, why should I forbear? 
 But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
 'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun; 
 Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
 Our bards and censors are so much alike. 
 
 Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er 
 The path which Pope and Gifford trod before ; 
 If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed ; 
 Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
 
 Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
 Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise. 
 When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied. 
 No fabled Graces, flourish'd side by side ; 
 From the same fount their inspiration drew. 
 And, rear'd by Taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew 
 Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
 Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain , 
 A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, 
 And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
 Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song ; 
 In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong; 
 Then Conoreve's scenes could cheer, or Otway's melt 
 For nature then an English audience felt. 
 But why these names, or greater still, retrace. 
 When all to feebler bards resign their place ? 
 Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
 When taste and reason with those times are 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. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 543 
 
 llltt 
 
 MS saith the Preacher, " nought beneath tlie sun 
 new ;" yet still from change to change we run : 
 What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! 
 The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas , 
 la turns appear, to make the vulgar stare. 
 Till the swolii 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, 
 And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
 Erects a shrine and idol of its own; 
 Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not. 
 From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott. 
 
 Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
 For notice eager, pass in long review : 
 Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
 And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race; 
 Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; 
 And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
 Immeasurable measures move along; 
 For simpering Folly loves a varied song. 
 To strange mysterious Dulness still the friend, 
 Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
 [Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be 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 niglits ! 
 And goblin-brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood, 
 JDecoy young border-nobles through the wood, 
 JAnd skip at every step. Lord knows how high, 
 lAnd frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 
 While high-born ladies in their magic cell 
 Forbidding knights to read w ho cannot spell, 
 Despatch a courier to a w izard's grave, 
 \nd fight with honest men to shield a knave. 
 
 Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
 The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
 'fow forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
 ifot quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
 The gibbet or the field prepared to grace — 
 V mighty mixture of the great and base. 
 ^nd thinkst thou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance, 
 )n public taste to foist thy stale romance. 
 Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
 To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? 
 W. when the sons of song descend to trade, 
 Pheir bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
 
 let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
 Vho rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: 
 jOW may they sink to merited contempt, 
 k.nd scorn remunerate the mean attempt ! 
 »uch be their meed, such still the just reward 
 )f prostituted muse and hireling bard! 
 ''or this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
 
 md bid a long "good night to Marmion." 
 
 These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; 
 ^'Iiese are the bards to whom the muse must bow : 
 
 While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
 Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 
 
 The time has been, when yet the muse was young. 
 When Homer swept the lyre and Maro sung, 
 An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
 While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name: 
 The work of each immortal bard appears 
 The single wonder of a thousand years. 
 Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, 
 Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, 
 AVithout the glory such a strain can give. 
 As even in ruin bids the language live. 
 Not so with us, though minor bards, content, 
 On one great work a life of labour spent: 
 With eagle-pinion soaring to the skies. 
 Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise; 
 To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso, yield. 
 Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
 First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance. 
 The scourge of England, and the boast of France ! 
 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 Phoenix from her ashes risen. 
 Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, 
 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! 
 Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails. 
 Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales ; 
 Tells us strange tales as other travellers do. 
 More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. 
 Oh ! SouTOEYj^ouTH^YXceasfiJ^ ! 
 
 X 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 thy weary way ; 
 If still in Berkley Ballads, most uncivil, 
 Thou wilt devote old women to the devil. 
 The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : 
 "God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too. 
 
 Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
 That mild apostate from poetic rule. 
 The simple WoRDswoRTii.framer of a lay 
 As soft as evening in his favourite May; 
 Who warns his friend "to shake olitoil and trouble, 
 And quit his books, for fear of growing double;" 
 Who, 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, 
 
544 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 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 niglit with day; -vfvA 
 
 So close on each pathetic part he dwells, y ^ ^ 
 
 And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
 
 That all who view the "idiot in his glory," 
 
 Conceive the Bard the hero of the story. 
 
 Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
 To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
 Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 
 Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. 
 If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
 To him who takes a Pixy for a Muse, 
 Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
 The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
 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 churchyard ! 
 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 gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band; 
 Or tracest chaste descriptions on tliy page, 
 To please the females of our modest age; 
 All hail, M. P. ! from whose infernal brain n ■<}* 
 
 Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; ^V jP. 
 
 At whose command, "grim women" throng in crowds, 
 And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, 
 With "small grey men," — "wild yajgers," and whatnot. 
 To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott ! 
 Again, all hail! If tales like tliine 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 listening dames are hush'd? 
 'Tis 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, 
 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. 
 
 Thinkst 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-covered 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 I'm sure they triumph'd over mine. 
 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 Graham, 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. 
 
 , 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 Bowlbs ! 
 
 Thou first, great oracle of tender souls ? 
 
 Whether in sighing winds thou seekst relief, 
 
 Or consolation in a yellow leaf; 
 
 Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 
 
 What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, 
 
 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. 
 
 'Tis 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," 
 
 Such as none heard before, or will again ; 
 
 Where all discoveries jumbled from the Hood, 
 
 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; 
 
 And gravely tells — attend each beauteous Miss! — 
 
 When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 545 
 
 Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell, 
 
 Stick to thy Sonnets, man ! at least they sell. 
 
 But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe. 
 
 Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe ; 
 
 If chance some bard, though once by dunces feared. 
 
 Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 
 
 If Pope, whose fame and genius from the first 
 
 Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 
 
 Do thou essay ; each fault, each failing scan : 
 
 The first of poets was, alas! but man! 
 
 Rake from each ancient dungtiill every pearl, 
 
 Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll; 
 
 Let all the scandals of a former age 
 
 Perch on thy pen and flutter o'er thy page ; 
 
 Effect a candour which thou canst not feel, 
 
 [lllothe envy in the garb of honest zeal; 
 
 Write as if St. John's soul could still inspire, 
 
 ^.nd do from hate what Mallet did for hire. 
 
 )h ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, 
 
 Co rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme ; 
 
 Throng'd with the rest around his living head, 
 
 j>lot raised thy hoof against the lion dead ; 
 
 meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 
 Ud link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pain3. 
 
 Another Epic! who inflicts again _ \\A ^ 
 
 tore books of blank upon the sons of men *! /* ' 
 Iceotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 
 mports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
 lUd sends his goods to market — all alive ! 
 lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five ! 
 resh fish from Helicon! who'll buy? who'll buy.' 
 he precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. 
 00 much in turtle Bristol's sons delight, 
 
 00 much o'er bowls of rack prolong the night: 
 Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
 ad Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
 
 1 him an author's luckless lot behold ! 
 ondemn'd to make the books which once he sold 
 h! Amos Cottle ! Phoebus ! — what a name 
 
 ^ fill the speaking trump of future fame ! — 
 It ! Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
 ^hat meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! 
 Tien tlius devoted to poetic dreams, 
 ^ho will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 
 Il ! pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
 ad Cottle still adorn'd the counter's side, 
 jnt o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, 
 m taught to make the paper which he soils, 
 
 gh'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, 
 
 ad not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 
 
 Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
 Is the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may sleep, 
 ip thy hill, ambrosial Richmond ! heaves 
 
 Maurice all his granite-weight of leaves: 
 
 )th, solid monuments of mental pain ! 
 ! petrifactions of a plodding brain, 
 
 : ere they reach the top fall lumbering back again. 
 
 Tith broken lyre and cheek serenely pale 
 It! sad Alc^us 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 tlieir early sleep ! 
 
 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 brood, which mangle as they prey, 
 By hellish instinct, all that cross their way : 
 Aged or young, the living or the dead. 
 No mercy find — these harpies must be fed. 
 Why do the injured unresisting yield 
 The calm possession of their native field ? ** 
 Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 
 Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Scat? 
 
 Health to immortal Jeffrey! once, in name, 
 England could boast a judge almost the same: 
 In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
 Some tliink 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 miglity, 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 
 Back 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 witli a rope: 
 "Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind! 
 Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind. 
 This cord receive — for thee reserved with care, 
 To wield in judgment, and at length to wear," 
 
 Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life, 
 To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
 And guard it sacred in his future wars, 
 Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ! 
 Can none remember that eventful day, 
 That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, 
 When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 
 And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by? 
 Oh day disastrous ! on her firm-set rock, 
 Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock; 
 Dark roU'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
 Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north; 
 Tweed ruffled half his wave to form a tear. 
 The other half pursued its calm career; 
 Arthur's steep sumnjit nodded to its base; 
 The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 
 The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, j 
 
 On such occasions, feel as much as man — 
 35 
 
546 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms 
 
 If Jeffrey died, except within her arms: 
 
 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 tlie sound: 
 
 Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white reams, 
 
 Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams ; 
 
 This of his candour seem'd the sable dew. 
 
 That of his valour shew'd the bloodless hue; 
 
 And all with justice deem'd the two combined 
 
 The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 
 
 But Caledonia's Goddess hover'd o'er 
 
 The tield, 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, wift greater than magnetic power, 
 
 Caught it, as Danae caught the golden shnw er. 
 
 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. 
 
 Behold 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. 
 
 Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer, and sometimes, 
 
 In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes. 
 
 Smug Sydney too thy bitter page shall seek. 
 
 And classic Hallam, much renown'd for Greek. 
 
 Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 
 
 And paltry Pillans shall traduce his friend ; 
 
 While gay Thalia's luckless votary. Lamb, 
 
 As he himself was damn'd, shall try to damn. 
 
 Known be 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 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. 
 
 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! 
 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 thouglits should to the press escape, 
 And tinge with red the female reader's cheek. 
 My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
 Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul. 
 Reforms each error and refines the whole. 
 
 Now to t he Dr ama turn. Oh! moileyLJSJght ! 
 What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite ! 
 Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent. 
 And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. 
 Though now, thank Heaven ! the Rosciomania's o'er, 
 And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 
 Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, 
 While British critics sufler scenes like these? 
 While Reynolds vents his "dammes, poohs,andzounda 
 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 aliords 
 A tragedy complete in all but words ? 
 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 ColmanI Cumberland awake ! 
 Ring the alarum-bell, let folly quake ! 
 Oh Sherfdan ! if aught can move thy pen. 
 Let Comedy resume her throne again ; 
 Abjure the mummery of German schoolsj 
 Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
 Give, as thy last memorial to the age. 
 One classic drama, and reform the stage, 
 Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, 
 Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread ? 
 On those shall Farce display buffoonery's mask, 
 And Hooke conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
 Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
 From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose? 
 While Shakespeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot. 
 On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? 
 Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
 The rival candidates for Attic fame! 
 In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise. 
 Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. 
 And sure (/reat Skeffington must claim our praised 
 For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
 Renown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
 Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs; 
 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 ; 
 But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
 Rather than sleep, Avhy John applauds it too. 
 
 Such are we now, ah! wherefore should we turOi; 
 To what our fathers were, unless to mourn? 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 547 
 
 Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to sliame, 
 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 on 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, 
 iPour her exotic follies o'er the town, 
 To sanction vice, and hunt decorum down : 
 Let wedded strumpets langnish o'er Deshayes, 
 JAnd bless the promise which his form displays; 
 ijWhile Gayton bounds before the enraptured looks 
 Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes: 
 Let liigh-born letchers eye the lively Presle 
 " [Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil: 
 JLet Angiolini bare her breast of snow, 
 Wave the white arm and point the pliant toe; 
 
 'ollini trill her love-inspiring song, 
 
 strain her fair neck and charm the listening throng ! 
 
 taise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice ! 
 
 leforming Saints ! too delicately nice ! 
 
 }y whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 
 
 NO sunday-tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 
 
 Lud beer undrawn and beards unmown display 
 
 I our holy reverence for the sabbath-day. 
 
 Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
 )f vice and folly, Greville and A.rgylel 
 VHiere yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, 
 preads wide her portals for the motley train, 
 lehold the new Petronius of tlie day, 
 lie arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 
 liere the hired Eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
 lie melting lute, thesoft lascivious lyre, 
 he song from Italy, the step from France, 
 he midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, 
 he smile of beauty, and the flush of wine. 
 or fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine ; 
 ach to his liumour, — Comus all allows; 
 hampaiga, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 
 alk not to us, ye starving sons of trade 1 
 f piteous ruin, which ourselves have made: 
 1 Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
 or think of Poverty, except "en masque," 
 /hen for the night some lately titled ass 
 jppears the beggar which his grandsire was. 
 ihe curtain dropp'd, the gay Burletta o'er, 
 lie audience take their turn upon the floor ; 
 ovv round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 
 ow in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap : 
 he first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 
 he last display the free, unfetter'd limb : 
 jhose for Hibcrnia's lusty sons repair 
 li'^ith art the charms which Nature could not spare; 
 Ihese after husbands wing their eager flight, 
 ! or 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 victim of a drunken brawl. 
 To live like Clodius, and like Falkland 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 tlirong. 
 Just skill'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 ; ' 
 Altho' some kind, censorious friend will say, 
 "What art thou better, meddling fool, than they .'" 
 And every brotlier-rake will smile to see 
 That miracle, a Moralist, in me. ; 
 
 No matter — when some Bard, in virtue strong, 
 GxFFORD perchance, shall raise the chastening song, 
 Then sleep my pen for ever! and my voice 
 Be only heard to hail him and rejoice; 
 Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise; though I 
 May feel the lash that virtue must apply. 
 
 As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals, 
 From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles, 
 Why should we call them from their dark abode, 
 In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham Road I 
 Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
 To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street, or the Square ? 
 If things of ton their harmless lays indite, 
 Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight. 
 What hal-m ? in spite of every critic elf, 
 Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
 Miles Andrews still his stiength in couplets try, 
 And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 
 Lords too are Bards : such things at times befall. 
 And 'tis some praise in Peers to write at all. 
 Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times. 
 Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes? 
 Roscommon! SHEFPrELo! with your spirits fled, 
 No future laurels deck a noble head ; 
 No Muse will cheer, with renovating smile, 
 
548 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 The paralytic puling of Carlisle: 
 
 Tlje puny schoolboy and his early lay 
 
 Men pardon, if his follies pass away; 
 
 But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 
 
 Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse? 
 
 What heterogeneous honours deck the Peer ! 
 
 Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer ! 
 
 So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, 
 
 His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage: 
 
 But Managers for once cried "liold, enougli!" 
 
 Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 
 
 Yet at their judgment let his Lordship laugh. 
 
 And case his volumes in congenial calf: 
 
 Yes ! doff that covering where morocco shines. 
 
 And hang a calf-skin 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, let Pity be your screen. 
 Let Monodies on Fox regale your crew, 
 And Melville's Mantle prove a blanket too ! 
 One common Lethe waits each hapless bard. 
 And peace be with you ! 'tis your best reward. 
 Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
 Could bid your lines beyond a morning live ; 
 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, 
 Whose strains, the faithful echoes of lier mind, 
 Leave wondering comprehension far behind. 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 'Tis sheer ill-nature; don't the world know best? 
 Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme. 
 And Capel Lofft declares 'tis quite sublime. 
 Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
 Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless spade: 
 Lo ! Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 
 GiFFORD was born beneath an adverse star. 
 Forsook the 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 enclosed, without an ode. 
 
 Oil ! 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 handy work peruse; 
 
 Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoes. 
 
 May Moorland- weavers boast Pindaric skill. 
 
 And taylors' 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, oh Campbell ! give thy talents scope; 
 Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope? 
 And thou, melodious Rogers! rise at last, 
 Recallthe pleasing memory of the past; 
 Arise! let blest remembrance still inspire, 
 And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre! 
 Restore Apollo to his vacant throne. 
 Assert thy country's honour and thine own. 
 What? must deserted Poesy still weep 
 Where her last hopes with pious Cowpbr sleep ? 
 Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns. 
 To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns! 
 No ! tho' contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood. 
 The race who rhyme from folly, or for food; 
 Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast. 
 Who, least affecting, still affect the most ; 
 Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — 
 Bear witness Gifford, Sotheby, Macneil. 
 
 "Why slumbers Gifford?" once was ask'd in vain: 
 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 Law's and Muse's wratJi? 
 Nor blaze witli guilty glare through future time, 
 Eternal beacons of consummate crime? 
 Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claim'd, 
 Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 
 
 Unhappy White ! 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, 
 I When Science self destroyed her favourite son l 
 ; Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit. 
 She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 
 'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow, 
 And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
 So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain. 
 No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
 
I 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 549 
 
 View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
 
 And wing'd the sliaft that quiver'd in his heart: 
 
 Keen were liis 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: 
 'Tis true that all who rhyme, nay, all who write, 
 Siirink from that fatal word to Genius — trite ; 
 Yet truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, 
 And decorate the verse herself inspires: 
 This fact in virtue's name let Crabbe attest — 
 
 Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best 
 
 W^ 
 
 And here let Shee and genius find a place, 
 Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; 
 To guide whose hand the sister-arts combine, 
 And trace the poet's or the painter's line; 
 Whose magic touch can bid the canvass 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 heart expands 
 W'ltii hallo w'd feelings for those classic lands; 
 Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
 Vnd views their remnants with a poet's eye ! 
 IVright ! 'twas thy happy lot at once to view 
 Those shores of glory, and to sing them too; 
 \nd sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
 To liail the land of gods and godlike men. 
 
 And you, associate Bards ! who snatch'd to light 
 hose gems too long withheld from modern sight; 
 hose mingling taste combined to cull the wreatii 
 here Attic flowers Aonian odOurs breathe, 
 nd all their renovated fragrance flung, 
 grace the beauties of your native tongue; 
 ow let those minds that nobly could transfuse 
 jrhe glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
 iTTiough soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone : 
 lesign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 
 
 Let these, or such as these, with just applause, 
 ilestore the Muse's violated laws: 
 Jut not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, 
 That miglity mastelP^)f unmeaning rhyme; 
 ^hose gilded cymbals, more adoni'd than clear, 
 The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear; 
 11 show the simple Ij're could once surpass, 
 iut now, worn down, appear in native brass ; 
 
 While all his strain of hovering sylphs around. 
 Evaporate in similies and sound : 
 Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
 False glare attracts, but more offends the eye. 
 
 Yet letjhem not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop. 
 The meanest object of the lowly group. 
 Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
 Seems blessed harmony to Lamb and Lloyd: 
 Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
 A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach ; 
 The native genius with their feeling given 
 Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. ,% 
 
 r 
 
 AndJhoH,_too,-ScoTT-!resiga-tQjniusttelS.Jllde 
 Th^ilder Slogan of a Border-feud : 
 Let others spin their meagre lines for hire — 
 Enough for genius if itself inspire! 
 Let SouTHEY sing, although his teeming muse. 
 Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; 
 Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse. 
 And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse ; 
 Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most. 
 To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost; 
 Let Moore be lewd ; let Strangford steal froom Moore, 
 And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yore; 
 Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave. 
 And godly Graham chaunt a stupid stave; 
 Let sonnetteering Bowles his strains refine. 
 And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line; 
 Let Stott, Carlisle, Matilda, and the rest 
 Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-Place tlie 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 give ; 
 Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 
 And tell the tale of what she was before; 
 To future times her faded fame recall. 
 And save her glory, though his country fall. 
 
 Yet whatavails the sanguine poet's hope, 
 To conquer ages, and with time to cope? 
 New eras spread their wings, new nations rise. 
 And other victors fill the applauding skies : 
 A few brief generations fleet along. 
 Whose sons forget the poet and his song: 
 E'en now what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim 
 The transient mention of a dubisus name! 
 
550 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 W hen Fame's loud trump hath blown it's noblest blast, 
 Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last, 
 And Glory, like the Phoenix midst her fires, 
 Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 
 
 Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, 
 Expert in science, more expert at puns? 
 Shall these approach tlie Muse? ah, no ! she flies. 
 And even spurns the great Seatonian prize. 
 Though printers condescend the press to soil 
 With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by HoYLE : 
 Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist. 
 Requires no sacred theme to bid us list. 
 Ye who in Granta's lionours would surpass, 
 Must mount her Pegasus, a fullgrown 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 bufloon, 
 A montldy scribbler of some low lampoon, 
 Condemn'd to drudge, tlie meanest of the mean. 
 And furnish falsehoods for a magazine, 
 Devotes to scandal his congenial mind — 
 Himself a living libel on mankind. 
 Oh, dark asylum of a Vandal race ! 
 At once the boast of learning, and disgrace : 
 So sunk in dulness and so lost in shame. 
 That Smythe and Hodgson scarce redeem tliy 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. 
 
 For me, who thus unask'd have dared to tell 
 My country what lier sons should know too well. 
 Zeal for her honour bade me here engage 
 The host of idiots that infest her age. 
 No just applause her Jiouour'd name shall lose, 
 As first in freedom, dearest to tlie Muse. 
 Oh, would tliy bards but emulate thy fame. 
 And rise more wortliy, Albion, of tliy name! 
 Wliat Athens was in science, Rome in power. 
 What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
 'Tis tliine at once, fair Albion, to have been, 
 Earth's cliief 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 tliy strengtli may sink in ruin liurl'd, 
 And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
 But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
 With warning ever scoffd 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 tliy 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 adverse height, 
 And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight: 
 Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime. 
 Where Kali" is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows so 
 But should I back return, no letter'd rage | lio 
 
 Shall drag my common-place-book on the stage : 
 Let vain Valentia rival luckless Carr, 
 And equal him whose work he sought to mar; 
 Let Aberdeen and Elgin still pursue 
 The shade of fame through regions of virtii: 
 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; 
 And quite content, no more shall interpose 
 To stun mankind with poesy or prose. 
 
 Thus far I've held my uudisturb'd career, 
 Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear: 
 Tliis thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own — 
 Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 
 
 ; My voice was heard again, though not so loud ; 
 
 ' My page, though nameless, never disavow'd ; 
 
 1 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 Lamb's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, 
 By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
 Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
 Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
 And feel they too are "penetrable stufi:" 
 
 |And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
 
 I Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
 The time hath been, w hen no harsh sound would fall 
 From lips that now may seem imbued Avith gall, 
 Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
 The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath mj'^ eyes : 
 But now, so callous groAvn, so changed since youlli, 
 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 fioxvii, 
 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 
 Hatli wrong'd these righteous times^et others say ; 
 This let the world, which knows not how to spare, 
 Yet rarely blames unjustly, noAv declare. 
 
'v^l^'-^-^'^l^'*'^ 
 
 551 
 
 THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 
 
 I 
 
 Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallaa 
 
 Immolnt, et pcEnam scelerato ex sanguine suniit. 
 
 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 Mgina'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 gulph, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
 Their azure arclies through the long expanse. 
 More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, 
 And tenderest tints, along tlieir 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, 
 I 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: 
 |But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes; 
 i Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
 iThe 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 that scorn'd to fear or fly — 
 Who lived and died as none can live or die! 
 
 ! 
 
 I But, lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign; 
 jNo murky vapour, herald of the storm. 
 Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form: 
 With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 
 iThere the white column greets her grateful ray, 
 jAnd bright around, with quivering beams beset, 
 iHer emblem sparkles o'er the minaret: 
 The groves of olive statter'd dark and wide, 
 
 Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, 
 The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque. 
 The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk, 
 And, dun and sombre mid the holy calm. 
 Near Theseus ' fane, yon solitary palm. 
 All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye — 
 And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 
 
 Again the JSgean, 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, 
 Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle. 
 That frown — vvliere gentler ocean seems to smile. 
 
 As thus within the walls of Pallas' fane 
 I mark'd the beauties of the land and main. 
 Alone and friendless, on the magic shore, 
 Whose arts and arms but live in poet's lore, 
 Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan. 
 Sacred to gods, but not secure from man. 
 The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease. 
 And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece. 
 Hours roH'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
 Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
 And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
 O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god; 
 But chiefly, Pallas ! thine, when Hecate's glare, 
 Chcck'd by thy columns, fell more Kadly fair 
 O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
 Thrills the lone heart like echoes from tlie dead. 
 Long had I mused, and measured every trace 
 The wreck of Greece recorded of her race. 
 When, lo ! a giant-form before me strode, 
 And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode. 
 Yes, 'twas Minerva's self, but, ah! how changed 
 Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! 
 Not such as erst, by her divine command. 
 Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic hand; 
 Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 
 Her idle ^gis bore no Gorgon now ; 
 Her helm was deep indented, and her lance 
 Seem'd weak and shaftless, e'en to mortal glance 
 
552 
 
 THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 
 
 The olive-branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, 
 
 Shrunk from her touch and wither'd in lier grasp : 
 
 And, ah! tliough still the brightest of the sky, 
 
 Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye; 
 
 Round tlie rent casque her owlet circled slow, 
 
 And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe. 
 
 "Mortal ! ('twas thus she spake) that blush of shame 
 
 Proclaims thee Briton — once a noble name — 
 
 First of the mighty, foremost of the free. 
 
 Now honour 'd less by all — and least by me: 
 
 Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found: — 
 
 Seekst thou the cause? O mortal, look around ! 
 
 Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
 
 I saw successive tyrannies expire; 
 
 'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, 
 
 Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both! 
 
 Survey this vacant violated fane; 
 
 Recount the relics torn that yet remain ; 
 
 These Cecrops placed — this Pericles adorn'd — 
 
 Tliat Hadrian rear'd when drooping science mourn'd: 
 
 What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
 
 Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
 
 That all may learn from whence tlie plunderer came, 
 
 Th' insulted wall sustains his hated name. 
 
 For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads: 
 
 Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ! 
 
 Be ever hail'd with equal honour here 
 
 The Gothic monarch and the Pietish peer. 
 
 Arms gave the first his right — the last had none. 
 
 But basely stole what less barbarians won \ 
 
 So when the lion quits his fell repast. 
 
 Next prowls the wolf — the filtiiy jackal last: 
 
 Flesh, limbs, and blood, the former make their own; 
 
 The last base brute securely gnaws the bone. 
 
 Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are crost — 
 
 See here what Elgin won, and what he lost! 
 
 Another name witii his pollutes my shrine. 
 
 Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine ! 
 
 Some retribution still might Pallas claim. 
 
 When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame." 
 
 She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply. 
 To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : — 
 "Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
 A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim ! 
 Frown not on England - England owns him not — 
 Athena, no! the plunderer was a Scot! 
 Askst thou the dillerence? From fair Phyle's towers 
 Survey Boeotia — Caledonia 's ours. 
 And well I know within that bastard- land 
 Hath wisdom's goddess never held command: 
 A barren soil, where nature's germs, confined. 
 To stern sterility can stint the mind; 
 Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth. 
 Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth. 
 Each genial influence nurtured to resist, 
 A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist: 
 Each breeze from foggy mount and marshj' plain 
 Dilutes with drivel every drizzling brain, 
 Till burst at length each watery head o'erflows, 
 Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows : 
 
 Ten thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
 
 Despatch her scheming children far and w ide ; 
 
 Some east, some west, some — every where but north. 
 
 In quest of lawless gain they issue forth ; 
 
 And thus, accursed be the day and year, 
 
 She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
 
 Yet, Caledonia claims some native worth. 
 
 As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth — 
 
 So may her few, the letter'd and the brave. 
 
 Bound to no clime, and victors o'er the grave. 
 
 Shake off the sordid dust of such a land. 
 
 And shine like children of a happier strand : 
 
 As once of yore, in some obnoxious place. 
 
 Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race!" 
 
 "Mortal," the blue - eyed maid resumed, "once more 
 Bear back my mandate to thy native shore; 
 Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance still is mine, 
 To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 
 Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest; 
 Hear and believe, for time shall tell the rest. 
 First on the head of him who did the deed 
 My curse shall light, — on him and all his seed : 
 Without one spark of intellectual fire. 
 Be all the sons as senseless as the sire: 
 If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 
 Believe him bastard of a brighter race; 
 Still with his hireling artists let him prate. 
 And folly's praise repay for wisdom's hate! 
 Long of their patron's gusto let them tell. 
 Whose noblest native gusto — is to sell : 
 To sell, and make (may shame record the day !) 
 The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey ! 
 Meantime, the flattering feeble dotard. West, 
 Europe's worst dauber and poor Britain's best. 
 With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er. 
 And own himself an infant of fourscore: 
 Be all the bruisers call'd from all St. Giles, 
 That art and nature may compare their stjles; 
 While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 
 And marvel at his lordship's stone -shop there. 
 Round the throng'dgate shall sauntering coxcombs crec 
 To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep : 
 While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 
 On giant- statues casts the curious eye; 
 The room with transient glance appears to skim. 
 Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb; 
 Mourns o'er the difl'erence o{ now and then; 
 Exclaims, "these Greeks indeed were proper men;" 
 Draws slight comparisons of these with those, 
 And envies Lais all her Attic beaux : 
 When shall a modern maid have swains like these' 
 Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 
 And last of all, amidst the gaping crew. 
 Some calm spectator, as he takes his view. 
 In silent indignation, mix'd with grief, 
 Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 
 Loathed throughout life — scarce pardon'd in the dust 
 May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust! 
 Link'd with the fool who fired tli' Ephesian dome, 
 Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb ; 
 
THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 
 
 553 
 
 Erostratus and Elgin e'er shall shine 
 
 In many a branding page and burning line ! 
 
 Alike condemn'd for aye to stand accursed — 
 
 Perchance the second viler than the first: 
 
 So let him stand through ages yet unborn, 
 
 Fiv'd statue on the pedestal of scorn ! 
 
 Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 
 
 But fits thy country for her coming fate: 
 
 Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
 
 To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
 
 Look to the Baltic blazing from afar — 
 
 Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war: 
 
 Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 
 
 Or break the compact which herself had made; 
 
 Far from such councils, from the faithless field 
 
 She fled — but left behind her Gorgon -shield ; 
 
 A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends to stone, 
 
 And left lost Albion hated and alone. 
 
 Look to the east, where Ganges' swarthy race 
 
 Shall shake your usurpation to its base ; 
 
 Lo! there rebellion rears her ghastly.head, 
 
 And glares the Nemesis of native dead, 
 
 Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood, 
 
 And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
 
 So may ye perish ! Pallas, when she gave 
 
 Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 
 
 Look on your Spain, she clasps the hand she hates. 
 
 But coldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 
 
 Bear witness bright Barrossa, thou canst tell 
 
 i Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
 
 While Lusitania, kind and dear ally, 
 
 jCan spare a few to fight and sometimes fly. 
 
 jOh glorious field ! by famine fiercely won ; 
 
 The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
 
 iBut when did Pallas teach that one retreat 
 
 Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 
 
 Look last at home — ye love not to look there, 
 
 On the grim smile of comfortless despair; 
 
 Your city saddens; loud though revel howls, 
 
 ;Here famine faints, and yonder rapine prowls : 
 
 See all alike of more or less bereft — 
 
 No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 
 
 rBlest paper-credit" who shall dare to sing? 
 
 It clogs like lead corruption's weary wing: 
 
 Yet Pallas pluck'd each Premier by the ear. 
 
 Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear; 
 
 But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state. 
 
 On Pallas calls, but calls, alas ! too late; 
 
 Then raves for * * * ; to that Mentor bends. 
 
 Though he and Pallas never yet were friends : 
 
 Him senates hear whom never yet they heard, 
 
 Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd : 
 
 So once of yore each reasonable frog 
 
 Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign log. 
 
 jThus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
 
 As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 
 
 "Now fare ye well, enjoy your little hour; 
 Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power; 
 Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme. 
 Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. 
 Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind, 
 And pirates barter all that's left behind; 
 No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, 
 Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war; 
 The idle merchant on the useless quay 
 Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ; 
 Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 
 Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores; 
 The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, 
 And desperate mans him 'gainst the common doom. 
 Then in the senate of your sinking state. 
 Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. 
 Vain is each voice whose tones could once command ; 
 E'en factions cease to charm a factious land; 
 While jarring sects convulse a sister-isle. 
 And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 
 
 "'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in vain. 
 The Furies seize her abdicated reign ; 
 "Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands, 
 And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
 But one convulsive struggle still remains, 
 And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. 
 The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files. 
 O'er whose gay_trappings stern Bellona smiles ; 
 The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
 That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 
 The hero, bounding at bis country's call. 
 The glorious death that decorates his fall, 
 Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 
 And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
 But know, a lesson you may yet be taught — 
 With death alone are laurels cheaply bought; 
 Not in the conflict havoc seeks delight. 
 His day of mercy is the day of fight; 
 But when the field is fought, the battle won, 
 Though drench'd \ ith gore, his woes are but begun. 
 His deeper deeds ye know yet but by name ; — 
 The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame, 
 The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
 III suit with souls at home untaught to yield. 
 Say with what eye, along the distant down. 
 Would flying burghers mark the blazing town? 
 How view the column of ascending flames 
 Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? 
 Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 
 That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine ; 
 Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
 Go, ask thy bosom, who deserves (hem most? 
 The law of heaven and earth is life for life; 
 And she who raised in vain regrets the strife," 
 
 London, 1812. 
 
 35 
 
554 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. 
 
 'Impar Congressus Achilli. 
 
 The "good old times" — all limes, when old, are good- 
 Are gone : the present might be, if they would; 
 Great tilings have been, and are, and greater still 
 Want little of mere mortals but their will: 
 A wider space, a greener field is given 
 To those who play their "tricks before high Heaven." 
 I know not if the angels weep, but men 
 Have wept enough — for what?— to weep again. 
 
 All is exploded — be it good or bad. 
 Reader ! remember when thou wert a lad, 
 Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much, 
 His very rival almost deem'd him sueh. 
 We, wc liave seen the intellectual race 
 Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
 Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
 Of eloquence between, which flow'd all flree, 
 As the deep billows of the ^gean roar 
 Betwixt the HeUenic and the Phrygian shore. 
 But where are they — the rivals? — a few feet 
 Of sullen earth divide each winding-sheet. 
 How peaceful and how powerful is the grave 
 Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave 
 Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old 
 Of "dust to dust;" but half its tale untold. 
 Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
 Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form — 
 Varied above, but still alike below; 
 The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow, 
 Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea, 
 O'er which from empire she lured Anthony; 
 Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 
 On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown- 
 How vain, how worse than vain at length appear 
 The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear ! 
 He wept for worlds toeonquer— half the earth 
 Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth, 
 And desolation; while his native Greece 
 Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 
 He "wept for worlds to conquer!" he who ne'er 
 Conceived the globe he panted not to spare! 
 With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, 
 Which holds his urn, and never knew liis throne. 
 
 But where is he, the modern, mightier far. 
 Who, born no king, made monarehs draw his car ; 
 The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings, 
 Free'd from the bit, believe themselves with wings, 
 And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late, 
 Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state ? 
 Yes ! where is he, the Champion and the Child 
 Of all that's great or little, wise or wild ? 
 Whose game was empires, and whosestakes were thrones 
 Whose table, earth— whose dice were human bones? 
 Behold the grand result in yon lone isle, 
 And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
 Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
 Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 
 Smile to survey the Qucller of the Nations 
 Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations; 
 Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
 O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines; 
 O'er petty quarrels upon petty things — 
 Is this the man wlio scourged or feasted kings? 
 Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 
 A surgeon's statement and an carl's harangues ! 
 A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake 
 The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
 Is this indeed the Tamer of the Great, 
 Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 
 The paltry jailor and the prying spy. 
 The staring stranger with his note-book nigh ? 
 Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great; 
 How low, how little was this middle state. 
 Between a prison and a palace, where 
 How few could feel for what he had to bear ! 
 Vain his complaint, — my Lord presents Jiis bill. 
 His food and wine were doled out duly still ; 
 Vain was his sickness, — never was a clime 
 So free from homicide — to doubt 's a crime; 
 And the stiff Surgeon, who maintain'd his cause, 
 Hatli lost his place, and gain'd the world's applaua 
 But smile — though all the pangs of brain and hear| 
 Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art ; 
 Thougli, save the few fond friends, and imaged face" 
 Of (hat fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace. 
 None stand by his low bed — though even tlic mind 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 555 
 
 Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind ;- 
 Smile — for the fetter'd Eagle breaks his chain, 
 And higher worlds than this are his again. 
 
 How, if that soaring Spirit still retain 
 I A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 
 I How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
 jThe little that he was and sought to be ! 
 What though his name a wider empire found 
 iThan his ambition, though with scarce a bound; 
 Though first in glory, deepest in reverse. 
 He tasted empire's blessings and its curse; 
 Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
 From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape; 
 i|How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave, 
 ^iThe proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave ! 
 I What though his jailor, duteous to the last. 
 Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast, 
 Refusing one poor line along the lid, 
 To date the birth and death of all it hid; 
 That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
 \ talisman to all save him who bore: 
 The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 
 Sliall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast : 
 \Vlien Victory's Gallic column shall but rise, 
 ^ike Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies, 
 Che rocky isle that holds or held his dust 
 ■jliall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 
 ^nd mighty Nature o'er his obsequies 
 )o more than niggard Envy still denies. 
 Jut what are these to him? Can glory's lust 
 ?ouch the free'd spirit or the fetter'd dust? 
 Small care hath he of what his tomb consists ; 
 » ought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists : 
 dike the better-seeing Shade will smile 
 )ii the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 
 .s if his ashes found their latest home 
 II Rome's Pantheon, or Gaul's mimic dome. 
 le wants not this; but France shall feel the want 
 •f this last consolation, though so scant ; 
 ler honour, fame, and faith, demand his bones, 
 rear above a pyramid of thrones; 
 ir, carried onward, in the battle's van 
 form, like Guesclin's dust, her talisman. 
 ut be it as it is, the time may come 
 lis name shall beat the alarm like Ziska's drum. 
 
 Oh, Heaven ! of which he was in power a feature ; 
 
 h. Earth ! of which he was a noble creature; 
 
 hou Isle ! to be remember'd long and well, 
 
 hat sawst the unfledged eaglet chip his shell ! 
 
 e Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flights 
 
 over, the victor of a hundred fights ! 
 
 liou Rome, who sawst thy Caisar's deeds outdone ! 
 
 las ! why pass'd he too the Rubicon ? 
 
 he Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, 
 
 herd with vulgar kings and parasites? 
 
 gypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose 
 
 orgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 
 
 lid shook within their pyramids to hear 
 
 new Cambyses thundering in their ear; 
 
 While the dark shades of forty ages stood 
 
 Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 
 
 Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 
 
 Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell, 
 
 With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand 
 
 To re-manure the uncultivated land ! 
 
 Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 
 
 Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 
 
 Austria! which saw thy twicc-ta'en capital 
 
 Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall ! 
 
 Ye race of Frederic!— Frederics but in name 
 
 And falsehood— heirs to all except his fame; 
 
 Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 
 
 First, and but rose to follow; ye who dwell 
 
 Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 
 
 The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 
 
 Poland! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd, 
 
 But left thee as he found thee, still a waste. 
 
 Forgetting all thy still enduring claim. 
 
 Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name ; 
 
 Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear, 
 
 That sound that crashes in the tyrant's car ; 
 
 Kosciusko ! on— on— on— the thirst of war 
 
 Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their Czar ; 
 
 The half-barbaric Moscow's minarets 
 
 Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets! 
 
 Moscow ! thou limit of his long career. 
 
 For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 
 
 To see in vain — he saw thee — how ? with spire 
 
 And palace fuel to one common fire. 
 
 To this the soldier lent his kindling match. 
 
 To this the peasant gave his cottage-thatch. 
 
 To this the merchant flung his hoarded store, 
 
 The prince his hall — and, Moscow w as no more ! 
 
 Sublimest of volcanoes ! Etna's flame 
 
 Pales before thine, and quenchless Ilecla's tame ; 
 
 Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 
 
 For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height : 
 
 Thou standst alone unrivall'd, till the fire 
 
 To come, in which all empires shall expire. 
 
 Thou other element! as strong and stern. 
 
 To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn, 
 
 Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe, 
 
 Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 
 
 How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 
 
 Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang ! 
 
 In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
 
 For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ; 
 
 In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 
 
 Her youth — their blood flow s faster than her wines ; 
 
 Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
 
 In frozen mummies on the polar plains. 
 
 In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
 
 Her oflspring chill'd ; its beams are now forsaken. 
 
 Of all the trophies, gather'd from tlie war. 
 
 What shall return? The conqueror's broken car ! 
 
 The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 
 
 The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 
 
 Lutzen, Avhere fell the Swede of victory, 
 
 Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 
 
 Dresden surveys ihree despots fly once more 
 
556 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Before their sovereign,— sovereign, as before; 
 
 But there exliausted Fortune quits the field. 
 
 And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield ; 
 
 The Saxon Jackal leaves the Lion's side 
 
 To turn the Bear's, and Wolfs, and Fox's guide; 
 
 And backward to the den of his despair 
 
 The forest-monarch shrinks, but finds no lair ! 
 
 Oh ye ! and each, and all ! Oh, France ! who found 
 
 Thy long fair fields plough'd up as hostile ground, 
 
 Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 
 
 His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 
 
 Look'd down o'er trampled Paris ; and tliou, Isle, 
 
 Which seest Etrujia from thy ramparts smile. 
 
 Thou momentary shelter of his pride. 
 
 Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride; 
 
 Oh, France ! retaken by a single march. 
 
 Whose path was through one long triumphal arch ! 
 
 Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo, 
 
 Which proves how fools may have their fortune too, 
 
 Won, half by blunder, half by treachery; 
 
 Oh, dull Saint-Helen ! with thy jailor nigh — 
 
 Hear ! hear ! Prometheus from his rock appeal 
 
 To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 
 
 His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 
 
 A name eternal as the rolling year; 
 
 He teaches them the lesson taught so long, 
 
 So oft, so vainly— learn to do no wrong ! 
 
 A single step into the right had made 
 
 This man tlie Wasliington of worlds betray'd; 
 
 A single step into the wrong has given 
 
 His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven ; 
 
 The reed of fortune, and of thrones the rod. 
 
 Of Fame the Moloch or the dcmi-god ; 
 
 His country's Csesar, Europe's Hannibal, 
 
 Without their decent dignity of fall. 
 
 Yet Vanity herself had better taught 
 
 A surer path even to the fame he sought. 
 
 By pointing out on history's fruitless page 
 
 Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 
 
 While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven. 
 
 Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven, 
 
 Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 
 
 Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth : 
 
 While Washington's a watch-word, such as ne'er 
 
 Shall sink w hile tliere's an echo left to air : 
 
 While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 
 
 Forgets Pizarro to siiout Bolivar ! 
 
 Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 
 
 Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 
 
 The king of kings, and yet of slaves tlic slave. 
 
 Who burst the chains of millions to renew 
 
 The very fetters which his arm broke through. 
 
 And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own 
 
 To flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 
 
 But 'twill not be, the spark's awakcn'd, lo ! 
 The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; 
 The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 
 Through eight long ages of alternate gore 
 Revives— and where? in that avenging clime 
 Where Spain was once synonymous with crime, 
 
 Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew ; 
 
 The infant-world redeems her name of "iN'cu;." 
 
 'Tis the old aspiration breathed afresh, 
 
 To kindle souls within degraded flesh, 
 
 Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 
 
 Where Greece was — No! she still is Greece once mor* 
 
 One common cause makes myriads of one breast, 
 
 Slaves of the East, or Helots of the West; 
 
 On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd. 
 
 The self-same standard streams o'er either world ; 
 
 The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword; 
 
 The Chili-cliief abjures his foreign lord; 
 
 The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek ; 
 
 Young Freedom plumes the crest of each Cacique ; 
 
 Debating despots, hcmm'd on either shore, 
 
 Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar; 
 
 Througli Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 
 
 Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of France, 
 
 Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain 
 
 Unite Ausonia to the mighty main: 
 
 But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, 
 
 Break o'er th' ^gean, mindful of the day 
 
 Of Salamis — there, there the waves arise, 
 
 Not to be lull'd by tyrant-victories. 
 
 Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need 
 
 By ChristianSjUnto whom they gave their creed, 
 
 The desolated lands, the ravaged isle. 
 
 The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile, 
 
 The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 
 
 Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ; — 
 
 These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show 
 
 The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 
 
 But this is well : Greeks only should free Greece, 
 
 Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
 
 How should the Autocrat of Bondage be 
 
 The king of serfs, and set the nations free? 
 
 Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
 
 Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan ; 
 
 Better still toil for masters, than await. 
 
 The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate,— 
 
 Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 
 
 A live estate, existing but for thrall. 
 
 Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 
 
 For the first courtier in the Czar's regard; 
 
 While their immediate owner never tastes 
 
 His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes; 
 
 Better succumb even to their own despair. 
 
 And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 
 
 But not alone within tlie hoariest clime. 
 Where Freedom dates her birth with that of Time; 
 And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd 
 Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud. 
 The dawn revives: renown'd, romantic Spain 
 Holds back the invader from her soil again. 
 Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 
 Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword ; 
 Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 
 Pollute the plains alike abhorring both; 
 Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 
 The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 555 
 
 Be wavering', which long awed and awes mankind ;— 
 Smile — for the fetter'd Eagle breaks his chain, 
 And higher worlds than this are his again. 
 
 How, if that soaring Spirit still retain 
 A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 
 How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
 The little that he was and sought to be ! 
 What though his name a wider empire found 
 Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound; 
 Though first in glory, deepest in reverse. 
 He tasted empire's blessings and its curse; 
 Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
 From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape; 
 How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave. 
 The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave ! 
 What though his jailor, duteous to the last. 
 Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast, 
 Refusing one poor line along the lid. 
 To date the birth and death of all it hid; 
 That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
 A talisman to all save him who bore: 
 The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 
 Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast : 
 When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise. 
 Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies, 
 The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 
 Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 
 And mighty Nature o'er his obsequies 
 Do more than niggard Envy still denies. 
 But what are these to him? Can glory's lust 
 Touch the free'd spirit or the fetter'd dust? 
 Small care hath he of what his tomb consists ; 
 Nought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists : 
 Alike the better-seeing Shade will smile 
 On the rude cavern of the rocky isle. 
 As if his ashes found their latest home 
 In Rome's Pantheon, or Gaul's mimic dome. 
 JHe wants not this; but France shall feel the want 
 jOf this last consolation, though so scant ; 
 Her honour, fame, and faith, demand his bones, 
 jro rear above a pyramid of thrones; 
 jOr, carried onward, in the battle's van 
 JFo form, like Guesclin's dust, her talisman. 
 [But be it as it is, the time may come 
 'His name shall beat the alarm like Ziska's drum. 
 
 Oh, Heaven ! of which he was in power a feature ; 
 
 Dh, Earth ! of which he was a noble creature; 
 
 ifhou Isle ! to be remember'd long and well, 
 
 That sawst the unfledged eaglet chip his sliell ! 
 
 fe Alps, which view'd him in his dawning fliglits 
 
 tlover, the victor of a hundred fights ! 
 
 Thou Rome, who sawst thy Cajsar's deeds outdone! 
 
 \las ! why pass'd he too the Rubicon ? 
 
 The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, 
 |lro herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 
 f [Sgypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose 
 
 forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 
 
 \nd shook within their pyramids to hear 
 
 S. new Cambyses thundering in their ear; 
 
 I 
 
 While the dark shades of forty ages stood 
 
 Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 
 
 Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 
 
 Beheld the desert peopled, as from Jiell, 
 
 With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand 
 
 To re-manure the imcultivated land ! 
 
 Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 
 
 Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 
 
 Austria ! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 
 
 Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall ! 
 
 Ye race of Frederic!— Frederics but in name 
 
 And falsehood— heirs to all except his fame; 
 
 Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 
 
 First, and but rose to follow; ye who dwell 
 
 Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 
 
 The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 
 
 Poland! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd, 
 
 But left thee as he found thee, still a waste. 
 
 Forgetting all thy still enduring claim, 
 
 Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name ; 
 
 Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear. 
 
 That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear ; 
 
 Kosciusko ! on— on— on— the thirst of war 
 
 Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their Czar ; 
 
 The half-barbaric Moscow's minarets 
 
 Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets! 
 
 Moscow ! thou limit of his long career, 
 
 For which rude Charles had w ept his frozen tear 
 
 To see in vain — Jie saw thee — how ? with spire 
 
 And palace fuel to one common fire. 
 
 To this the soldier lent his kindling match. 
 
 To this the peasant gave his cottage-thatch, 
 
 To this the merchant flung his hoarded store, 
 
 The prince his hall — and, Moscow was no more! 
 
 Sublimest of volcanoes ! Etna's flame 
 
 Pales before thine, and quenchless Ilecla's tame ; 
 
 Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 
 
 For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height : 
 
 Thou standst alone unri vail' d, till the fire 
 
 To come, in which all empires shall expire. 
 
 Thou other element! as strong and stern, 
 
 To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn. 
 
 Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe. 
 
 Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 
 
 How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 
 
 Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang ! 
 
 In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
 
 For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ; 
 
 In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 
 
 Her youth — their blood flows faster than her wines ; 
 
 Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
 
 In frozen mummies on the polar plains. 
 
 In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
 
 Her oflspring chill'd ; its beams are now forsaken. 
 
 Of all the trophies, gather'd from tlie war, 
 
 What shall return? The conqueror's broken car ! 
 
 The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 
 
 The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 
 
 Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory, 
 
 Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 
 
 Dresden surveysihree despots fly one* more 
 
558 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece! 
 
 How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 
 
 Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
 
 How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 
 
 With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain; 
 
 How royally show oft' in proud Madrid 
 
 His goodly person, from the South long hid, — 
 
 A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows. 
 
 By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 
 
 Proceed, thou namesake of Great Philip's son ! 
 
 La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on ; 
 
 And that which Scythia was to him of yore, 
 
 Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 
 
 Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 
 
 Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; 
 
 Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine. 
 
 Many an old woman, but no Catherine. 
 
 Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 
 
 The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 
 
 Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 
 
 Thinkst thou to thee Napoleon's victor jields? 
 
 Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 
 
 To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes, 
 
 Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 
 
 Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 
 
 To infest the clime, whose skies and laws are pnre. 
 
 With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure ; 
 
 Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe; 
 
 Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago ; 
 
 And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey? 
 
 Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 
 
 I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 
 
 Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun ; 
 
 But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander 
 
 Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 
 
 Be slaves who will, the Cynic shall be free, 
 
 His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope: 
 
 Still will he hold his lanthorn up to scan 
 
 The face of mouarchs for an "honest man." 
 
 And what doth Gaul, the all -prolific land 
 Oine plus ultra Ultras and their band 
 Of mercenaries ? and her noisy Chambers 
 And Tribune, which each orator first clambers 
 Before he finds a voice, and, when 'tis found. 
 Hears "tlie lie" echo for his answer round? 
 Our British Commons sometimes deign to "hear!" 
 A Gallic Senate hath more tongue than ear; 
 Even Constant, their sole master of debate. 
 Must fight next day, his speecli to vindicate. 
 But this costs little to true Franks, Avho had rather 
 Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
 What is the simple standing of a shot. 
 To listening long, and interrupting not ? 
 Tiiough this was not tlie method of old Rome, 
 When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
 Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction, 
 In saying eloquence meant "Action, action !" 
 
 But Where's the Monarch? hath he dined? or yet 
 Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt? 
 
 Have revolutionary pites risen, 
 
 And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison? 
 
 Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops ? 
 
 Or have no movements follow 'd traiterous soups? 
 
 Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 
 
 Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded 
 
 Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks 
 
 I read all 's treason in her cooks ! 
 
 Good classic ! is it, canst thou say. 
 
 Desirable to be the " ?" 
 
 Why wouldst thou leave calm 's green abode, 
 
 Apieian table and Horatian ode. 
 
 To rule a people who will not be ruled. 
 
 And love much rather to be scourged than school'd .' 
 
 Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 
 
 For thrones — the table sees thee better placed: 
 
 A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best, 
 
 To be a kind host and as good a guest. 
 
 To talk of letters, and to know by heart 
 
 One Aa^the poet's, all the gourmand's art; 
 
 A scholar always, now and then a wit. 
 
 And gentle when digestion may permit — 
 
 But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 
 
 The gout was martyrdom enough for thee ! 
 
 Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 
 From a bold Briton in her wonted praise? 
 "Arts — arms — and George— and glory — andtlieisles 
 And happy Britain — wealth — and freedom's smiles — 
 White clifls, that held invasion far aloof — 
 Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
 Proud Wellington, with eagle-beak so curl'd, 
 That nose, the hook where he suspends the world 1 
 
 And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush! not yc: 
 
 A syllable of imposts or of debt) 
 
 And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
 Whose pen-knife slit a goose-quill t'other day — 
 And pilots who have weather'd every storm — 
 (But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform)." 
 These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 
 Metbinks we need not sing them any more ; 
 Found in so many volumes far and near. 
 There's no occasion you should find them here. 
 Yet something may remain perchance to chime 
 With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme; 
 Even this thy genius. Canning! may permit. 
 Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit. 
 And never, even in that dull house, couldst tame 
 To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame; 
 Our last, our best, our only orator. 
 Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more, 
 Nay, not so much ; — they hate thee, man, because 
 Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes, — 
 The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo. 
 And, where he leads, the duteous pack will follow; 
 But not for love mistake their yelling cry, 
 Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; 
 Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 
 A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back ; 
 Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, 
 Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 
 
 \ 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 559 
 
 The unwieldy old White Horse is apt at last 
 To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
 With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
 But what of tliat? the animal shows blood. 
 
 Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 
 Bewail her now uncouutry-gcntlemen ? — 
 The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 
 Tlie first to make a malady of peace. 
 For what were all these country-patriots born? 
 To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn. 
 But com, like every mortal thing, must fall — 
 Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 
 jAnd must ye fall with every ear of grain? 
 Why would you trouble Buonapar e's reign ? 
 jHe was your great Triptolemus! his vices 
 pestroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your prices ; 
 JHe amplified, to every Lord's content, 
 JThe grand agrarian alchymy — high rent. 
 Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 
 [ind lower wheat to suci desponding quarters ? 
 ISVhy did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 
 jrhe man was worth much more upon his throne, 
 irrue, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, 
 iJut what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt; 
 jlut bread was high, the farmer paid his w ay, 
 jlnd acres told upon the appointed day. 
 - iJut where is now the goodly audit-ale? 
 i'he purse-proud tenant never known to fail I 
 'he farm which never yet was left on hand I 
 .'he marsh reclaim'd to most improving land ? 
 [["he impatient hope of the expiring lease? 
 I'he doubling rental ? What an evil 's peace 1 
 
 vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 
 
 vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 
 he landed interest — (you may understand 
 he phrase much better leaving out the land) — 
 he land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 
 or fear that plenty should attain the poor. 
 
 p! up again ! ye rents, exalt your notes, 
 
 r else the Ministry will lose their votes, 
 
 nd Patriotism, so delicately nice, 
 
 er loaves Avill lower to the market-price; 
 
 or ah ! "the loaves and fishes," once so high, 
 
 re gone — tlieir oven closed, their ocean dry , 
 
 id nought remains of all the millions spent, 
 
 Kcepting to grow moderate and content. 
 
 iey who are not so, had their turn — and turn 
 
 !)oat still flows from Fortune's equal urn; 
 
 Dw let their virtue be its own reward, 
 
 id share the blessings which themselves prepared. 
 
 « these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 
 
 irmers of war, Dictators of the farm ! 
 
 heir ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, 
 
 4«r fields manured by gore of other lands ; 
 
 fein their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 
 
 VOX brethren out to battle — why ? for rent! 
 
 HW after year they voted cent per cent. 
 
 ood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why ? for rent ! 
 
 iRy roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they 
 iBt'^e for England — why then live? for rent! [meant 
 
 The peace has made one general malcontent 
 
 Of these high-market patriots; war was rent! 
 
 Their love of country, millions all mis-spent. 
 
 How reconcile? — by reconciling rent. 
 
 And will they not repay the treasures lent? 
 
 No: down with every thing, and up with rentl 
 
 Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent. 
 
 Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent! 
 
 Thou soldst thy birth-right, Esau! for a mess: 
 
 Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less; 
 
 Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands 
 
 Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands. 
 
 Such, landlords, was your appetite for war, 
 
 And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar ! 
 
 What, would they spread their earthquake even o'er Casli ? 
 
 And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash? 
 
 So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall. 
 
 And found on 'Change a FundHng Hospital? 
 
 Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writlies. 
 
 Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring. Tithes ; 
 
 The Prelates go to — where the Saints have gone, 
 
 And proud pluralities subside to one ; 
 
 Church, state, and faction, wrestle in the dark, 
 
 Toss'd by the Deluge in their common ark. 
 
 Shorn of her Bishops, banks, and dividends, 
 
 Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. 
 
 And why ? to pamper the self-seeking wants. 
 
 And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
 
 "Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;" 
 
 Admire their patience through each sacrifice. 
 
 Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, 
 
 The price of taxes and of homicide : 
 
 Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
 
 The debt of nations : — pray, who mad^ it hiyk? 
 
 Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, 
 The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 
 Where Midas might again his wish behold 
 In real paper or imagined gold. 
 That magic palace of Alciaa shows 
 More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, 
 Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore. 
 And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 
 There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the stake, 
 And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 
 How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines, 
 Or peace, or plenty, corn, or oil, or w ines ; 
 No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 
 Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 
 But let us not to own the truth refuse, 
 Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews.' 
 Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 
 And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own; 
 All states, all things, all sovereigns they controul, 
 ^fad waft a loan "from Indus to the Pole." 
 The banker — broker — baron — brethren, speed 
 To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 
 Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less 
 Fresh speculations follow each success; 
 And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 
 Her mild per centage from exhausted Spain. 
 
5G0 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march — 
 'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. 
 Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 
 In every realm their scripture-promised land: 
 Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 
 The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old : 
 Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 
 The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 
 What is the happiness of earth to them? 
 A Congress forms their "New Jerusalem," 
 Where baronies and orders both invite — 
 Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see tlie sight? 
 Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 
 Who spit not "on their Jewish gaberdine," 
 But honour them as portion of the show — 
 (Where now, oh. Pope! is thy forsaken toe? 
 Could it not favour Judah with some kicks? 
 Or has it ceased to "kick against the pricks ?") 
 On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh. 
 To cut from nations' hearts their "pound of flesh." 
 
 Strange sight this Congress ! destined to unite 
 All that's incongruous, all that's opposite. 
 I speak not of the Sovereigns — they're alike, 
 A common coin as ever mint oould strike : 
 But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, 
 Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 
 Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine. 
 While Europe wonders at the vast design : 
 There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, 
 Cajoles J there Wellington forgets to fight; 
 There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ; 
 And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars; 
 There Montmorency, the sworn foe to charters. 
 Turns a diplomatist of great eclat. 
 To ftirnish articles for the "Debats :" 
 Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 
 As liis dismissal in the "Moniteur." 
 Alas! how could his cabinet thus err? 
 Can peace be wortli an Ultra- Minister? 
 He falls, indeed, — perhaps to rise again, 
 "Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain." 
 
 Enough of tliis — a sight more mournful woos 
 The averted eye of the reluctant Muse. 
 The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
 The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride; 
 The mother of the hero's hope, the boy. 
 The young Astyanax of modern Troy ; 
 The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
 
 That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen ; 
 
 She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour, 
 
 The tlieme of pity, and the wreck of power. 
 
 Oh, cruel mockery ! Could not Austria spare 
 
 A daughter? What did France's widow there? 
 
 Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave — 
 
 Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 
 
 But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign, 
 
 Flank'd by her formidable Chamberlain; 
 
 The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 
 
 Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. 
 
 What though she share no more and shared in vain 
 
 A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 
 
 Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas, 
 
 Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 
 
 Where Parma views tlie traveller resort 
 
 To note the trappings of her mimic court. 
 
 But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 
 
 Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn — 
 
 Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 
 
 To chill in their inhospitable clime 
 
 (If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold — 
 
 But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould) ; 
 
 She comes! — tlie Andromache ( but not Racine's, 
 
 Nor Homer's) ; lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! 
 
 Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 
 
 Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through, 
 
 Is offer'd and accepted! Could a slave 
 
 Do more? or less ? — and he in his new grave ! 
 
 Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife. 
 
 And the £x-Empress grows as Ex a wife! 
 
 So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 
 
 Why spare mea's feelings, when their own are jests? 
 
 But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home. 
 And sketch the group — the picture's yet to come. 
 My Muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt. 
 She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt! 
 While throng'd the Chiefs of every Highland clan 
 To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman ! 
 Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, 
 While all the Common -Council cry, "Claymore!" 
 To see proud Albyn's Tartans as a belt 
 Gird the gross sirloin of a City - Celt, 
 She burst into a laughter so extreme. 
 That I awoke — and lo ! it was no dream ! 
 
 Here, reader, will we pause: — if there's no harm in 
 This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second "Carmen." 
 
 
561 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 
 
 Suggested by the composition so entitled by the author of "wat tyler." 
 
 A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel! 
 
 1 thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 
 
 1. 
 
 [T Peter sat by the celestial gate; 
 [is keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 
 5o little trouble had been given of late; 
 iot tliat the place by any means was full, 
 $ut since the Gallic era "eighty - eight," 
 "he devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, 
 ind "a pull altogether," as they say 
 kt sea — which drew most souls another way. 
 
 lie angels all were singing out of tune, 
 nd hoarse with having little else to do, 
 Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 
 'r curb a runaway young star or two, 
 If wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
 roke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 
 plitting some planet with its playful tail, 
 s boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 
 
 he guardian seraphs had retired on high, 
 inding their charges past all care below ; 
 crrcstrial business fill'd nought in the sky, 
 ive the recording angel's black bureau; 
 /ho found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
 /1th such rapidity of vice and woe, 
 liat he had stripp'd oflboth his wings in quills, 
 lid yet was in arrear of human ills. 
 
 4. 
 
 is business so augmented of late years, 
 
 liat he was forced against his will, no doubt 
 
 fust like those cherubs, earthly ministers), 
 
 3r some resource to turn himself about, 
 
 lid claim the help of his celestial peers, 
 
 3 aid liim ere he should be quite worn out 
 
 y the increased demand for his remarks; 
 
 X angels and twelve saints were named his clerks. 
 
 This was a handsome board — at least for heaven ; 
 
 And yet they had even then enough to do. 
 
 So many conquerors' cars were daily driven. 
 
 So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
 
 Each day, too, slew its thousands six or seven. 
 
 Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
 
 They threw their pens down in divine disgust — 
 
 The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust. 
 
 ft 
 
 This by the way; 'tis not mine to record 
 What angels shrink from : even the very devij 
 On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
 So surfeited with the infernal revel ; 
 Though hehimself had sharpen'd every sword. 
 It almost quench'dhis innate thirst of evil. 
 (Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion — 
 'Tis, that he has both generals ia reversion.) 
 
 7. 
 
 Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
 Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 
 And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease. 
 With nothing but new names subscribed upon 't; 
 'Twill one day finish: meantime they increase, 
 "With seven heads and ten horns," and all in front, 
 Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours are born 
 Less formidable in the head than horn. 
 
 8. 
 In the first year of freedom's second dawn 
 Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one 
 Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 
 Left him nor mental nor external sun : 
 A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, 
 A worse king never left a realm undone! 
 He died— but left his subjects still behind. 
 One half as mad — and t'other no less blind. 
 
 36 
 
562 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 St. 0— 
 
 9. 
 
 He died ! — his death made no great stir on earth ; 
 His burial made some pomp ; there was profusion 
 Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 
 Of aught but tears — save those shed by colhision; 
 For these things may be bought at their true worth : 
 Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
 Bought also ; and tJie torches, cloaks, and banners, 
 Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 
 
 10. 
 
 Form'd a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all 
 
 The fools who flock'd to swell or see the sliow, 
 
 Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
 
 Made the attraction, and the black the woe. [P^W ! 
 
 There throbb'd not there a thouglit which pierced the 
 
 And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 
 
 It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 
 
 The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 
 
 11. 
 
 So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
 Return to what it must far sooner, were 
 The natural compound left alone to fight 
 Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; 
 But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
 What nature made him at his birth, as bare 
 As the mere million's ba.se unmummied clay — 
 Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 
 
 12. 
 He's dead— and upper earth with him has done : 
 He's buried; save the undertaker's bill, 
 Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
 For him, unless he left a German will; 
 But Where's the proctor who will ask his son ? 
 In whom his qualities are reigning still. 
 Except that household virtue, most uncommon. 
 Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 
 
 13. 
 
 "God save the king !" It is a large economy 
 In God to save the like ; but if he will 
 Be saving, all the better ; for not one am I 
 Of those who think damnation better still : 
 I hardly know too if not quite alone am 1 
 In this small hope of bettering future ill 
 By circumscribing, with some slight restriction. 
 The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 
 
 14. 
 I know this is unpopular ; I know 
 'Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damn'd 
 For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 
 I know my catechism; I know we are cramm'd 
 With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 
 I know that all save England's church have shamm'd, 
 And that the other twice two liundred churches 
 And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase. 
 
 15. 
 
 God help us all ! God help me, too ! I am, 
 God knows, as lielpless as the devil can wish, 
 And not a whit more difficult to damn 
 Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 
 Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb; 
 Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish 
 As one day will be that immortal fry 
 Of almost every body born to die. 
 
 16. 
 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate. 
 
 And nodded o'er his keys ; when lo ! there came 
 
 A wonderous noise he had not heard of late — 
 
 A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame; 
 
 In short, a roar of things extremely great. 
 
 Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim; 
 
 But he, with first a start and then a wink. 
 
 Said, "There's another star gone out, I think ! " 
 
 17. 
 
 But ere he could return to his repose, 
 
 A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er liis eyes — 
 
 At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose: 
 
 "Saint porter," said the angel, "prithee rise!" 
 
 Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
 
 An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes ; 
 
 To which the Saint replied, "Well, what's the matter! 
 
 Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?" 
 
 18. 
 "No," quoth the Cherub; "George tiie Third is dead," 
 "And who is George tlie Third?" replied the Apostle; 
 "WhaiGeorc/e? what Third?" "The King of Englan 
 The Angel, "Well ! he wo'nt find kings to jostle [s 
 Rim on his way; but does he wear his head ? 
 Because the — we saw here had a tussle, 
 And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, 
 Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 
 
 19. 
 He was, if I remember, king of— 
 That head of his, which could not keep a crown 
 On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance -, 
 
 A claim to tliose of martyrs — like my own : 
 If I had had my sword, as I had once ,j. 
 
 When I cut ears oft", I had cut him down; v 
 
 But having but my ket/s, and not my brand, 
 I only kuock'd his head from out his hand. i 
 
 20. 
 And then he set up such a headless howl. 
 That all the Saints came out, and took him in ; 
 And there he sits by Saint Paul, clieek by jowl; 
 That fellow Paul — tlie parvenu ! The skin 
 Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes Iiis cowl 
 In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin 
 So as to make a martyr, never sped 
 Better than did this weak and w ooden head. 
 
1ST. 21-3i 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 563 
 
 21. 
 
 But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
 There would have been a different tale to tell : 
 The fellow-feeling in the Saints beholders 
 Seems to have acted on them like a spell, 
 Vnd so this very foolish head heaven solders 
 Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 
 Und seems the custom here to overthrow 
 Whatever has been wisely done below." 
 
 22. 
 
 The Angel answer'd, "Peter! do not pout; 
 The king who comes has head and all entire, 
 Ind never knew much what it was about — 
 le did as doth the puppet — by its wire, 
 Ind will be judged like all the rest, no doubt; 
 vly business and your own is not to inquire 
 nto such matters, but to mind our cue — 
 (Vhich is to act as we are bid to do." 
 
 27. 
 
 As things were in this posture, the gate flew 
 
 Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
 
 Flung over space an universal hue 
 
 Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges 
 
 Reach'd even our speck of eartli, and made a new 
 
 Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
 
 O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when ice-bound, 
 
 By Captain Parry's crew, in "Melville's Sound." 
 
 28. 
 And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
 A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 
 Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
 Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight: 
 My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
 With earthly likenesses, for here the night 
 Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 
 Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. 
 
 23. 
 ^Iiile thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 
 irriving like a rush of mighty wind, 
 'leaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 
 jiome silver-stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 
 j)r Thames, or Tweed), and midst them an old man 
 IVith an old soul, and both extremely blind, 
 jlalted before the gate, and in his shroud 
 Heated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 
 
 24. 
 
 lut bringing up the rear of this bright host, 
 i Spirit of a diflerent aspect waved ; 
 
 ! |lis wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 
 jjjVhose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; 
 lis brow was like the deep when tempest-tost; 
 fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
 Sternal wrath on his immortal face, 
 Ind where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 
 
 25. 
 
 uS he drew near, he gazed upon the gate, 
 
 fe'er to be enter'd more by him or sin, 
 
 nth such a glance of supernatural hate, 
 
 lS made Saint Peter wish himself within; 
 
 le patter'd witli his keys at a great rate, 
 ifpd sweated through his apostolic skin : 
 i ff course his perspiration was but ichor, 
 j j>r some such other spiritual liquor. 
 
 : i 
 
 I i 26. 
 
 \ file very cherubs huddled altogether, 
 
 I jiike birds when soars the falcon; and they felt 
 
 \ Ji tingling to the tip of every feather, 
 
 i^ jind form'd a circle, like Orion's belt, 
 
 1^ Kround their poor old charge, who scarce knew whither 
 
 I |Iis guards had let him, though they gently dealt 
 
 '• jVith royal manes (for, by many stories, 
 
 y ji.nd true, we learn the angels all are Tories). 
 
 I 
 
 29. 
 'Twas the Archangel Michael: all men know 
 The make of angels and archangels, since 
 There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 
 From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince. 
 There also are some altar-pieces, though; 
 I really can't say that they much evince y ! 
 One's inner notions of immortal spirits; 
 But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. 
 
 30. 
 Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 
 A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
 And good arise; the portal pass'd — he stood ; 
 Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary ; 
 (I say young, begging to be understood 
 By looks, not years ; aud should be very sorry 
 To state, they were not older than Saint Peter, 
 But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter.) 
 
 31. 
 
 The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before 
 That arch- angelic Hierarch, the first 
 Of Essences angelical, who wore 
 The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nursed 
 Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 
 No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst 
 Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
 He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 
 
 32. 
 
 He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 
 
 They knew each other both for good and ill; 
 
 Such was their power, that neither could forget 
 
 His former friend and future foe; but still 
 
 There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
 
 In cither's eye, as if 'twere less their will 
 
 Than destiny to make the eternal years 
 
 Their date of war, and their "Champ Clos" the spheres. 
 
564 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 St. S3— . 
 
 33. 
 
 But here they were in neutral space : we know 
 
 From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay 
 
 A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
 
 And that "the Sons of God," like those of clay, 
 
 Must keep him company; and we might show, 
 
 From the same book, in how polite a way 
 
 The dialogue is held between the Powers 
 
 Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up hours ; 
 
 34. 
 
 And this is not a theologic tract. 
 
 To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic 
 
 If Job be allegory or a fact, 
 
 But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 
 
 From out the whole but such and such an act 
 
 As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 
 
 'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 
 
 And accurate as any other vision. 
 
 35. 
 
 The spirits were in neutral space, before 
 
 The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholds is 
 
 The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er. 
 
 And souls despatched to that world or to this; 
 
 And therefore Michael and the other wore 
 
 A civil aspect; though they did not kiss. 
 
 Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 
 
 There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 
 
 ; 36. 
 
 The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau, ^' ' ' 
 
 But with a graceful Oriental bend, 
 
 Pressing one radiant arm just where below 
 
 The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 
 
 He turn'd as to an equal, not too low, 
 
 But kindly; Satan met his ancient friend 
 
 With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
 
 Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 
 
 37. 
 He merely bent his diabolic brow 
 An instant; and then, raising it he stood 
 In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 
 Cause why King George by no means could or should 
 Make out a case to be exempt from woe 
 Eternal, more than other kings endued 
 With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions, 
 Who long have "paved hell with their good intentions." 
 
 38. 
 
 Michael began: "What wouldst thou with this man. 
 Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill 
 Hath he wrought since his mortal race began. 
 That thou canst claim him? Speak! and do thy will, 
 If it be just: if in this earthly span 
 He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
 His duties as a king and mortal, say, 
 And he is thine; if not, let him have way." 
 
 39. 
 "Michael !" replied the Prince of Air, "even here, 
 Before the gate of him thou servest, must 
 I claim my subject; and will make appear 
 That as he was my worsliippcr in dust,- 
 So shall he be in spirit, althougli dear 
 To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 
 Were of his weaknesses ! yet on the throne 
 He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 
 
 40. 
 Look to our eartli, or rather 7ni7ie ; it was, 
 Once, more thy master's : but I triumpli not 
 In this poor planet's conquest, nor, alas ! 
 Need he tliou servest envy me my lot : 
 Witli all the myriads of brigiit worlds which pass 
 In worship round him, he may have forgot 
 Yon weak creation of sucli paltry things; 
 I think few worth damnation save their kings, 
 
 4L 
 
 And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
 
 Assert my right as Lord; and even had 
 
 I such an inclination, 'twere (as you 
 
 Well know) superfluous; they are grown so bad. 
 
 That hell has nothing better left to do 
 
 Than leave them to themselves : so much more mad 
 
 And evil by their own internal curse. 
 
 Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 
 
 42. 
 Look to the earth, I said, and say again; 
 When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm 
 Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign. 
 The world and he both wore a different form, 
 And much of earth and all the watery plain 
 Of ocean call'd him king: through many a storm 
 His isles had floated on the abyss of time; 
 For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 
 
 43. 
 He came to his sceptre, young; he leaves it, old: 
 Look to the state in which he found his realm, 
 And left it; and his annals, too, behold. 
 How to a minion first he gave the helm ; 
 How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, ."i 
 
 The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm if 
 
 The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but glance 
 Thine eye along America and France! 
 
 44. 
 'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last 
 (I have the workmen safe) ; but as a tool 
 So let him be consumed! From out the past 
 Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 
 Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls aniass'd 
 Of sin and slaughter — from the Csesar's school. 
 Take the worst pupil, and produce a reign 
 More drench'd with gore, more eumbcr'd witli the slai] 
 
St. 45-56. 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 565 
 
 46. 
 
 He ever warr'd with freedom and the free: 
 
 Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 
 
 So that they utter'd the word "Liberty!" 
 
 Found George the Third their first opponent. Wliose 
 
 History was ever stain'd as his will be 
 
 With national and individual woes? 
 
 I grant his household abstinence; I grant 
 
 His neutral virtues, which most moaarchs want; 
 
 46. 
 
 I know he was a constant consort; own 
 He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
 Ail this is much, and most upon a throne; 
 As temperance, if at Apicius' board, 
 Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 
 I grant him all the kindest can accord; 
 i And this was well for him, but not for those 
 Millions who found him what oppression chose. 
 
 47. 
 
 The new world shook him oft'; the old yet groans 
 ! Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 
 
 Completed: he leaves heirs on many thrones 
 
 To all his vices, without what begot 
 (Compassion for him — his tame virtues; drones 
 'Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 
 JA lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 
 
 Upon the tliroucs of Earth ; but let them quake ! 
 
 48. 
 Five millions of the primitive, who hold 
 |The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 
 A part of that vast all they held of old, — 
 Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 
 'Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter ! Cold 
 Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 
 The foe to Catholic participation 
 In all the license of a Christian nation. 
 
 49. 
 True ! he allow'd them to pray God ; but, as 
 A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
 i IWhich would have placed them upon the same base 
 { IW^ith tliose who did not hold the saints in awe." 
 ■' jBut here Saint Peter started from his place, 
 And cried, "You may the prisoner withdraw : 
 Ere heaven shall ope her portals to tliis Guelf, 
 While 1 am guard, may I be damn'd myself! 
 
 50. 
 
 •sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
 My office (and his is no sinecure) 
 riian see this royal Bedlam-bigot range 
 The azure fields of heaven,of that be sure!" 
 'Saint !" replied Satan, *'you do Avell to avenge 
 riie wrongs he made your satellites endure; 
 \nd if to this exchange you should be given, 
 ['II try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 
 
 51. 
 
 Here Michael interposed: "Good saint! and devil ! 
 
 Pray, not so fast : you both out-run discretion. 
 
 Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 
 
 Satan ! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
 
 And condescension to the vulgar's level : 
 
 Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
 
 Have you got more to say I" — "No!" — "If you please, 
 
 I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." 
 
 52. 
 
 Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand, 
 Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 
 Clouds farther off than we can understand. 
 Although we find him sometimes in our skies; 
 Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
 In all the planets, and hell's batteries 
 Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 
 As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 
 
 53. 
 This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
 As have the privilege of their damnation 
 Extended far beyond the mere controls 
 Of worlds past, present, or to come; no station 
 Is theirs particularly in the rolls 
 Of hell assigned; but where iheir inclination 
 Or business carries them in search of game, 
 They may range freely — being damn'd the same. 
 
 54. 
 They are proud of tliis — as very well they may, 
 It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 
 Stuck in their loins; or like to an "entree" 
 Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry : 
 I borrow my comparisons from clay, 
 Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 
 Offended with such base low likenesses; 
 We know their posts are nobler far than these. 
 
 55. 
 
 When the great signal ran from heaven to hell, 
 About ten million times the distance reckon'd 
 From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 
 How much time it takes up, even to a second. 
 For every ray that travels to dispel 
 The fogs of London; through which, dimly beacon'd, 
 The weathercocks are gilt, some thrice a year, 
 If that the summer is not too severe: — 
 
 66. 
 
 I say that I can tell — 'twas half a minute; 
 I know the solar beams take up more time 
 Ere, pack'd up for their journey, tliey begin it; 
 But then their telegraph is less sublime, 
 And if they ran a race, they would not win it 
 'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clime. 
 The sun takes tip some years for every ray 
 To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 
 
>^rv 
 
 566 
 
 ^\jy' 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 St. 57— t 
 
 Upon the verge of space, about the size 
 
 Of half-a-cro\vn, a little speck appear'd 
 
 (I've seen a something' like it in the skies 
 
 In tlie ^Egean, ere a squall) ; it ncar'd, 
 
 And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 
 
 Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and steer'd 
 
 Or was steer'd (I am doubtful of tlie grammar 
 
 Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer; — 
 
 68. 
 But take your choice) ; and tlien it grew a cloud ; 
 And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
 But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 
 Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these ; 
 They sliadow'd with their myriads space; their loud 
 And varied cries were like those of wild-geese 
 (If nations may be liken'd to a goose), 
 And realised the phrase of "hell broke loose." 
 
 69. 
 
 Here crasli'd a sturdy oath of stout Jolm Bull, 
 
 Who damn'd away his eyes, as heretofore : [ wull ?" 
 
 There Paddy brogued "by Jasus!" — "What's your 
 
 The temperate Scot exclaim'd ; the French gliost swore 
 
 In certain terms I sha'n't translate in full. 
 
 As the lirst coachman will ; and 'midst the war 
 
 The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 
 
 "Our President is going to war, I guess." 
 
 60. 
 Besides, there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane ; 
 In sliort, an universal shoal of shades. 
 From Otalieite's Isle to Salisbury Plain, 
 Of all climes and professions, years and trades. 
 Ready to swear against the good king's reign, 
 Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades : 
 All summon'd by this grand "subpoena," to 
 Try if kings mayn't be damn'd, like me or you. 
 
 61. 
 When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 
 As angels can ; next, like Italian twilight, 
 He turn'd all colours — as a peacock's tail. 
 Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight 
 In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 
 Or distant lightning on the horizon b^ night. 
 Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
 Of tliirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 
 
 62. 
 Then he address'd himself to Satan: "Why — 
 My good old friend, for such I deem you, though 
 Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
 1 ne'er mistake you for a personal foe; 
 Our difference is political, and I 
 Trust that, whatever may occur belovF, 
 You know my great respect for you ; and this 
 Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — 
 
 63. 
 
 Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
 
 My call for witnesses? I did not mean 
 
 That you should half of earth and hell produce; 
 
 'Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean^ 
 
 True testimonies are enough : we lose 
 
 Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
 
 The accusation and defence : if we 
 
 Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality." 
 
 64. 
 
 Satan replied: "To me the matter is 
 
 Indifferent, in a personal point of view : 
 
 I can have fifty better souls than this 
 
 With far less trouble than we have gone through 
 
 Already; and I merely argued his 
 
 Late Majesty of Britain's case with you 
 
 Upon a point of form : you may dispose 
 
 Of him; I've kings enough below, God knows!" 
 
 65. 
 
 Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd "multifaced" 
 By multo-scribbling Southey). "Then we'll call 
 One or two persons of the myriads placed 
 Around our congress, and dispense with all 
 The rest," quoth Michael : "Who may be so graced 
 As to speak first? there's choice enough — who shall 
 It be?" Then Satan answer'd, "There are many; 
 But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 
 
 66. 
 A merry, cock-eyed, curious looking Sprite, 
 Upon the instant started from the throng, 
 Dress'd in a fashion now forgotten quite; 
 For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 
 By people in the next world ; Avhere unite 
 All the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong, 
 From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat. 
 Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 
 
 67. 
 The Spirit looked around upon the crowds 
 Assembled, and exclaim'd, "My friends of all 
 The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds^ 
 So let's to business: why this general call? 
 If those are freeholders I see in shrouds. 
 And 'tis for an election that they bawl. 
 Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat! 
 Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote?" 
 
 68. 
 Sir," replied Michael, "you mistake: these things 
 Are of a former life, and wliat we do 
 Above is more august; to judge of kings 
 Is the tribunal met; so now you know." 
 "Then I presume those gentlemen w ith wings," 
 Said Wilkes, "are cherubs ; and that soul below 
 Looks much like George the Third ; but to my mind 
 A good deal older — Bless me! is he blind?" 
 
St. 69—80. 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 
 
 567 
 
 69. 
 
 "He is Avliat you behold hioij, and his doom 
 Depends upon liis deeds," the Angel said. 
 "If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
 Gives license to the humblest beggar's head 
 To lift itself against the loftiest." — "Some," 
 Said Wilkes, "don't wait to see them laid in lead, 
 For such a liberty — and I, for one, 
 Have told them what I thought beneath the sun." 
 
 70. 
 
 "Ahove the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 
 To urge against him," said the Archangel. "Why," 
 Replied the Spirit, "since old scores are past. 
 Must I turn evidence? In faith, not I. 
 Besides, I beat him hollow at the last. 
 With all his Lords and Commons : in tke sky 
 I don't like ripping up old stories, since 
 His conduct was but natural in a prince. 
 
 71. 
 Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
 A poor unlucky devil without a shilling; 
 (But tlicn I blame tlie man himself much less 
 Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 
 To sec him punish'd here for their excess. 
 Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 
 Tlieir place below ; for me, I have forgiven, 
 A.nd vote his "habeas corpus" into heaven." 
 
 72. 
 
 Wilkes," said the Devil, "I understand all this; 
 5fou turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, 
 \nd seem to think it would not be amiss 
 To grow a whole one on the other side 
 JTCIiaron's ferry ; you forget that his 
 Heign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide, 
 He won't be sovereign more : you've lost your labour, 
 Per at the best he will but be your neighbour. 
 
 ftlowever, I kncAV what to think of it, 
 kVhcn I belield you, in your jesting way, 
 
 i [Hitting and wliispering round about the spit 
 ItVherc Belial, upon duty for the day, 
 jrVith Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
 
 iflis pupil; I knew what to think, 1 say : 
 Chat fellow even in hell breeds farther ills ; 
 
 I I'll have him gagy'd — 'twas one of his own bills. 
 
 ii 
 
 74. 
 
 lail Junius ! " From the crowd a Shadow stalk'd, 
 ind at the name there was a general squeeze, 
 that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
 11 comfort, at their own aerial ease, 
 •ut were all ranim'd, and jamm'd (but to be baJk'd, 
 s we shall see) and jostled hands and knees, 
 ike wind compress'd and pent witiiin a bladder, 
 •r like a human cholic, which is sadder. 
 
 76. 
 
 The Shadow came ! a tall, thin, gray-hair'd figure, 
 That look'd as it had been a shade on earth; 
 Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour. 
 But nought to mark its breeding or its birth : ' 
 Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 
 With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth; 
 But as you gazed upon its features, they 
 Changed every instant — to what, none could say. 
 
 76. 
 
 The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
 Could they distinguish whose the features were ; 
 The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess ; 
 They varied like a dream— now here, now there; 
 And several people swore from out the press, 
 They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 
 He was Ids father: upon which another 
 Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother : 
 
 77. 
 Another, that he was a duke, or knight, 
 An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
 A nabob, a man-midwife; but the wight 
 Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
 As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 
 He stood, the puzzle only was increased; 
 The man was a phantasmagoria in 
 Himself — he was so volatile and thin ! 
 
 78. 
 The moment that you had pronounced him one, 
 Presto ! his face changed, and he was another; 
 And when that change was hardly well put on. 
 It varied, till I don't think his own mother 
 (If that he had a mother) would her son 
 Have known, he shifted so from one to t'other, 
 Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 
 At this epistolary "iron-mask." 
 
 79. 
 For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
 "Three gentlemen at once" (as sagely says 
 Good Mrs. Malaprop); then you might deem 
 That he was not even one ; now many rays 
 Were flashing round him; and now a thick steam 
 Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days : 
 Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies, 
 And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 
 
 80. 
 I've an hypothesis— 'tis quite my own ; 
 I never let it out till now, for fear 
 Of doing people harm about the throne, - 
 xVnd injuring some minister or peer 
 On whom the stigma might perliaps be blown; 
 It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
 'Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call, 
 Was really, truly, nobody at all. 
 
568 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 St. 81— S 
 
 SI. 
 
 I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
 AVritten without hands, since we daily view 
 Them written Avithout heads; and books we see 
 Are fili'd as well without the latter too : 
 And really till we fix on somebody 
 For certain sure to claim them as his due, 
 Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 
 The world to say \i there be mouth or author. 
 
 82. 
 
 "And who and what art thou?" the Archang-el said. 
 "For thai, you may consult my title-page," 
 Replied this mighty Shadow of a Shade: 
 "If I have kept my secret half an age, 
 I scarce shall tell it now." — "Canst thou upbraid," 
 Continued Michael, "George Rex, or allege 
 Aught further?" Junius answer'd, "You had better, 
 First ask him for his answer to my letter: 
 
 83. 
 
 My charges upon record will outlast 
 The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 
 "Repent'st thou not," said Michael, "of some past 
 Exaggeration? something which may doom 
 Thyself, if false, as him if true? Thou wast 
 Too bitter — is it not so? in thy gloom 
 Of passion?" "Passion!" cried the Phantom dim, 
 "I loved my country, and I hated him. 
 
 84. 
 
 What I have written, I have written: let 
 
 The rest be on his head or mine!" So spoke 
 
 Old "Nominis Umbra;" and while speaking yet, 
 
 Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
 
 Then Satan said to Michael, "Don't forget 
 
 To call George Washington, and John Home Tooke, 
 
 And Franklin ;" — but at this time there was heard 
 
 A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 
 
 85. 
 
 At length, with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 
 Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
 The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
 His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 
 Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 
 "What's this?" cried Michael; "why, 'tis not a ghost?" 
 "I know it," quoth the incubus ; "but he 
 Shall be one, if you leave the aft'air to me, 
 
 86. 
 
 Confound the Renegado ! I have sprain'd 
 My left wing, he's so heavy; one would think 
 Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
 But to the point : while hovering o'er the brink 
 Of Skiddaw (where, as usual, it still rain'd), 
 I saw a taper, far below me, wink. 
 And, stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 
 No less on History than the Holy Bible. 
 
 87. 
 
 The former is the devil's scripture, and 
 The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 
 Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
 I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, 
 And brought him oft' for sentence out of hand: 
 I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 
 At least a quarter it can hardly be: 
 I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 
 
 88. 
 
 Here Satan said, "I know this man of old. 
 And have expected him for some time here; 
 A sillier fellow you w ill scarce behold, 
 Or more conceited in his petty sphere: 
 But surely it was not worth while to fold 
 Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear ! 
 We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 
 With carriage) coming of his own accord. 
 
 89. 
 
 But since he's here, let's see what he has done." 
 "Done !" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates 
 The very business you are now upon. 
 And scribbles as if head-clerk to the Fates. 
 Who knows to what his ribaldry may run. 
 When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates?" 
 "Let's hear," quoth Michael, "what he has to say; 
 You know we're bound to that in every way." 
 
 90. 
 
 Now the Bard, glad to get an audience, which 
 By no means often was his case below, 
 Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 
 His voice into that awful note of woe 
 To all unhappy hearers within reach 
 Of poets when tlie tide of rliyme's in flow; 
 But stuck fast w itii his first hexameter. 
 Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 
 
 91. 
 
 But ere the spaviu'd dactyls could be spurr'd 
 
 Into recitative, in great dismay 
 
 Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 
 
 To murmur loudly through their long array; 
 
 And Michael rose ere he could get a word 
 
 Of all his founder'd verses under way, [best 
 
 And cried, "For God's sake stop, my friend ! 'twe 
 
 "No7i Di, non homines — " you know the rest." 
 
 92. 
 
 A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
 
 Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation; 
 
 The angels had of course enough of song 
 
 When upon service; and tlie generation 
 
 Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 
 
 Before, to profit by a new occasion ; 
 
 The Monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd "What! what ! 
 
 Pye come again ? No more — no more of that !" 
 
LV 
 
 \J U ( 
 
 St. 93—104. 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 569 
 
 U .[ '^ I ^ -I y^.^ ; 
 The tumult grew; an universal cough 
 Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 
 When Castlereagh has been up long enough 
 (Before he was first minister of state, 
 I mean — the slaves hear nowy, some cried "off, off," 
 As at a farce; till grown quite desperate, 
 The Bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
 (Himself an author) only for his prose. 
 
 The varlct was not an ill-favour'd knave ; 
 
 A good deal like a vulture in the face, 
 
 With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 
 
 A smart and sharper looking sort of grace 
 
 To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 
 
 Was by no means so ugly as his case; 
 
 But that indeed was hopeless as can be. 
 
 Quite a poetic felony "de se." 
 
 ; .. ^^- ,' ■- [ 
 
 Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise 
 With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
 On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice, 
 Which now and then will make a slight inroad 
 Upon decorous silence, few will twice 
 Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd; 
 jAnd now the Bard could plead his own bad cause, 
 With all the attitudes of self-applause. 
 
 96. 
 
 He said— (I only give the heads) — he said. 
 He meant no harm in scribbling; 'twas his way 
 Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread, 
 Df which he butter'd both sides ; 'twould delay 
 Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread), 
 ind take up rather more time than a day. 
 To name his works— he would but cite a few — 
 l¥at Tyler, Rhymes on Blenheim, Waterloo. 
 
 97. 
 
 ^c had written praises of a regicide; 
 lehad written praises of all kings whatever; 
 ie had written for republics, far and wide, 
 Ind then against them, bitterer tlian ever ; 
 ?or pantisocracy he once had cried 
 kloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever; 
 ?hcn grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
 lad turn'd his coat — and would have turn'd his skin. 
 
 98. 
 
 99. 
 
 He had written Wesley's life: — here, turning round 
 To Satan, "Sir, I'm ready to write yours, 
 In two octavo volumes, nicely bound. 
 With notes and preface, all that most allures 
 The pious purchaser: and there's no ground 
 For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers ; 
 So let me have the proper documents. 
 That I may add you to my other saints." 
 
 100. 
 Satan bo w'd, and was silent. "Well, if you. 
 With amiable modesty, decline 
 My offer, what says Michael ? There are few 
 Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine. 
 Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 
 As it was once, but I would make you shine 
 Like your own trumpet; by the way, my own 
 Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 
 
 101. 
 But talking about trumpets, here's my Vision ! 
 Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall 
 Judge with my judgment ! and by my-decisiou 
 Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall I 
 I settle all these things by intuition. 
 Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, 
 Like King Alfonso! When I thus see double, 
 I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 
 
 102. 
 He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no 
 Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 
 Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so 
 He read the first three lines of the contents ; 
 But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
 Had vanish'd with variety of scents. 
 Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang. 
 Like lightning, off from his "melodious twang." 
 
 103. 
 Those grand heroics acted as a spell : 
 The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions; 
 The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell; 
 The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions — 
 (For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, 
 And I leave every man to his opinions); 
 Michael took refuge in his trump — 'but lo ! 
 His teeth were set on edge, be could not bio w 1 
 
 104. 
 Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 
 For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, 
 And at the fifth line knock'd the Poet down ; 
 Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease. 
 Into his lake, for there he did not drown ; 
 A different web being by the Destinies 
 Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'er 
 Reform shall happen either here or there. 
 
 36* 
 
570 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 105. 
 
 He first sunk to the bottom — like his works, 
 But soon rose to the surface— like himself; 
 For all corrupted things are buoy'd, like corks, 
 By their own rottenness, light as an elf, 
 Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he lurks, 
 It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf. 
 In his own den, to scrawl some "Life" or "Vision," 
 As Wellborn says— "the devil turn'd precisian." 
 
 106. 
 As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
 Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 
 Which kept my optics free from all delusion. 
 And show'd me what I in my turn have shown : 
 All I saw further in the last confusion, 
 Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one; 
 And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 
 I left him practising the hundredth psalm. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM PRIVATE LIFE. 
 
 Honest — honest lagol 
 
 If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee. 
 
 Shakspeake. 
 
 Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
 Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 
 Next — for some gracious service unexprest. 
 And from its wages only to be guess'd — 
 Raised from the toilet to the table, where 
 Her wondering betters wait behind her chair; 
 Witli eye unmoved, and forehead unabasli'd. 
 She dines from oft' the plate she lately wash'd. 
 Quick witli the talc, and ready with the lie. 
 The genial confidante, and general spy ; 
 Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess, 
 An only infant's earliest governess ! 
 She taught tlie child to read, and taught so well 
 That she herself, by tcac^liing, learn'd to spell. 
 An adept next in penmanship she grows. 
 As many a nameless slander deftly shows: 
 Wi»at sl»e had made the pupil of lier art, 
 None know — but that high soul secured the heart, 
 And panted for the truth it could not hear, 
 With longing breast and undeluded ear. 
 
 Foil'd viss •perversion by that youthful mind, 
 WllicU flattery fool'd not, baseness could not blind, 
 Deceit infect not, near contagion soil. 
 Indulgence weaken, nor example spoil, 
 Nor master'd science tempt her to look down 
 On humbler talents with a pitying frown. 
 Nor genius swell, nor beauty render vain, 
 Nor envy ruffle to retaliate pain. 
 Nor fortune change, pride raise, nor passion bow. 
 Nor virtue teach austerity — till now. 
 Serenely purest of her sex that live, 
 
 But wantirtg one sweet weakness — to forgive; 
 Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know. 
 She deems that all could be like her below : 
 Foe to all vice, yet hardly virtue's friend — 
 For virtue pardons those she would amend. 
 
 But to the theme — now laid aside too long, 
 The baleful burthen of this honest song — 
 Though all her former functions are no more, 
 She rules the circle which she served before. 
 If mothers — none know why — before her quake; 
 If daughters dread her for the mother's sake; 
 If early habits — those false links, which bind 
 At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 
 Have given her power too deeply to instil 
 The angry essence of her deadly will; 
 If like a snake she steal within your walls. 
 Till the black slime betray her as she crawls; 
 If like a viper to the heart she wind. 
 And leave the venom there she did not find; 
 What marvel that this hag of hatred works 
 Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 
 To make a Pandemonium where she dwells. 
 And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ? 
 
 Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints, 
 With all the kind mendacity of hints, 
 Wiiile mingling truth with falsehood, sneers witli smile 
 A thread of candour witii a web of wiles; 
 A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, 
 To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming; 
 A lip of lies, a face form'd to conceal. 
 And, witiiout feeling, mock at all who feel ; 
 With a vile mask tlie Gorgon would disown; 
 A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone. 
 iMark how the channels of her yellow blood 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 571 
 
 Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 
 Cased like the centipede in saft'ron mail, 
 Or darker greenness of the st;orpion's scale, 
 (For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
 Congenial colours in that soul or face). 
 Look on her features! and behold her mind 
 As in a mirror of itself defined: 
 Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged — 
 There is no trait which might not be enlarged; 
 Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made 
 This monster when their mistress left off" trade, — 
 This female dog-star of iier little sky, 
 Where all beneath her iuiluence droop or die. 
 
 Oh! wretch without a tear — without a thought, 
 Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
 The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 
 Shalt feel far more than thou iufllctest now ; 
 Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain. 
 And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 
 May the strong curse of crush'd affections light 
 Back on thy bosom with reflected blight! 
 And make thee, in thy leprosy of mind. 
 As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 
 Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate. 
 Black as thy will for others would create : 
 Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 
 A.nd thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
 Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed. 
 The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread! 
 Then, when thou fain wouldst weary heaven with prayer, 
 Look on thine earthly victims — and despair! 
 Down to the dust! — and, as thou rott'st away. 
 Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
 But for the love I bore, and still must bear. 
 To her thy malice from all ties would tear, 
 Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
 The climax of all scorn should liang on high, 
 pxalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers, 
 ilnd festering in the infamy of years. 
 
 Match 30, 1616. 
 
 roKi 
 
 ADDRESS, 
 
 EN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, 
 SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 181-i. 
 
 In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
 low'd to the dust the Drama's tower of pride; 
 D one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
 LpoUo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 
 
 Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, 
 Vhose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !) 
 'hrough clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven, 
 like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven; 
 aw the long coliinm of revolving- flames 
 hake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
 Vhile thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, 
 brank back appall'd, and trembled for their home, 
 \s glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
 
 The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, 
 Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
 Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and niark'd her fall; 
 Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
 Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
 Know the same favour which the former knew, 
 A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and you^. 
 
 Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
 Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame; 
 On the same spot still consecrates the scene. 
 And bids the Drama be where she hath been : 
 This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
 Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well! 
 
 As soars tliis fane to emulate the last, 
 Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past, 
 Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
 Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
 On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
 O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. 
 On Drury,Garrick's latest laurels grew; 
 Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
 Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept liis last adieu : 
 But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom 
 That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. 
 Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse 
 One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; 
 With garlands deck your own Menander's head ! 
 Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead! 
 
 Dear are the days which made our annals bright. 
 Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to w rite. 
 Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs. 
 Vain of our ancestry as they onkeirs ; 
 While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass 
 To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass. 
 And we the mirror hold, w here imaged shine 
 Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line. 
 Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 
 Reflect bow hai-d the task to rival them ! 
 
 Friends of the stage ! to whom both Playeis and Plays 
 Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise 
 Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
 The boundless power to cherish or reject; 
 If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
 And made xis blush that you forbore to blame; 
 If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
 To soothe the sickly taste, it dare not mend, 
 AH past reproach may present scenes refute, 
 And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! 
 Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws. 
 Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause ; 
 So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers. 
 And reason's voice be eclio'd back by ours! 
 
 This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
 The Drama's homage by her herald paid. 
 Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
 Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. 
 
572 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
 Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
 Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, 
 Still may we please — long, long may you preside! 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble-walls 
 Are level with the waters, there shall be 
 A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 
 A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
 If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
 What should thy sons do? — any thing but weep : 
 And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
 In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, 
 The dull green ooze of the receding deep. 
 Is with the dashing of the spring-tide-foam, 
 That drives the sailor shipless to his home. 
 Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep. 
 Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. 
 Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap 
 No mellower harvest! Tliirteen hundred years 
 Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears ; 
 And every monument the stranger meets, 
 Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; 
 And even the Lion all subdued appears. 
 And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum. 
 With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
 The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
 The soft waves, once all musical to song, 
 That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 
 Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 
 Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
 Were but the overbcatiug of the heart, 
 And flow of too mucii happiness, which needs 
 The aid of age to turn its course apart 
 From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
 Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 
 But these are better than the gloomy errors. 
 The weeds of nations in their last decay. 
 When Vice walks fortli with her unsoften'd terrors, 
 And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 
 And Hope is nothing but a false delay. 
 The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, 
 When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 
 And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
 Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning. 
 Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ; 
 Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay, 
 To him appears renewal of his breath, 
 And freedom the mere numbness of his chain; — 
 And then he talks of life, and how again 
 He feels his spirits soaring — albeit weak, 
 And of the fresher air, which he would seek; 
 And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, 
 That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, 
 And so the film comes o'er him — and the dizzy 
 Chamber swims round and round — and shadows busy 
 At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam. 
 Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream. 
 
 And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth 
 That which it was the moment ere our birth. 
 
 There is no hope for nations ! — Search the page 
 Of many thousand years — the daily scene. 
 The flow and ebb of each recurring age. 
 The everlasting to be which hath been. 
 Hath taught us nought or little: still we lean 
 On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
 Our strength away in wrestling with the air; 
 For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts 
 Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
 Are of as high an order — they must go 
 Even where their driver goads them, though so slaughtf 
 Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, 
 What have tliey given your children in return? 
 A heritage of servitude and woes, 
 A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. 
 What! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, 
 O'er whicii you stumble in a false ordeal. 
 And deem this proof of loyalty the real; 
 Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, 
 And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? 
 All that your sires have left you, all that Time 
 Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime. 
 Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and read. 
 Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! 
 Save the few spirits, who, despite of all. 
 And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd 
 By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, 
 And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd. 
 Gushing from Freedom's fountains — when the crowd, 
 Madden'd with centuries of draught, are loud, 
 And trample on each other to obtain 
 The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
 Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they plough'd 
 The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow grain, 
 'Twas not for them, their necks were too mucli bow'd, 
 And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain: — 
 Yes! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds 
 Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 
 Those momentary starts from Nature's laws. 
 Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite 
 But for a term, then pass, and leave tlie earth 
 With all her seasons to repair the blight 
 With a few summers, and again put forth 
 Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
 For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 
 
 Glory and Empire! once upon these towers 
 With freedom — godlike Triad! how ye sate! 
 The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 
 When Venice was an envy, might abate. 
 But did not quench, her spirit — in her fate 
 All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew 
 And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate. 
 Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
 The many felt, for from all days and climes 
 She was the voyager's worship; — even her crimes 
 Were of the softer order — born of Love, 
 She drank no blood, nor fattened on the dead, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 573 
 
 But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread ; 
 For these restored the Cross, that from above 
 Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant 
 Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
 Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank 
 The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
 Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
 The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
 Yet she but shares with them a common woe. 
 And call'd the "kingdom" of a conquering foe, — 
 But knows what all — and, most of all, we know — 
 Witii what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 
 
 The name of Commonwealth is past and gone 
 O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; 
 V^enice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 
 \ sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; 
 f the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
 3is chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time; 
 ?or tyranny of late is cunning grown, 
 ^nd in its own good season tramples down 
 The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, 
 iVhose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean 
 ire kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
 )f Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and 
 lequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand, 
 
 nd proud distinction from each other land, 
 
 Vhose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, 
 
 .s if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
 
 'all of the magic of exploded science — 
 
 till one great clime, in full and free defiance, 
 
 'et rears her crest, unconqucr'd and sublime, 
 
 hove the far Atlantic! — She has taught 
 
 er Esau -brethren that the haughty ilag, 
 
 he floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 
 
 |fay strike to those whose red right hands have bought 
 
 ights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever 
 
 tter, thougli each man's life-blood were a river, 
 
 iiat it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
 rough thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
 
 amm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, 
 
 [nd moving, as a sick man in his sleep, 
 ree paces, and then faltering: — better be 
 here the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, 
 their proud cliarnel of Thermopylae, 
 
 lian stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
 
 y, and one current to the ocean add, 
 e spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
 .jae freeman more, America, to thee ! 
 
 I „ 
 
 Oh, shame to thy children and thee! 
 lawise in thy glory, and base in thy fall. 
 
 How wretched thy portion shall be ! 
 Derision .shall strike thee forlorn, 
 
 A mockery that never shall die; 
 le curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn, 
 
 Shall burden the winds of thy sky; 
 
 ODE. 
 
 And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd 
 The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world! 
 
 Oh, where is thy spirit of yore, 
 
 The spirit that breathed in thy dead, 
 When gallantry's star was the beacon before, 
 
 And honour the passion that led? 
 Thy storms have awaken'd their sleep, 
 
 They groan from the place of their rest. 
 And wrathfully murmur, and sullenly weep. 
 
 To see the foul stain on thy breast ; 
 For where is the glory they left thee in trust? 
 'Tis scatter'd in darkness, 'tis trampled in dust! 
 
 Go look through the kingdoms of earth, 
 
 From Indus all round to the pole. 
 And something of goodness, of honour, and worth, 
 
 Shall brighten the sins of the soul. 
 But thou art alone in thy shame, 
 
 The world cannot liken thee there; 
 Abhorrence and vice have disfigured thy name 
 
 Beyond the low reach of compare; 
 Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us through time 
 A proverb, a bye-word for treachery and crime ! 
 
 Willie conquest ilhiiiiined his sword, 
 
 While yet in his prowess he stood. 
 Thy praises still follow'd the steps of thy lord. 
 
 And welcomed the torrent of blood : 
 Though tyranny sat on his crown. 
 
 And wither'd the nations afar. 
 Yet bright in thy view was that despot's renown. 
 
 Till fortune deserted his car; 
 Tlien back from the chieftain thou slunkest away, 
 The foremost t' insult, tlie first to betray ! 
 
 Forgot were the feats he had done. 
 
 The toils he had borne in thy cause ; 
 Thou turnedst to worship a new rising sun, 
 
 And waft other songs of applause. 
 But the storm was beginning to lower. 
 
 Adversity clouded his beam ; 
 And honour and faith were the brag of an hour, 
 
 And loyalty's self but a dream : — 
 To him thou hadst banish'd thy vows were restored, 
 And the first that had scoti'd were the first that adored ! 
 
 What tumult thus burthens the air? 
 What throng thus encircles his throne? 
 'Tis the shout of delight, 'tis the millions that swear 
 His sceptre shall rule them alone. 
 Reverses shall brighten their zeal. 
 Misfortune shall hallow his name. 
 And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel 
 
 How quenchless the spirit and flame 
 That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts are on fire. 
 For the hero they love, and the chief they admire ! 
 
 Their hero has rush'd to the field ; 
 His laurels are cover'd with shade — 
 But where is the spirit that never should yield. 
 
574 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The loyalty never to fade? 
 Li a moment desertion and guile 
 
 Abandon'd him up to the foe; 
 The dastards that tlourish'd and grew in his smile, 
 
 Forsook and renounced him in woe; 
 And the millions tliat swore they would perish to save, 
 Beheld him a fugitive, captive, and slave ! 
 
 Tlie savage all wild in his glen 
 Is nobler and better than thou; 
 Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men, 
 Such perlidy blackens thy brow ! 
 If thou wert the place of my birth, 
 At once from thy arms would I sever; 
 I'd fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, 
 
 And quit thee for ever and ever; 
 And thinking of thee in my long after-years. 
 Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears. 
 
 Oh, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul ! 
 Oh, shame to thy children and thee! 
 Unwise in thy glory, and base in tliy fall. 
 How wretched thy portion shall be! 
 Derision shall strike thee forlorn, 
 A mockery that never shall die; 
 Tiie curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn. 
 
 Shall burthen the winds of thy sky ; 
 And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd 
 The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world ! 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
 Some name arrests the passer-by : 
 
 Thus when thou viewst this page alone, 
 May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 
 
 And when by thee that name is read. 
 
 Perchance in some succeeding year. 
 Reflect on me as on the dead, 
 
 And tliink my heart is buried here. 
 September 14, 1809. 
 
 rp Q * * * 
 
 Oh Lady ! when I left the shore. 
 
 The distant sliore which gave me birth, 
 I hardly thought to grieve once more, 
 
 To quit another spot on earth : 
 Yet here, amidst this barren isle. 
 
 Where panting Nature droops the head, 
 Where only thou art seen to smile, 
 
 I view my parting hour with dread. 
 Though far from Albin's craggy siiore, 
 
 Divided by the dark blue main ; 
 A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er, 
 
 Perchance I view her cliffs again: 
 But wheresoe'er I now may roam. 
 
 Through .scorching clime and varied sea, 
 
 Though time restore me to my home, 
 
 I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee: 
 On thee, in whom at once conspire 
 
 All charms which heedless hearts can move, 
 Whom but to see is to admire. 
 
 And, oh ! forgive tlie word — to love. 
 Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
 
 With such a word can more offend; 
 And since thy heart I cannot share. 
 
 Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 
 And who so cold as look on thee, 
 
 Thou lovely wanderer, and be less ? 
 Nor be, what man should ever be. 
 
 The friend of Beauty in distress ? 
 Ah! who would think that form had past 
 
 Through Danger's most destructive path, 
 Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast, . 
 
 And 'scaped a tyrant's liercer wrath? 
 Lady! when I shall view the walls 
 
 Where free Byzantium once arose. 
 And Stamboul's Oriental halls 
 
 The Turkish tyrants now enclose; 
 Though mightiest in the lists of fame. 
 
 That glorious city still shall be; 
 On me 'twill hold a dearer claim, 
 
 As spot of thy nativity : 
 And though I bid thee now farewell. 
 
 When I behold that wonderous scene, 
 Since where thou art I may not dwell, 
 
 'Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been. 
 
 Septcmbui, i809. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 \yRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULPH, 
 NOYEIkTBER 14, 1809. 
 
 Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, 
 Full beams the moon on Actium's coast: 
 
 And on these waves, for Egypt's queen. 
 The ancient world was won and lost. 
 
 And now upon the scene I look. 
 The azure grave of many a Roman; 
 
 Where stern Ambition one forsook 
 His wavering crown to follow woman. 
 
 Florence! whom I will love as well 
 
 As ever yet was said or sung, 
 (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) 
 
 Whilst thou art fair and I am young; 
 
 Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times. 
 When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 
 
 Had bards as many realms as rhymes. 
 Thy charms might raise new Anthonies. 
 
 Though Fate forbids such things to be, 
 Yet, by thine eye and ringlets curl'd ! 
 
 I cannot lose a world for thee. 
 
 But would not lose thee for a world. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 575 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 imposed October lltb, 1809, daring the night, in a thunderstorm, 
 when the guides hjid lost the road to Zitza, near the range of moun- 
 tains formerly called Pindus, in Albania. 
 
 CuiLL and mirk is the nightly blast, 
 
 Wliere Pindus' mountains rise, 
 And angry clouds are pouring fast 
 
 The vengeance of the skies. 
 
 I Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 
 And Hgljtnings, as they play. 
 But show where rocks our path have crost, 
 Or gild the torrent's spray. 
 
 Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 
 
 When lightning broke the gloom — 
 How welcome were its shade ! — ah, no ! 
 
 'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 
 
 Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 
 
 I hear a voice exclaim — 
 My way-worn countryman, who calls 
 
 On distant England's name. 
 
 A shot is fired — by foe or friend? 
 
 Another — 'tis to tell 
 The mountain-peasants to descend 
 
 And lead us where they dwell. 
 
 Oh ! who in such a night will dare 
 
 To tempt tlie wilderness? 
 And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear 
 
 Our signal of distress ? 
 
 And who that heard our shouts would rise 
 
 To try the dubious road? 
 Nor rather deem from nightly cries 
 
 That outlaws were abroad. 
 
 Ck»ads burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour ! 
 
 More fiercely pours the storm! 
 Yet here one thought has still the power 
 
 To keep my bosom warm. 
 
 While wand'ring through each broken path, 
 
 O'er brake and craggy broAv ; 
 While elements exhaust their wrath, 
 
 Sweet Florence, where art thou? 
 
 Not on the sea, not on the sea, 
 Thy bark hath long been gone : 
 
 Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 
 Bow down my head alone! 
 
 Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 
 When last I press'd thy lip ; 
 I And long ere now, with foaming shock, 
 Impel! 'd thy gallant ship. 
 
 Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now 
 Hast trod the shore of Spain; 
 
 'Twere hard if ought so fair as thou 
 Should linger on the main. 
 
 And since I now remember thee 
 
 In darkness and in dread, 
 As in those hours of revelry 
 
 Which mirth and music sped; 
 
 Do thou amidst the fair white walls. 
 
 If Cadiz yet be free, 
 At times from out her latticed halls 
 
 Look o'er the dark blue sea; 
 
 Then tliink upon Calypso's isles, 
 
 Endear'd by days gone by ; 
 To others give a thousand smiles, 
 
 To me a single sigh. 
 
 And when the admiring circle mark 
 
 The paleness of thy face, 
 A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 
 
 Of melancholy grace, 
 
 Again thoa'it smile, and blushing shun 
 
 Some coxcomb's raillery; 
 Nor own for once thou thoughtst of one, 
 
 Who ever thinks on thee. 
 
 Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 
 When sever'd hearts repine. 
 
 My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 
 And mourns in search of thine. 
 
 WRITTEN AT ATHENS. 
 
 JANUARY 16, 1810. 
 
 The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 
 
 Tims is it with life's fitful fever ; 
 We madly smile when we should groan ; 
 
 Delirium is our best deceiver. 
 
 Each lucid interval of thought 
 
 Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, 
 
 And he that acts as wise men ought, 
 But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS 
 TO ABYDOS. 
 
 MAY9, 1810. 
 
 If, in the month of dark December, 
 
 Leander, who was nightly wont 
 ( What maid will not the tale remember?) 
 
 To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont! 
 
 If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 
 
 He sped to Hero, notliing loth, 
 And thus of old thy current pour'd, 
 
 Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 
 
576 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 For me, degenerate modern wretch, 
 Though in tlie genial month of May, 
 
 My dripping limbs I faintly stretch. 
 And think I've done a feat to-day. 
 
 But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 
 
 According to the doubtful story, 
 To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside, 
 
 And swam for Love, as I for Glory; 
 
 'Twere Iiaxd to say who fared the best: 
 
 Sad mortals ! thus the Gods still plague you ! 
 
 He lost his labour, I my jest : 
 
 For he was drown' d, and I've the ague. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Zcuf] jMOv, Gug uyanio. 
 
 ATHENS, 1810. 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
 Give, oh, give me back my heart! 
 Or, since that has left my breast, 
 Keep it now, and take the rest! 
 Hear my vow before I go, 
 Zmj fiov, o«e uyecnuJ. 
 
 By those tresses unconfined, 
 Woo'd by each JEgean wind ; 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 
 ZWT] flOV, OK? uyUTld). 
 
 By that lip I long to taste; 
 By that zone -encircled waist; 
 By all the token -flowers that tell 
 What words ca^ never speak so well; 
 By Love's alternate joy and woe, 
 Z(0)] /.tov, oa? uyunib. 
 
 Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
 Think of me, sweet ! when alone. — 
 Though I fly to Istambol, 
 Athens holds my heart and soul : 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
 Zw»j /A.OV, ouq uyunu. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK 
 WAR -SONG. 
 
 Written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. 
 The following translation is as literal as the author could make it in 
 verse ; it is of the same measure as that of the original. 
 
 Sons of the Greeks, arise! 
 
 The glorious hour's gone forth. 
 And, worthy of such ties, 
 
 Display who gave us birth. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
 
 In arms against, the foe. 
 Till their hated blood sliall flow 
 
 In a river past our feet. 
 
 Then manfully despising 
 
 The Turkish tyrant's yoke. 
 Let your country see you rising, 
 
 And all her chains are broke. 
 Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 
 
 Behold the coming strife ! 
 Hellenes of past ages. 
 
 Oh, start again to life ! 
 At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 
 
 Your sleep, oh, join with me! 
 And the seven -hill'd city seeking. 
 
 Fight, conquer, till we're free. 
 
 Sons of Greeks, ■ 
 
 Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 
 
 Lethargic dost thou lie? 
 Awake, and join thy numbers 
 
 With Athens, old ally I 
 Leonidas recalling. 
 
 That chief of ancient song. 
 Who saved ye once from falling. 
 
 The terrible! the strong! 
 Who made that bold diversion 
 
 lu old Thermopylie, 
 And warring with the Persian 
 
 To keep his country free; 
 With his three hundred waging 
 
 The battle, long he stood, 
 And like a lion raging, 
 
 Expired in seas of blood. 
 
 Sons of Greeks, 
 
 WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 
 
 . Dear object of defeated care ! 
 
 Though now of love and thee bereft, 
 To reconcile me with despair 
 
 Thine image and my tears are left, 
 
 'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope; 
 
 But this I feel can ne'er be true : 
 For by the death - blow of my hope 
 
 My memory iumiortal grew. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG. 
 
 MTikvia f(f<; 'ra' niQifioXt. 
 'SIquiovutt] Xutjdt]. 
 
 The 80ng from which this is taken is a great favourite with the yo 
 girls of Athens of all classes. Their manner of singing it is by ve 
 in rotation, the whole number present joining in the chorus. I ll 
 heard it fiequently at our "^o^ot" in the vriuter of 1810 — 11. Tlie 
 is plaintive and pretty. 
 
 1 ENTER thy garden of roses. 
 Beloved and fair Haidce, 
 
l^nSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 577 
 
 Each morning' Avliere Flora reposes, 
 
 For surely I see her in thee. 
 Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee. 
 
 Receive this fond truth from my tongue. 
 Which utters its song to adore thee, 
 
 Yet trembles for what it has sung; 
 As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 
 
 Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree. 
 Through her eyes, through her every feature, 
 
 Shines the soul of the young Haidce. 
 
 But the loveliest garden grows hateful 
 
 When Love has abandon'd the bowers; 
 Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 
 
 That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
 The poison, when pour'd from the chalice. 
 
 Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 
 But when drunk to escape from thy malice. 
 
 The draught shall be sweet to my soul, 
 f 00 cruel ! in vain I implore thee 
 
 My heart from these horrors to save : 
 Will nought to my bosom restore thee? 
 
 Then open the gates of the grave. 
 
 As the chief who to combat advances 
 
 Secure of his conquest before, 
 Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 
 
 Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
 Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish 
 
 By pangs which a smile would dispel? 
 Would the hope, which thou once badst me cherish, 
 
 For torture repay me too well? 
 Now sad is the garden of roses. 
 
 Beloved but false Haidee ! 
 There Flora all wither'd reposes. 
 
 And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 
 
 By day or night, in weal or woe. 
 That heart, no longer free, 
 
 Must bear the love it cannot show, 
 And silent ache for thee. 
 
 ON PARTING. 
 
 The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left. 
 Shall never part from mine. 
 
 Till happier hours restore the gift 
 Untainted back to thine. 
 
 Thy parting-glance, which fondly beams. 
 
 An equal love may see : 
 Tlie tear that from thine eyelid streams 
 
 Can weep no change in me. 
 
 I ask no pledge to make me blest 
 
 In gazing when alone ; 
 Nor one memorial for a breast. 
 
 Whose thoughts are all thine own. 
 
 T Nor need I write — to tell the tale 
 My pen were doubly weak : 
 Oh ! what can idle words avail. 
 Unless the heart could speak? 
 
 TO THYRZA. 
 
 Without a stone to mark the spot. 
 
 And say, what Truth might well have said. 
 By all, save one, perchance forgot. 
 
 Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid? 
 By many a shore and many a sea 
 
 Divided, yet beloved in vain; 
 The past, the future fled to thee 
 
 To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 
 Could this have been — a word, a look 
 
 That softly said, "We part in peace," 
 Had taught my bosom how to brook. 
 
 With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 
 And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
 
 Prepared a light and pangless dart. 
 Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, 
 
 Who held, and holds thee in his heart? 
 Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee here? 
 
 Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, 
 In that dread hour ere Death appear, 
 
 When silent Sorrow fears to sigh. 
 Till all was past? But when no more 
 
 'Twas thine to reck of human woe, 
 Affection's heart- drops, gushing o'er. 
 
 Had flow'd as fast — as now they flow. 
 Shall they not flow, when many a day 
 
 In these, to me, deserted towers. 
 Ere call'd but for a time aAvay, 
 
 Affection's mingling tears were ours ? 
 Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 
 
 The smile none else might understand ; 
 The whisper'd thought of hearts allied, 
 
 The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 
 The kiss so guiltless and refined 
 
 That Love each warmer wish forbore; 
 Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind. 
 
 Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 
 The tone, that taught me to rejoice. 
 
 When prone, unlike thee, to repine; 
 The song, celestial from thy voice. 
 
 But sweet to me from none but thine ; 
 The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 
 
 But where is thine? — ah! where art thou? 
 Oft have I borne the weight of ill. 
 
 But never bent beneath till now! 
 Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 
 
 The cup of woe for me to drain. 
 If rest alone be in the tomb, 
 
 I would not wish thee here again ; 
 But if in worlds more blest than this 
 
 Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere. 
 Impart some portion of thy bliss, 
 
 To wean me from mine anguish here. 
 
 3? 
 
578 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Teach me — too early taug-lit by thee ! 
 
 To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
 On earth thy love was such to me, 
 
 It fain would form my hope in heaven! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Away, away, ye notes of woe ! 
 
 Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 
 Or I must flee from hence, for, oh ! 
 
 I dare not trust those sounds again. 
 To me they speak of brighter days — 
 
 But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 
 I must not tliink, I may not gaze 
 
 On what I am, on what I was. 
 
 The voice that made those sounds more sweet 
 
 Is hush'd, and alLtheir charms are fled; 
 And now their softest notes repeat 
 
 A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
 Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, 
 
 Beloved dust! since dust thou art; 
 And all that once was harmony 
 
 Is worse than discord to my heart! 
 
 'Tis silent all ! — but on my ear 
 
 The well-remember'd echoes thrill ; 
 I hear a voice I would not hear, 
 
 A voice that now miglit well be still ; 
 Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake : 
 
 Even slumber owns its gentle tone. 
 Till consciousness will vainly wake 
 
 To listen, though the dream be flown. 
 
 Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep. 
 
 Thou art but now a lovely dream; 
 A star that trembled o'er the deep. 
 
 Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 
 But he, who through life's dreary way 
 
 Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, 
 WilHong lament the vanish'd ray 
 
 That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. 
 
 TO THYRZA. 
 
 One struggle more, and I am free 
 
 From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
 One last long sigh to love and thee, 
 
 Then back to busy life again. 
 It suits me well to mingle now 
 
 With things that never pleased before: 
 Though every joy is fled below, 
 
 What future grief can touch me more ? 
 
 Then bring me wine, the banquet bring; 
 
 Man was not form'd to live alone : 
 I'll be that light unmeaning thing 
 
 That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
 
 It was not thus in days more dear, 
 It never would have been, but thou 
 
 Hast fled, and left me lonely here; 
 Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now. 
 
 Li vain my lyre would lightly breathe! 
 
 The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
 But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, 
 
 Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
 Though gay companions o'er the bowl 
 
 Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
 Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 
 
 The heart — the heart is lonely still ! 
 
 On many a lone and lovely night 
 
 It soothed to gaze upon the sky ; 
 For then I deem'd the heavenly light 
 
 Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye ; 
 And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 
 
 When sailing o'er the jEgean wave, 
 "Now Thyrza gazes on that moon — " 
 
 Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave ! 
 
 When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed. 
 
 And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
 "'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 
 
 "That Thyrza cannot know my pains :" 
 Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 
 
 A boon 'tis idle then to give. 
 Relenting Nature vainly gave 
 
 My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! 
 
 My Thyrza's pledge in better days, 
 
 When love and life alike were new ! 
 How diflerent now thou meetst my gaze! 
 
 How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 
 The heart that gave itself with thee 
 
 Is silent — ah, were mine as still! 
 Though cold as e'en the dead can be. 
 
 It feels, it sickens with the chill. 
 
 Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! 
 
 Though painful, welcome to my breast! 
 Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 
 
 Or break the heart to which thou'rt prest ! 
 Time tempers love, but not removes, 
 
 More hallo vv'd when its hope is fled: 
 Oh! what are thousand living loves 
 
 To that which caimot quit the dead ? 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
 The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead. 
 
 Oblivion! may thy languid wing 
 Wave gently o'er my dying bed! 
 
 No band of friends or heirs be there. 
 To weep, or wish, the coming blow ; 
 
 No maiden, with dishevell'd hair. 
 To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 579 
 
 But silent let me sink to earth, 
 With no officious mourners near: 
 
 I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
 Nor startle friendship with a fear. 
 
 Yet love, if love in such an hour 
 Could nobly check its useless sighs, 
 
 Might then exert its latest power 
 In her wlio lives and him who dies. 
 
 'Twere sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 
 Thy features still serene to see; 
 
 Forgetful of its struggles past, 
 E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 
 
 But vain the wish — for beauty still 
 
 Will slirink, as shrinks the ebbing breatli ; 
 
 And woman's tears, produced at will. 
 Deceive in life, unman in death. 
 
 Then lonely be my latest hour, 
 Without regret, without a groan! 
 
 For thousands dearth hath ceased to lower, 
 And pain been transient or unknown. 
 
 "Ay, but to die, and go," alas! 
 
 Where all have gone, and all must go ! 
 To be the nothing that I was 
 
 Ere born to life and living woe ! 
 
 Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen. 
 Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 
 
 And know, whatever thou hast been, 
 'Tis something better not to be. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Hcu^qaanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui memiuisse! 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 
 
 As aught of mortal birth; 
 And form so soft, and charms so rare, 
 
 Too soon return'd to Earth ! 
 Though Earth received them in her bed. 
 And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness or mirth. 
 There is an eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look. 
 
 I will not ask where thou liest low. 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot; 
 There ilowers or weeds at will may grow. 
 
 So I behold them not: 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 That what I loved, and long must love, 
 
 Like common earth can rot ; 
 To me there needs no stone to tell, 
 'Tis nothing that I loved so well. 
 
 Yet did I love thee to the last 
 
 As fervently as thou. 
 Who didst not change through all the past, 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 
 The love where Death has set his seal. 
 Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow: 
 And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
 Or Avrong, or change, or fault in me. 
 
 The better days of life were ours; 
 
 The worst can be but mine : 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep 
 I envy now too much to weep ; 
 
 Nor need I to repine 
 That all those charms have pass'd away, 
 I might have watch'd through long decay. 
 
 The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 
 
 Must fall the earliest prey; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch'd. 
 
 The leaves must drop away : 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 
 
 Than see it pluck'd to-day; 
 Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
 To trace the change to foul from fair. 
 
 I know not if I could have borne 
 
 To see thy beauties fade; 
 The night that follow'd such a morn 
 
 Had worn a deeper sliade : 
 Thy day without a cloud hath past. 
 And thou wert lovely to the last; 
 
 Extinguish'd, not decay'd ; 
 As stars that shoot along the sky 
 Shine brightest as they fall from liigh. 
 
 As once I wept, if I could weep 
 
 My tears might well be shed. 
 To think I was not near to keep 
 
 One vigpil o'er thy bed ; 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
 To fold thee in a faint embrace, 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head; 
 And show that love, however vain, 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again. 
 
 Yet how much less it were to gain. 
 
 Though thou hast left me free. 
 The loveliest things that still remain, 
 
 Than thus remember thee! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark and dread Eternity, 
 
 Returns again to me, 
 And more thy buried love endears 
 Than aught, except its living years. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 If sometimes in tlie haunts of men 
 Thine image from my breast may fade, 
 
580 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Tlic Joncly hour presents again 
 
 The semblance of thy gentle shade: 
 
 And now that sad and silent liour 
 Thus much of tliee can still restore, 
 
 And Sorrow unobserved may pour 
 The plaint she dare not speak before. 
 
 Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile, 
 
 I waste one thought I owe to tliee. 
 And, self-condemu'd, appear to smile. 
 
 Unfaithful to thy memory ! 
 Nor deem that memory less dear. 
 
 That then I seem not to repine ; 
 I would not fools should overhear 
 
 One sigh tliat should be wholly thine. 
 
 If not the goblet pass unquafTd, 
 
 It is not drain'd to banish care ; 
 The cup must hold a deadlier draught. 
 
 That brings a Lethe for despair. 
 And could Oblivion set my soul 
 
 From all her troubled visions free, 
 I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 
 
 That drown'd a single thought of thee. 
 
 For wert thou vanish'd from my mind. 
 
 Where could my vacant bosom turn? 
 And who would then remain behind 
 
 To honour thine abandon'd urn? 
 No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 
 
 That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
 Though all the world forget beside, 
 
 'Tis meet that I remember still. 
 
 For well I know, that such had been 
 
 Thy gentle care for him, who now 
 Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, 
 
 Where none regarded him, but thou : 
 And, Oh ! I feel in that was given 
 
 A blessing never meant for me; 
 Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 
 
 For earthly love to merit thee. 
 
 Marcii Uth, 1812. 
 
 ON 
 
 A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS 
 BROKEN. 
 
 Ill-fated Heart! and can it be 
 
 That thou sliouldst thus be rent in twain? 
 Have years of care for thine and thee 
 
 Alike been all employ'd in vain? 
 
 Yet precious seems each shattcr'd part, 
 And every fragment dearer grown. 
 
 Since he who wears thee, feels thou art 
 A fitter emblem of Aa* own. 
 
 TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 
 
 Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
 Were firmest friends, at least in name, 
 
 And childhood's gay sincerity 
 
 Preserved our feelings long the same. 
 
 But now, like me, too well thou knowst 
 What trifles oft the heart recall; 
 
 And those who once have loved the most 
 Too soon forget they loved at all. 
 
 And such the change the heart displays, 
 So frail is early friendship's reign, 
 
 A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
 Will view thy mind estranged again. 
 
 If so, it never shall be mine 
 
 To mourn the loss of such a heart; 
 
 The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
 Wliich made thee fickle as thou art. 
 
 As rolls the ocean's changing tide. 
 So human feelings ebb and flow ; 
 
 And who would in a breast confide 
 Where stormy passions ever glow ? 
 
 It boots not, that together bred. 
 Our childish days were days of joy; 
 
 My spring of life has quickly fled; 
 Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 
 
 And when we bid adieu to youth, 
 
 Slaves to the specious world's control. 
 
 We sigh a long farewell to truth; 
 That world corrupts the noblest soul. 
 
 Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 
 Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 
 
 When thought ere spoke is unconfined, 
 And sparkles in the placid eye. 
 
 Not so in Man's maturer years. 
 When Man himself is but a tool; 
 
 When interest sways our hopes and fears, 
 And all must love and hate by rule. 
 
 With fools in kindred vice the same, 
 We learn at length our faults to blend. 
 
 And those, and those alone may claim 
 The prostituted name of friend. 
 
 Such is the common lot of man: 
 Can we then 'scape from folly free? 
 
 Can we reverse the general plan, 
 Nor be what all in turn must be ? 
 
 No, for myself, so dark my fate 
 
 Through every turn of life hath been; 
 Man and the world I so much hate, 
 
 I care not when I quit the scene. 
 
 > 
 
 But thou, with spirit frail and light. 
 Wilt shine awhile and pass away; 
 
 As glow-worms sparkle through the night. 
 But dare not stand the test of day. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 581 
 
 Alas ! wJienever foJly calls 
 
 Where parasites and priuces meet, 
 
 (For cherisli'd fiist in royal Jmlls 
 The welcome vices kindly greet) 
 
 Even now thou'rt nightly seen to add 
 One insect to the fluttering crowd; 
 
 And still thy trifling heart is glad, 
 
 To join tlie vain, and court the proud. 
 
 There dost thou glide from fair to fair, 
 Still simpering on with eager haste. 
 
 As flies along the gay parterre. 
 
 That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 
 
 But say, what nymph will prize the flame 
 Which seems, as marshy vapours move, 
 
 To flit along from dame to dame. 
 An ignis-fatuus-gleam of love? 
 
 What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, 
 Will deign to own a kindred care? 
 
 Who will debase his manly mind, 
 For friendship every fool may share? 
 
 In time forbear; amidst the throng 
 No more so base a thing be seen ; 
 
 No more so idly pass along: 
 
 Be something, any thing, but — mean. 
 
 T O 
 
 
 Well! thou art happy, and I feel 
 Tliat I should thus be happy too; 
 
 For still my heart regards thy weal 
 Warmly, as it was wont to do. 
 
 Thy husband's blest — and 'twill impart 
 Some pangs to view his happier lot: 
 
 But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
 Would hate him, if he loved thee not! 
 
 When late I saw thy favourite child, 
 
 I thought my jealous heart would break; 
 
 But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
 I kiss'd it, for its mother's sake. 
 
 I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs 
 
 Its father in its face to see; 
 But then it had its mother's eyes, 
 
 And they were all to love and me. 
 
 Mary, adieu! Imustawaj': 
 
 While thou art blest I'll not repine; 
 
 But near thee I can never stay ; 
 
 My heart would soon again be thine. 
 
 I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
 Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; 
 
 Nor knew, till seated by thy side. 
 My heart in all, save hope; tiic same. 
 
 Yet was I calm : I knew the time 
 
 My breast would thrill before thy look; 
 
 But now to tremble Avere a crime — 
 We met, and not a nerve was shook. 
 
 I saw thee gaze upon my face 
 
 Yet meet with no confusion there : 
 
 One only feeling couldst thou trace; 
 The sullen calmness of despair. 
 
 Away! away! my early dream 
 Remembrance never must awake: 
 
 Oh! where is Letlie's fabled stream? 
 My foolish heart be still, or break ! 
 
 FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 In moments to delight devoted, 
 
 "My life!" with tenderest tone, you cry; 
 Dear words ! on which my heart had doted. 
 
 If youth could neither fade nor die. 
 To death even hours like these must roll, 
 
 Ah! then repeat those accents never; 
 Or change "my life ! " into "my soul ! " 
 
 Which, like my love, exists for ever. 
 
 IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 
 When from the heart where sorrow sits, 
 
 Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 
 And o'er the changing aspect flits. 
 
 And clouds the brow, or fills the eye; 
 Heed not that gloom, which soon sliall sink : 
 
 My thoughts their dungeon know too well: 
 Back to my breast the wanderers slirink, 
 
 And droop within their silent cell. 
 
 TO TIME. 
 
 Time ! on whose arbitrary wing 
 
 The varying hours must flag or fly, 
 Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, 
 
 But drag or drive us on to die — 
 Hail thou ! who on mj' birth bestow'd 
 
 Those boons to all that know thee known; 
 Yet better I sustain thy load, , 
 
 For now I bear the weight alone. 
 I would not one fond heart should share 
 
 The bitter moments thou hast given ; 
 And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare 
 
 All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 
 To them be joy or rest, on me 
 
 Thy future ills shall press in vain; 
 I nothing owe but years to thee, 
 
 A debt already paid in pain. 
 Yet e'en that pain was some relief; 
 
 It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
 Tlic active agony of grief 
 
 Retards, but never counts the hour. 
 
582 
 
 JinSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 In joy I've sigh'd to think thy llight 
 
 Would soon subside from swift to slow; 
 Thy cloud could overcast tlie light, 
 
 But could not add a night to woe; 
 For then, however drear and dark, 
 
 My soul was suited to thy sky; 
 One star alone shot forth a spark 
 
 To prove thee — not Eternity. 
 That beam hatli sunk; and now thou art 
 
 A blank; a thing to count and curse 
 Through each dull tedious trifling part, 
 
 Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 
 One scene even thou canst not deform; 
 
 The limit of thy sloth or speed, 
 When future wanderers bear the storm 
 
 Which we shall sleep too sound to heed: 
 And I can smile to think how weak 
 
 Thine efforts sliortly shall be shown, 
 When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
 
 Must fall upon — a nameless stone! 
 
 TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE-SONG. 
 Ah ! Love was never yet without 
 The pang, the agony, iJie doubt, 
 Whicli rends my heart with ceaseless sigli, 
 While day and night roll darkling by. 
 
 Without one friend to hear my woe, 
 I faint, 1 die beneath the blow. 
 That Love had arrows, well I knew; 
 Alas ! I find them poison'd too. 
 
 Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net. 
 Which Love around your haunts hath set! 
 Or circled by his fatal fire, 
 Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 
 
 A bird of free and careless wing 
 Was I, through many a smiling spring; 
 But caught within the subtle snare, 
 I burn, and feebly flutter there. 
 
 Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain. 
 Can neither feel nor pity pain. 
 The cold repulse, tlie look askance. 
 The lightning of Love's angry glance. 
 
 In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine : 
 Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 
 Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
 I feel my passion, and thy power. 
 
 My light of life ! ah, tell me why 
 That pouting lip, and aiter'd eye? 
 My bird of love! my beauteous mate! 
 And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ' 
 
 ^line eyes like wintry streams o'erflow : 
 What wretch with me would barter Avoe? 
 My bird! relent: one note could give 
 A charm, to bid thy lover live. 
 
 My curdling blood, my maddening brain, 
 
 In silent anguish I sustain ; 
 
 And still thy heart, without partaking 
 
 One pang, exults — while mine is breaking. 
 
 Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
 Thou canst not murder more than now : 
 I've lived to curse my natal day. 
 And Love, that thus can lingering slay. 
 
 M5' wounded soul, my bleeding breast. 
 Can patience preach tliee into rest? 
 Alas! too late, I dearly know, 
 That joy is harbinger of woe. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Tiiou art not false, but thou art fickle, 
 To those thyself so fondly souglit; 
 
 The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
 Are doubly bitter from that thought : 
 
 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievcst, 
 
 Too well thou lovest — too soon thou leavest. 
 
 The wholly false the heart despises, 
 And spurns deceiver and deceit; 
 
 But she who not a thought disguises, 
 Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
 
 When she can change who loved so truly. 
 
 It feels what mine has felt so newly. 
 
 To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 
 Is doom'd to all who love or live; 
 
 And if, when conscious on the morrow. 
 We scarce our fancy can forgive. 
 
 That cheated us in slumber only. 
 
 To leave the waking soul more lonely. 
 
 What must they feel whom no false vision. 
 But truest, tenderest passion vvarm'd? 
 
 Sincere, but swift in sad transition. 
 As if a dream alone had charm'd? 
 
 Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming. 
 
 And all thy change can be but dreaming! 
 
 ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
 OF LOVE?" 
 
 'ORIGIN 
 
 The "Origin of Love!" — Ah why 
 That cruel question ask of me, 
 
 When thou mayst read in many an eye 
 He starts to life on seeing thee? 
 
 And shouldst thou seek his end to know : 
 My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, 
 
 He'll linger long in silent woe; 
 But live — until I cease to be. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 
 LINES 
 
 INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. 
 
 Start not — nor deem mj' spirit fled : 
 
 In me behold the on!}' skull 
 From whichi unlike a living hdhd. 
 
 Whatever flows is never dull. 
 
 I lived, I loved, I qualf'd like thee ; 
 
 I died, let earth my bones resign: 
 Fill up — thou canst not injure me ; 
 
 The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 
 
 Better to liold the sparkling- grape, 
 
 Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; 
 
 And circle in the goblet's shape 
 
 The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. 
 
 Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 
 
 In aid of others' let me shine; 
 And when, alas ! our brains are gone, 
 
 What nobler substitute tlian wine ! 
 
 Quaff" while thou canst — another race, 
 When thou afld thine like me are sped, 
 
 May rescue thee from earth's embrace. 
 And rhyme and revel with the dead. 
 
 Why not? since through life's little day 
 Our heads such sad effects produce; 
 
 Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 
 This chance is theirs, to be of use. 
 
 Newstead Abbey, 1808. 
 
 REMEMBER HIM. 
 
 Remember him, whom passion's power 
 Severely, deeply, vainly proved: 
 
 Remember thou that dangerous hour 
 
 When neither fell, though both were loved. 
 
 That yielding buiast, that melting eye, 
 
 Too much invited to be blest : 
 That gentle prayer, tliat pleading sigh, 
 
 The wilder wish reproved, represt. 
 
 Oh! let me feel that all I lost, 
 
 But saved thee all that conscience fears ; 
 And blush for every pang it cost 
 
 To spare the vain remorse of years. 
 
 Yet think of this when many a tongue. 
 Whose busy accents whisper blame, 
 
 Would do the heart that loved thee wrojig. 
 And brand a nearly blighted name. 
 
 Think that, wliate'er to others, tliou 
 
 Hast seen eac-lj sclfisli thouglit subdued : 
 
 I bless thy purer soul even now, 
 Even now, in miduigiit solitude. 
 
 Oh, God ! that we had met in time. 
 
 Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ; 
 
 When thou hadst loved without a crime. 
 And I been less unwortliy thee ! 
 
 Far may thy days, as heretofore, 
 From this our gaudy world be past! 
 
 And, tliat too bitter moment o'er. 
 Oh ! may sucii trial be thy last! 
 
 This heart, alas ! perverted long, 
 
 Itself destroy 'd might there destroy; 
 
 To meet thee iu the glittering throng, 
 Would wake presumption's hope of joy. 
 
 Then to the things whose bliss or woe. 
 Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 
 
 That world resign — such scenes forego. 
 Where those who feel must surely fall. 
 
 Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness. 
 Thy soul from long seclusion pure; 
 
 From what even here hath past, may guess, 
 What there thy bosom must endure. 
 
 Oh ! pardon that imploring tear. 
 Since not by Virtue shed in vain, 
 
 My frenzy drew from eyes so dear ; 
 For me they shall not weep again. 
 
 Though long and mournful must it be, 
 The thought that we no more may meet; 
 
 Yet I deserve the stern decree. 
 And almost deem the sentence sweet. 
 
 Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
 Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 
 
 It felt not half so much to part, 
 As if its guilt had made thee mine. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART. 
 
 There is a tear for all tiiat die, 
 
 A mourner o'er the humblest grave; 
 
 But nations swell the funeral cry, 
 And Triumph weeps above the brave. 
 
 For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
 
 O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent: 
 In vain their bones unburied lie. 
 
 All earth becomes their monument ! 
 
 A tomb is theirs on every page, 
 
 An epitaph on every tongue. 
 The present hours, the future age, 
 
 For them bewail, to them belong. 
 
 For them the voice of festal mirth 
 
 Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; 
 
 While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
 The goblet's tributary round. 
 
584 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 \ theme to crowds that knew them not, 
 
 Lamented by admiring foes, 
 Who would not share their glorious lot? 
 
 Who would not die the death they chose? 
 
 And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined - ^j^fm tn^ 
 Thy life, tliy fall, thy fame shall be; 
 
 And early valour, glowing, find 
 A model in thy memory. k'uJ/K* 
 
 But there are breasts that bleed with thee 
 
 In woe, that glory cannot quell; 
 And shuddering hear of victory. 
 
 Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 
 
 Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 
 
 When cease to hear thy cherish'd name? 
 Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 
 
 While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. . 
 
 Alas ! for them, though not for thee. 
 They cannot choose but weep the more; 
 
 Deep for the dead the grief must be, 
 Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 
 
 TO A LADY WEEPING. 
 
 Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
 A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ; 
 
 Ah, happy! if each tear of thine 
 Could wash a father's fault away ! 
 
 Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears 
 Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 
 
 And be each drop in future years 
 Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 
 
 March, 1812. 
 
 FROM THE TURKISH. 
 
 The chain I gave was fair to view, 
 The lute I added sweet in sound. 
 
 The heart that offer'd both was true. 
 And ill deserved the fate it found. 
 
 These gifts were charm'd by secret spell 
 
 Thy truth in absence to divine; 
 And they have done their duty well, 
 
 Alas ! they could not teach thee thine. 
 
 That chain was firm in every link. 
 But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 
 
 That lute was sweet ■ — till thou couldst think 
 In other hands its notes were such. 
 
 Let him, who from thy neck unbound 
 The chain which shiver'd in his grasp. 
 
 Who saw tliat lute refuse to sound, 
 Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 
 
 When thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 
 
 The chain is broke, the music mute ; 
 'Tis past — to them and thee adieu — 
 
 False heart, frail chain, and silent lute ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 T O G E N E V R A. 
 
 Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair. 
 And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
 From contemplation — where serenely wrought. 
 Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — 
 Have thrown such speaking sadness iu thine air, 
 That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught, 
 With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought — 
 I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 
 With such an aspect, by his colours blent. 
 When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, 
 (Except that thou hast nothing to repent) 
 The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 
 Such seemst thou — but how much more excellent! 
 With nought Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO GENEVRA. 
 
 Thy check is pale with thought, but not from woe. 
 And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush 
 Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 
 My heart would wish away that ruder glow: — 
 And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but oh! 
 While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush. 
 And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 
 Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 
 For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, 
 The soul of melancholy gentleness 
 Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending. 
 Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; 
 At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
 I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 ON THE MONUMENT OP A NEWFOUNDLAND 
 When some proud son of man returns to earth. 
 Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 
 The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe. 
 And storied urns record who rests below ; 
 When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 
 Not what he was, but w hat he should have been : 
 But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend. 
 The first to welcome, foremost to defend. 
 Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 
 Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 
 Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 
 Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 
 While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven. 
 And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
 
 DOG. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 585 
 
 Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 
 
 Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power. 
 
 Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 
 
 Degraded mass of animated dust ! 
 
 Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 
 
 rhy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 
 
 By nature vile, ennobled but by name. 
 
 Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 
 
 Sfe! who perchance behold this simple urn. 
 
 Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn : 
 
 To mark a friend's remains these stones arise, 
 
 [ never knew but one, and here he lies. 
 
 Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell! if ever fondest prayer 
 
 For others' weal avail'd on high. 
 Mine will not all be lost in air. 
 
 But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 
 
 Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
 When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 
 
 Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 
 
 These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 
 
 But in my breast, and in my brain, 
 Awake the pangs that pass not by. 
 
 The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
 My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 
 
 Though grief and passion there rebel ; 
 I only know we loved in vain — 
 
 I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell! 
 
 Bright be the place of thy soul! 
 
 No lovelier spirit than thine 
 E'er burst from its mortal control, 
 
 In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
 On earth tliou wert all but divine. 
 
 As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
 And our sorrow may cease to repine. 
 
 When we know that tliy God is with thee. 
 
 Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 
 
 May its iefdure like emeralds be : 
 There should not be the shadow of gloom, 
 ^ In^atigllt that reminds us of thee. 
 Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
 
 May spring from the spot of thy rest: 
 But nor cypress nor yew let us see; 
 
 For why should we mourn for the blest? 
 
 When we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears. 
 Half broken-hearted 
 
 To sever for years. 
 Pale grew thy clieek and cold, 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 Truly that liour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 b^ 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 
 Sunk chill on my brow — 
 It felt like the warning 
 
 Of what I feel now. 
 Thy vows are all broken, 
 
 And light is thy fame; 
 I hi;ar thy name spoken. 
 
 And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 
 A knell to mine ear; 
 A^shudder comes o'er me — 
 
 Wliy wert thou so dear ? 
 They know not I knew thee 
 
 Who knew thee too well : — . 
 Long, long, shall I rue thee. 
 
 Too deeply to telj. 
 
 In secret we met — ' 
 
 In silence I grieve, 
 That thy heart could forget. 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years. 
 How sliould I greet thee? — 
 
 With silence and tears. 
 
 /f^i 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 There be none of Beauty's daughters 
 With a magic like thee; 
 
 And like music on the waters 
 Is thy sweet voice to me : 
 When, as if its sound were causing 
 The charm'd ocean's pausing, 
 The waves lie still and gleaming, 
 And the luU'd winds seem dreaming, 
 And the midnight moon is weaving 
 
 Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 
 Whose breast is gently heaving, 
 
 As an infant's asleep : 
 So the spirit bows before thee, 
 To listen and adore thee ; 
 With a full but soft emotion. 
 Like the swell of Summer's ocean, 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
 Uuccutium ortus ex animo: quater 
 Felix 1 in imo qui scatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. 
 Gkay. 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give like tliat it takes 
 
 away, 
 When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull 
 
 decay ; 
 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, whidi 
 
 fades so fast, 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself 
 
 be past. 
 
 37* 
 
586 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. POEMS. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of hap- 
 piness, 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain 
 The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch 
 again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself 
 
 comes down; 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 
 And though tlie eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice 
 
 appears. 
 
 Though wit may flasli from fluent lips, and mirth distract 
 
 the breast. 
 Through midniglit hours that yield no more their former 
 
 hope of rest; 
 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray 
 
 beneath. 
 
 Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have been, 
 Or weep, as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd 
 
 scene: 
 As springs, in deserts found, seem sweet — all brackish 
 
 tJiQugh they be, — 
 So, midst the with«r'd waste of life, those tears would 
 
 flow to me. 
 
 FARE THEE WELL. 
 
 Alas ! they had been frieuds in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms aljove : 
 And life is tliorny ; and youth is vain : 
 And to be wroth with one we love. 
 Doth work like madness in the brain: 
 
 But never either found another 
 
 To free the hollow heart from paining — 
 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
 
 Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder; 
 
 A dreary sea now flows between. 
 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder 
 
 fjliall wholly do away, I ween, 
 
 The marki of that which once hath been. 
 
 ComaiDGE. 
 Fare thee well ! and if for ever, \ 
 
 Still for ever, fare thee well: 
 Even though unforgiving, never 
 
 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 Would that breast were bared before thee 
 
 Where thy liead so oft hath lain. 
 While that placid sleep came o'er tliee 
 Which thou ne'er canst know again: 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced over. 
 
 Every inmost tliought could show ! 
 Tiien thou wouldst at last discover 
 
 'Twas not well to spurn it so. 
 Though the world for this commend thee — 
 
 Though it smile upon the blow. 
 Even its praises must oft'end thee, 
 Founded on another's woe — 
 
 Though my many faults defaced me, 
 
 Could no other arm be found. 
 Than the one which once embraced me. 
 
 To inflict a cureless wound? 
 Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; 
 
 Love may sink by slow decay, 
 But by sudden wrench, believe not 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away: 
 Still thine own its life retaiueth — 
 
 Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 
 And the undying thouglit which paineth 
 
 Is — that we no more may meet. 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 . Than the wail above the dead; 
 Both shall live, but every morrow 
 * Wake us from a widow 'd bed. 
 And when thou wouldst solace gather. 
 
 When our child's first accents flow, 
 t^ilt thou teach her to say "Father!" 
 
 Though his care she must forego? 
 When her little hands shall press thee, 
 
 When her lip to thine is prest, 
 Think of Jiim whose prayer sliali bless thee. 
 
 Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 
 Those thou never more mayst see, 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 All my faults perchance thou knowest. 
 
 All my madness none can know ; 
 All my hopes, where'er thou goest. 
 
 Wither — yet with thee they go. 
 Every feeling hath been shaken; 
 
 Pride, which not a world could bow. 
 Bows to thee — by thee forsaken. 
 
 Even my soul forsakes me now : 
 But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
 
 Words from me are vainer still ; 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 
 Force their way without the will. — 
 Fare thee well ! — tlius disunited, 
 
 Torn from every nearer tie, 
 Sear'd in heart, ajid lone, and blighted — 
 
 More than this I scarce can die. 
 
 
 I TO** 
 When all around grew drear and iark, 
 .^ And reason half withheld her iky — 
 And hope but shed ^ dying spirk | 
 Which mdrc rnisled my lonely wiy ; 
 ■t i 
 In that deep midnigiit of the mind. 
 And that internal strife of heart. 
 When dreading to be deem'd too kind. 
 The weak despair — the cold depart; 
 
 When fortune changed — and love fled far, 
 And liatred's shafts flew tliick and fast, 
 
 Thou wcrt tlie solitary star 
 
 Which rose and set not to the last. 
 
 -^ 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEAIS. 
 
 587 
 
 Oh ! blest be tliine unbroken light ! 
 
 That watcli'd nic as a serapli's eye, » 
 And stood between me and the night, 
 
 For ever shining sweetly nigh. 
 
 And when tlie cloud upon us came, 
 
 Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 
 
 Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
 And dash'd the darkness all away. 
 
 Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 
 And teach it what to brave or brook - 
 
 There's more in one soft word of thine, 
 Than in the world's defied rebuke. 
 
 Thou stoodst, a stands a lovely tree. 
 That still unbroke, though gently bent. 
 
 Still waves with fond fidelity 
 Its boughs above a monument. 
 
 The winds might rend — the skies might pour. 
 But there thou wert — and still wouldst be 
 
 Devoted in the stormiest hour 
 To shed thy weeping leaves o'er mc. 
 
 But thou and thine shall know no blight, 
 
 AVhatevcr fate on me may fall; 
 For heaven in sunshine will requite 
 
 The kind — and thee the most of all. 
 
 Then let the ties of baffled love 
 
 Be broken — thine will never break; 
 
 Thy heart can feel — but will not move; 
 Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 
 
 And these, when all was lost beside, 
 
 Were found, and still are fixed, in thee — 
 
 And bearing still a breast so tried. 
 Earth is no desert — even to me. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 [FROM THE FRENCH.] 
 
 wept, bat particDlarly Savary, and a Polish officer Mho had been 
 
 «Ucd from the ranks by Buonaparte. He ciniig to his master's linees: 
 
 rote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany 
 
 a, even in the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted." 
 
 Must thou go, my glorious Chief, 
 
 Sever'd from thy faithful few? 
 Who can tell thy warrior's grief. 
 
 Maddening o'er that long adieu? 
 Woman's love, and friendship's zeal — 
 
 Dear as both have been to me — 
 What arc they to all I feel, 
 
 With a soldier's faith, for thee? 
 
 Idol of the soldier's soul! 
 
 First in light, but mightiest now: 
 Many could a world control; 
 
 Thee alone no doom can hovr. 
 
 By thy side for years I dared 
 
 Death, and envied those who fell, 
 
 Wiicn their dying shout was heard 
 Blessing him they served so well. 
 
 Would that I were cold with those. 
 
 Since this hour I live to see; 
 When the doubts of coward foes 
 
 Scarce dare trust a man with thee, 
 Dreading each should set thee free. 
 
 Oh! although in dungeons pent. 
 All their chains were light to me, 
 
 Gazing on thy soul unbent. 
 
 Would the sycophants of him 
 
 Now so deaf to duty's prayer. 
 Were his borrow'd glories dim. 
 
 In his native darkness share? 
 Were that world this hour his own. 
 
 All thou calmly dost resign, 
 Could he purchase with that throne 
 
 Hearts like those which still are thine? 
 
 My chief, my king, mj' friend, adieu ! 
 
 Never did I droop before ; 
 Never to my sovereign sue. 
 
 As his foes I now implore. 
 All I ask is to divide 
 
 Every peril he must brave. 
 Sharing by the hero's side 
 
 His fall, his exile, and his grave. 
 
 [FROM THE FRENCH.] 
 
 We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 
 Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew; 
 There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 
 Rising from each gory trunk, 
 Like the water-spout from ocean. 
 With a strong and growing motion — 
 It soars, and mingles in tlie air, 
 With that of lost Lacedoyere — 
 With that of him whose honour'd grave 
 Contains the "bravest of the brave." 
 A crimson cloud it spreads and glows. 
 But shall return to whence it rose; 
 When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder — 
 Never yet was heard such thunder 
 As then shall shake the world with wonder - 
 Never yet was seen such lightning, 
 As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! 
 Like the Wormwood-Star foretold 
 By the sainted Seer of old. 
 Showering down a fiery flood, 
 Turning rivers into blood. 
 
 The Chief has fallen, but not by you. 
 Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 
 AVlien the .soldier-citizen 
 Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men — 
 
588 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Save in deeds tliat led them on 
 
 Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son — 
 
 Who, of all the despots banded, 
 
 With that youtliful chief competed ? 
 
 AVho could boast o'er France defeated, 
 
 Till lone Tyranny commanded? 
 
 Till, goaded by Ambition's sting. 
 
 The Hero sunk into the King? 
 
 Then he fell; — So perish all, 
 
 Who would men by man enthral ! 
 
 And thou too of the snow-white plume ! 
 Whose realm refused thee even a tomb ; 
 Better hadst tliou still been leading 
 France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
 Than sold thyself to death and shame 
 For a meanly royal name ; 
 Such as he of Naples wears, 
 Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
 Little didst thou deem, when dashing 
 On thy w ar-horse through tlie ranks. 
 Like a stream which burst its banks, 
 While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing. 
 Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
 Of the fate at last which found thee : 
 Was that haughty plume laid low 
 By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
 Once — as the Moon sways o'er the tide, 
 It rolled in air, the warrior's guide; 
 Through the smoke-created niglit 
 Of the black and sulphurous fight. 
 The soldidi- raised his seeking eye 
 To catch that crest's ascendancy, — 
 And as it onward rolling rose, 
 So moved his heart upon our foes. 
 There, where death's brief pang was quickest, 
 And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
 Strew'd beneath tlie advancing banner 
 Of tlie eagle's burning crest — 
 (There, Avith thunder-clouds to fan her, 
 Who could then her wing arrest — 
 Victory beaming from her breast?) 
 While the broken line enlarging 
 Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
 There be sure was Murat charging ! 
 There he ne'er shall charge again! 
 
 O'er glories gone the invaders march, 
 Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch — 
 But let Freedom rejoice. 
 With her heart in her voice ; 
 But, her hand on her sword. 
 Doubly shall she be adored ; 
 France hath twice too well been taught 
 The "moral lesson" dearly bought — 
 Her safety sits not on a throne, 
 With Capet or Napoleon ! 
 But in equal rights and laws, 
 Hearts and hands in one great cause — 
 Freedom, such as God Jiath given 
 Unto all beneath his heaven, 
 
 With their breath, and from their birth, 
 Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth; 
 With a fierce and lavish hand 
 Scattering nations' wealth like sand : 
 Pouring nations' blood like water, 
 In imperial seas of slaughter! 
 
 But the heart and the mind, 
 And the voice of mankind, 
 Shall arise in communion — 
 And who shall resist that proud union ? 
 The time is past when swords subdued — 
 Man may die — the soul's renew'd: 
 Even in this low world of care 
 Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; 
 Millions breathe but to inherit 
 Her for ever bounding spirit — 
 When once more her hosts assemble. 
 Tyrants shall believe and tremble — 
 Smile they at this idle threat? 
 Crimson tears will follow yet. 
 
 ON THE STAR OF THE LEGION OF HONOUI 
 
 [FROM THE FRENCH.] 
 
 Star of the brave! — whose beam hath shed 
 
 Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 
 
 Thou radiant and adored deceit! 
 
 Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — 
 
 Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 
 
 Why rise in heaven to set on earth ? 
 
 Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; 
 Eternity flash'd through thy blaze; 
 The music of thy martial sphere 
 Was fame on high and honour here; 
 And tliy light broke on human eyes 
 Like a Volcano of the skies. 
 
 Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood. 
 And swept down empires with its flood; 
 Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 
 As thou didst lighten through all space; 
 And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, 
 And set while thou wert dwelling there. 
 
 Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 
 
 A rainbow of the loveliest hue 
 
 Of three bright colours, each divine. 
 
 And fit for tliat celestial sign; 
 
 For Freedom's hand had blended them 
 
 Like tints in an immortal gem. 
 
 One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
 One, the blue depth of Seraphs' eyes ; 
 One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
 Had robed in radiance of its light: 
 The tluee so mingled did beseem 
 The texture of a heavenly dream. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 589 
 
 Star of the brave ! tliy ray is pale, 
 And darkness must again prevail ! 
 But, oh thou Rainbow of the free! 
 Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
 When thy bright promise fades away, 
 Our life is but a load of clay. 
 
 And Freedom hallows with her tread 
 The silent cities of the dead ; 
 For beautiful in death are they 
 Who proudly fall in her array ; 
 And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be 
 For evermore with theih or thee ! 
 
 NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 
 
 [FROM THE FRENCH.] 
 
 [Farewell to the Land where the gloom of my glory 
 Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — 
 Slic abandons me now, — but the page of her story, 
 iThe brightest or blackest, is fiU'd with my fame. 
 J have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only 
 
 ] When the meteor of conquest allured me too far; 
 
 ^[ have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, 
 
 ' The last single Captive to millions in war. 
 
 Farewell to thee, France! — when thy diadem crown'd 
 I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — [me, 
 
 But thy weakness decrees I should leave as 1 found thee, 
 iDecay'd in thy glorj' and sunk in thy worth. 
 Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 
 In strife with the storm, when their battles were won — 
 Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted. 
 Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on Victory's sun ! 
 
 Farewell to thee, France! — but when Liberty rallies 
 
 Once more in thy regions, remember me then — 
 
 The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 
 
 riiough wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again — 
 
 Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
 
 \nd yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 
 
 There are links which must break in the chain tliat has 
 
 bound us. 
 Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice! 
 
 WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF 
 "THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 
 
 Absent or present, still to thee. 
 
 My friend, what magic spells belong! 
 As all can tell, who share, like me. 
 
 In turn, thy converse and thy song. 
 But when the dreaded hour shall come, 
 
 By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh. 
 And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb 
 
 Shall weep that aught of thee can die, 
 How fondly will Slie then repay 
 
 Thy homage ofler'd at her shrine, 
 
 And blend, while Ages roll away, 
 Her name immortally with thine! 
 
 April, 19, 1812. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and de Stael 
 
 Leman ! these names are worthy of thy shore. 
 
 Thy shore of names like these; wert thou no more, 
 
 Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 
 
 To them thy banks were lovely as to all; 
 
 But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
 
 Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
 
 Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
 
 Where dwelt the wise and wondrous ; but by thee 
 
 How much more, Lake of Beauty ! do we feel. 
 
 In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 
 
 The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 
 
 Which of the heirs of immortality 
 
 Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real! 
 
 STANZAS TO * * "l^tt/Uli^^^*^ < 
 
 Though tJie day of my destiny's over, (I 
 
 And the star of my fate hath declined. 
 Thy soft heart refused to discover 
 
 The faults which so many could find; 
 Though tijy soul with my grief was acquainted. 
 
 It shrunk not to share it with me, 
 |And the love which my spirit hath painted 
 ^It never hath found but in thee. 
 
 Then when nature around me is smiling, 
 
 The last smile which answers to mine, 
 I do not believe it beguiling 
 
 Because it reminds me of thine; 
 And when winds are at war with the ocean, 
 
 As the breasts I believed in with me, 
 If their billow s excite an emotion, 
 
 It is that they bear me from thee. 
 
 Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 
 
 And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
 Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 
 
 To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
 There is many a pang to pursue me : 
 
 They may crush, but they shall not contemn — 
 They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 
 
 'Tis oithee that I think — not of them. 
 
 Though human, thou didst not deceive me. 
 
 Though woman, thou didst not forsake. 
 Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 
 
 Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake, 
 Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim mc. 
 
 Though parted, it was not to fly. 
 Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 
 
 Nor mute, that the world might belie. 
 
590 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it. 
 
 Nor the war of the many with one — 
 If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 
 
 'Twas folly not sooner to shun: 
 And if dearly that error hath cost me, 
 
 And more than I once could foresee, 
 I have found that, whatever it lost me, 
 
 It could not deprive me oithee. 
 
 From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd. 
 
 Thus much I at least may recall, 
 It hath taught me that what I most clierish'd . 
 
 Deserved to be dearest of all : 
 In the desert a fountain is springing, 
 
 In the wide waste there still is a tree. 
 And a bird in the solitude singing, 
 
 Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 
 
 A VEHY MOURNFUL BALLAD ON THE SIEGE 
 AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMa. 
 
 The effect of the original ballad (which exi.-ted both in Spanish and 
 Arabic) was such that it was forbidden to be sung by the Moors, on 
 pain of death, within Granada. 
 
 |\ . . The Moorish King rides up and down 
 Thr8t%V'Granada's royal town; 
 From Elvira's gates to those 
 Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Letters to the monarch tell 
 How Alhama's city fell; 
 
 In the fire the scroll he threw, I 
 
 And the messenger he slew. 9 
 
 Woe is rae, Alhama! , 
 
 He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
 And through the street directs his course; 
 Through the street of Zacatin 
 To the Alhambra spurring in. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 When the Alhambra walls he gain'd, 
 On the moment he ordaiu'd 
 That the trumpet straight should sound 
 With the silver clarion round. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 And when the hollow drums of war 
 Beat the loud alarm afar, 
 That the Moors of town and plain 
 Might answer to the martial strain. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Then the Moors by this aware 
 That bloody Mars recall'd them there. 
 One by one, and two by two. 
 To a mighty squadron grew. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Out then spake an aged Moor 
 Li these words the king before : 
 
 "Wherefore call on us, oh king ? 
 What may mean this gathering ? " 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 "Friends! ye have, alas! to know 
 Of a most disastrous blow, 
 That the Christians, stern and bold, 
 Have obtain'd Alhama's hold." 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
 With his beard so white to see, 
 "Good King! thou art justly served, 
 Good King! this thou hast deserved. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 By thee were slain, in evil hour. 
 The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
 And strangers were received by thee 
 Of Cordova the Chivalry. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 And for this, oh King! is sent 
 On thee a double chastisement. 
 Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
 One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 He who holds no laws in awe, 
 He must perish by the law ; 
 And Granada must be won, 
 And thyself with her undone." 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes, 
 The Monarch's wrath began to rise, 
 Because he answer' d, and because 
 He spake exceeding well of laws. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 "There is no law to say such things 
 As may disgust the ear of kings ; " — 
 Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
 The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
 Though thy beard so hoary be. 
 The King hath sent to have thee seized. 
 For Alhama's loss displeased. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 And to fix thy head upon 
 High Alhambra's loftiest stone; 
 That this for thee should be the law, 
 And others tremble when they siw. 
 Woe is me, Aliiama ! 
 
 "Cavalier ! and man of worth ! 
 Let these words of mine go forth ; 
 Let the Moorish Monarch know, 
 That to him I nothing owe: 
 
 Woeisme^ Alhama! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 591 
 
 But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
 And on my inmost spirit preys; 
 And if the King his land hath lost, 
 Yet others may have lost the most. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Sires have lost their children, wives 
 Their lords, and valiant men their lives ; 
 One what best his love might claim 
 Hath lost, another wealth or fame. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 I lost a damsel in that hour. 
 Of all the land the loveliest flower; 
 Doubloons a hundred I would pay. 
 And think her ransom cheap that day." 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 And as these things the old Moor said. 
 They sever'd from the trunk his head; 
 And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
 'Twas carried, as the King decreed. 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 And men and infants therein weep 
 Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; 
 Granada's ladies, all she rears 
 Within her walls, burst into tears. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 And from the windows o'er the walls 
 The sable web of mourning falls ! 
 The King weeps as a woman o'er 
 His loss, for it is much and sore. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLL 
 
 ON A NUN, 
 Somiet composed in the name of a father whose daughter had recently 
 died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her 
 ' who had lately taken the veil. 
 
 Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired. 
 Heaven made us liappy ; and now, wretched sires. 
 Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires. 
 And gazing upon either, both required. 
 Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired 
 Becomes extinguish'd, soon — too soon expires : 
 But thine within the closing grate retired. 
 Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 
 But thou at least from out the jealous door. 
 Which shuts between your never -meeting eyes, 
 j Mayst hear her sweet and pious voice once more: 
 1 1 to the marble, where mi/ daughter lies, 
 I Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, 
 I And knock, and knock, and knock — but none replies. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 River, that rollest by the ancient walls, 
 Where dwells the lady of my love, when she ' 
 
 Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls 
 A faint and fleeting memory of me : 
 
 What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
 A mirror of my heart, where she may read 
 The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee. 
 Wild as tliy wave, and headlong as thy speed? 
 
 What do I say— a mirror of my heart? 
 Are not thy waters sweeping, dark and strong? 
 Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; 
 And such as thou art, w ere my passions long. 
 
 Time may have somewhat tamed them, not for ever : 
 Thou overflowst thy banks, and not for aye; 
 Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! 
 Thy floods subside ; and mine have sunk away — 
 
 But left long wrecks behind them, and again 
 Borne on our old unchanged career, we move; 
 Thou tendest wildly onward to the main, 
 And l,to loving one I should not love. 
 
 The current I behold will sweep beneatli 
 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 will be imaged in thy stream ; 
 Yes,-^hey 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 Avhom that wave shall sweep? 
 Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore; 
 I near thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 
 
 But that which keepeth us apart is not 
 Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, 
 But the distraction of a various lot, 
 As various as the climates of our birth. 
 
 A stranger loves 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 tlie polar flood. 
 
 My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 
 I had not left my clime;—! shall not be 
 In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 
 A slave again of love, at least of thee. 
 
 'Tis vain to struggle— let me perish young- 
 Live as I lived, and love as I have loved : 
 To dust if I return, from dust I sprung. 
 And then at least my heart can ne'er be moved. 
 
592 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 DRINKING-SONG. 
 
 Fill the goblet again, for I never before 
 Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core : 
 Let us drink — who Avouldnot? since, thro' life's varied 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found. [round, 
 
 I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 
 
 I have bask'd in the beams of a dark rolling eye; 
 
 I have lov'd — who has not ? but what tongue will declare 
 
 That pleasure existed while passion was there? 
 
 In the days of our youth, when the heart's in its spring, 
 And dreams that affection can never take Aving, 
 I had friends, — who has not? but what tongue will avow 
 That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? 
 
 The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange; [change. 
 Friendship shifts witfi the sun-beam, — thou never canst 
 Thou gro wst old— w ho does not ? but on earth w hat appears 
 Whose virtues, like thine, but increajse with our years? 
 
 Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
 Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 
 We are jealous— who 's not? thou hast no such alloy, 
 For the more that enjoy thee, the more they enjoy. 
 
 When, the season of youth and its jollities past. 
 For refuge we fly to the goblet at last. 
 Then we find — who does not ? in the flow of the soul. 
 That truth, as of yore, is confin'd to the bowl. 
 
 When the box of Pandora was opened on earth. 
 And Memory's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
 Hope was left— was she not? but the goblet we kiss, 
 And care not for hope, who are certain of bliss. 
 
 Long life to the grape ! and when summer is flown, 
 The age of our nectar shall gladden my own. 
 We must die — who does not? may our sins be forgiven! 
 And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 
 
 ON SIR JOHN MOORE'S BURIAL. 
 Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note. 
 As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; 
 Not a soldier discliarged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly at dead of niglit, 
 The sods with our bayonets turning, — • 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
 And the la'itern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin confined his breast. 
 Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we heap'd his narrow bed. 
 
 And smooth'd down his lonely pillow. 
 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head 
 
 And we far away on the billow ! 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
 But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done. 
 When the clock told the hour for retiring; 
 And we heard by the distant and random gun, 
 That the foe was suddenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 
 We carved not a line, we raised not a stone. 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 WINDSOR POETICS. 
 
 Lines composed on the occasion of H. R. H. the Prince Regent beii 
 seen standing betwixt the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles I. in tl 
 royal vault at Windsor. 
 
 Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties. 
 By headless Charles, see lieartless Henry lies ; 
 Between them stands another sceptred thing. 
 It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king : 
 Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 
 — In him the double tyrant starts to life: 
 Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain. 
 Each royal vampire wakes to life again : 
 Ah ! what can tombs avail — since these disgorge 
 
 The blood and dust of both to mould a George. 
 
 1818. 
 
 LINES TO Mr. MOORE. 
 
 The following lines were addressed extempore by Lord Byron to h: 
 friend Mr. Moore, on the latter's last visit to Italy. 
 
 My boat is on the shore, 
 
 And my bark is on the sea; 
 But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
 
 Here's a double health to thee. 
 
 Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
 
 And a smile to those who hate; 
 And, whatever sky's above me. 
 
 Here's a heart for every fate. 
 
 Though the ocean roar around me. 
 
 Yet it still shall bear me on; 
 Though a desert should surround me, 
 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 Wer't the last drop in the well. 
 
 And I gasping on the brink, '■ 
 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, '/ jM 
 
 'Tis to thee that I would drink. -iB 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 593 
 
 With that water, as this w iue. 
 The libation I would pour 
 
 Should be — Peace to thine and mine, 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore! 
 
 THE IRISH AVATAR. 
 
 Ere the Daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, 
 And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, 
 
 Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, [bride. 
 To the long-cherish'd Isle which he loved like his— 
 
 True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone. 
 The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause 
 
 For the few little years, out of centuries won, [cause. 
 Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her 
 
 True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags. 
 The castle still stands, and the senate's no more. 
 
 And the famine, which dwelt on her freedomless crags. 
 Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 
 
 To her desolate shore — where the emigrant stands 
 For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth ; 
 
 Tears fall on his chkiu, though it drops from his hands. 
 For the dungeon he quitsls the place of his birth. 
 
 But he comes ! the Messiah of royalty comes ! 
 
 Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves ! 
 Then receive him as best such an advent becomes. 
 
 With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves ! 
 
 He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, 
 To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part — 
 
 But long live the Shamrock which shadows him o'er ! 
 Could the Green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart! 
 
 Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again. 
 And a new spring of noble affections arise — 
 
 Then might Freedom forgive thee his dance in thy chain, 
 And this shout of'thy slavery which saddens the skies. 
 
 \a it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? 
 
 Were he God — as he is but the commonest clay, 
 ^ith scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow — 
 
 Such servile devotion might shame him away. 
 
 ky, roar in his train! let thine orators lash 
 Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride — 
 
 ^ot thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 
 His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 
 
 Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good ! 
 
 So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest ! 
 irVith all which Demosthenes wanted, endued. 
 
 And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 
 
 Sre TiJLLY arose in the zenith of Rome, 
 
 Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun — 
 3ut Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb 
 
 Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the One! 
 
 With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute ; 
 
 Witli tJie lire of Prometheus to kindle mankind ; 
 Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute, [mind. 
 
 And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his 
 
 But back to our theme ! Back to despots and slaves ! 
 
 Feasts furnish'd by Famine ! rejoicings by Pain ! 
 True Freedom but welcojnes, while slavery still raves. 
 
 When a week's Saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. 
 
 Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford 
 (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 
 
 Gild over the palace, Lo ! Erin, thy lord ! 
 Kiss his foot with thy blessings denied ! 
 
 Or j/'freedom past hope be extorted at last. 
 If the Idol of brass find his feet are of clay, 
 
 Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd [prey ? 
 With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their 
 
 Bach brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign, — 
 To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised 
 
 The cause of the curses all annals contain, 
 From CiESAR the dreaded, to George the despised ! 
 
 Wear, Fingal, thy trapping ! O'Connell, proclaim 
 His accomplishments ! His!! ! and thy country convince 
 
 Half an age's contempt was an error of Fame, 
 
 And that "Hal is the rascaliest sweetest yoww^r Prince!" 
 
 Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 
 The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ? 
 
 Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 
 
 The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns? 
 
 Ay ! "Build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite 
 Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen! 
 
 Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite — 
 And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison! 
 
 Spread — spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast. 
 Till the gluttonous despot be stufl'd to the gorge ! 
 
 And the roar of his drunkards proclaim liim at last 
 The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd "^George!" 
 
 Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan! 
 
 Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe ! 
 Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, [flo w . 
 
 Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has to 
 
 But let not his name be thine idol alone — 
 On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears ! 
 
 Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be tJiine own! 
 A wretch, never named but witli curses and jeers ! 
 
 Till now, wlien the Isle which should blush for his birth, 
 Deep, deep, as the gore which he shed on her soil. 
 
 Seems proud of tlie reptile which crawl'd from her cartli. 
 And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile ! 
 
 Without one single ray of her genius, without 
 The fancy, the manhood, the fire of lier race— 
 
 The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt, 
 If */ic ever gave birth to a being so base. 
 
 88 
 
594 
 
 MISCEIiLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 If she did— let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, 
 
 Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring- 
 See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd, 
 Still warming its folds in the breast of a king ! 
 
 Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low 
 Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till 
 
 Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below, 
 The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulph still. 
 
 My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right, 
 My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, 
 
 This hand, though but feeble, would arm, in thy fight. 
 And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for thee ! 
 
 Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land, 
 I have known noble hearts and great souls in tky sons, 
 
 And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band 
 Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. 
 
 For happy are tliey now reposing afar,— 
 Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 
 
 Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, 
 And redeem' d, if they have not retarded, thy fall. 
 
 Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! 
 
 Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day, — 
 Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves. 
 
 Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. 
 
 Till now I had envied thy sons and tlieir shore. 
 
 Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled. 
 
 There was something so warm and sublime in tlic core 
 Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — thy dead. 
 
 Or, if aught in my bosom can quencli for an hour 
 My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, 
 
 Which though trodlike the worm will notturnuponPowcr, 
 'Tis tlic glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore! 
 
 Sept. I6th. 1821. 
 
 THE ADIEU. 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR 
 WOUm SOON DIE. 
 
 Adieu, thou Hill ! where early joy 
 
 Spread roses o'er my brow; 
 Where Science seeks each loitering boy 
 
 With knowledge to endow. 
 Adieu my youthful friends or foes, 
 Partners of former bliss or woes ; 
 
 No more through Ida's paths we stray ; 
 Soon must I share the gloomy cell. 
 Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell 
 
 Unconscious of the day. 
 
 Adieu, ye hoary regal fanes. 
 
 Ye spires of Granta's vale. 
 Where Learning robed in sable reigns. 
 
 And Melancholy pale. 
 Ye comrades of the jovial hour, 
 Ye tenants of the classic bower, 
 
 On Cama's verdant margin placed. 
 Adieu ! while memory still is mine. 
 For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine. 
 
 These scenes must be effaced. 
 
 Adieu, ye mountains of the clime 
 
 Where grew my youthful years ; 
 Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime 
 
 His giant summit rears. 
 Why did my childhood wander forth 
 From you, ye regions of the North, 
 
 With sons of pride to roam ? 
 Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
 Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, 
 
 To seek a Sotheron home? 
 
 Hall of my Sires ! a long farewell — 
 
 Yet why to thee adieu? 
 Thy vaults will echo back my knell. 
 
 Thy towers my tomb will view : 
 The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, 
 And former glories of thy Hall, 
 
 Forgets its wonted simple note- 
 But yet the Lyre retains the strings, 
 And sometimes, on ^olian wings. 
 
 In dying strains may float. 
 
 Fields, which surround yon rustic cot. 
 
 While yet I linger here. 
 Adieu ! you are not now forgot, 
 
 To retrospection dear. 
 Streamlet! along whose rippling surge 
 My youthful limbs were wont to urge, 
 
 At noontide heat, their pliant course. 
 Plunging with ardour from the shore; 
 Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, 
 
 Deprived of active force. 
 
 And shall I here forget the scene, 
 
 Still nearest to my breast ? 
 Rocks rise, and rivers roll, between 
 
 The spot whicli passion blest; 
 Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem 
 Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, 
 
 To me in smiles display'd: 
 Till slow disease resigns his prey 
 To Death, the parent of decay, 
 
 Thine image cannot fade. 
 
 And thou, my Friend ! whose gentle love 
 
 Yet thrills my bosom's chords, 
 How much thy friendship was above 
 
 Description's power of words! 
 Still near my breast thy gift I wear. 
 Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear, 
 
 Of Love the pure, the sacred gem ; 
 Our souls were equal, and our lot 
 In that dear moment quite forgot; 
 
 Let Pride alone condemn ! 
 
 All, all, is dark and cheerless now ! 
 No smile of Love's deceit 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 595 
 
 Can warm my veins with wonted glow. 
 
 Can bid Life's pulses beat: 
 Not e'en the hope of future fame, 
 Can wake my faint, exhausted frame, 
 
 Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
 Mine is a short inglorious race, — 
 To liumble in the dust my face, 
 
 And mingle with the dead. 
 
 Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart! 
 
 On him who gains thy praise, 
 Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, 
 
 Consumed in Glory's blaze ; 
 But me she beckons from the earth, 
 My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, 
 
 My life a short and vulgar dream : 
 Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, 
 My hopes recline within a shroud, 
 
 My fate is Lethe's stream. 
 
 When I repose beneath the sod, 
 
 Unheeded in the clay, 
 Where once my playful footsteps trod, 
 
 Where now my head must lay ; 
 The meed of Pity will be shed 
 In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed, 
 
 By nightly skies, and storms alone; 
 No mortal eye will deign to steep 
 With tears the dark sepulchral deep 
 
 Which hides a name unknown. 
 
 Forget this world, my restless sprite, 
 
 Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven : 
 There must thou soon direct thy flight, 
 
 If errors are forgiven. 
 To bigots and to sects unknown. 
 Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne; 
 
 To him address thy trembling prayer : 
 He, who is merciful and just. 
 Will not reject a child of dust, 
 
 Altliough his meanest care. 
 
 Father of Light! to Thee I call. 
 
 My soul is dark within: 
 Thou, who canstmark the sparrow's fall, 
 
 Avert the death of sin : 
 Thou, who canst guide the wandering star. 
 Who calm'st the elemental war, 
 
 Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
 My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; 
 And, since I soon must cease to live, 
 
 Instruct me how to die. 
 
 1807. 
 
 TO A VAIN LADY. 
 
 Ah, heedless girl ! why thus disclose 
 What ne'er was meant for other ears? 
 
 Why thus destroy thine own repose, 
 And dig the source of future tears? 
 
 Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid. 
 While lurking envious foes will smile, 
 
 For all the follies thou hast said 
 Of those who spoke but to beguile. 
 
 Vain girl ! thy lingering woes are nigh. 
 If thou believest what striplings say: 
 
 Oh, from the deep temptation fly, 
 Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 
 
 Dost thou repeat, in childish boast. 
 The words man utters to deceive? 
 
 Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, 
 If thou canst venture to believe. 
 
 While now, amongst thy female peers, 
 Thou tell'st again the soothing tale. 
 
 Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
 Duplicity in vain would veil? 
 
 These tales in secret silence hush. 
 Nor make thyself the public gaze: 
 
 What modest maid, without a blush, 
 Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise? 
 
 Will not tlie laughing boy despise 
 Her who relates each fond conceit — 
 
 Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes. 
 Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? 
 
 For she who takes a soft delight 
 
 These amorous nothings in revealing, 
 
 Must credit all we say or write, 
 While vanity prevents concealing. 
 
 Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign ! 
 
 No jealousy bids me reprove : 
 One, who is thus from nature vain, 
 
 I pity, but I cannot love. 
 
 January 15, 1807. 
 
 TO ANNE. 
 Oh, Anne ! your ofifences to me have been grievous ; 
 
 I thought from my wrath no atonement could save yon ; 
 But woman is made to command and deceive us — 
 
 I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. 
 
 I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you. 
 Yet thought that a day's separation was long: 
 
 When we met, I determined again to suspect you — 
 Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong. 
 
 I swore, in a transport of young indignation. 
 
 With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you : 
 
 I saw you — my anger became admiration ; 
 
 And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. 
 
 With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention ! 
 
 Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you ; — 
 At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension. 
 
 Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you! 
 
 January 16, 1807. 
 
596 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POESIS. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed 
 The heart which adores jou sliould wish to dissever; 
 
 Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed, — 
 To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. 
 
 Your frowns, lovely girl, are tJie Fates which alone 
 Could bid me from fond admiration refrain ; 
 
 By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown, 
 Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. 
 
 As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, 
 Tlie rage of the tempest united must weather, 
 
 My love and my life were by nature design'd 
 To flourish alike, or to perish together. 
 
 Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed 
 Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu: 
 
 Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, 
 His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 
 
 1807. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 
 
 Thou Power ! who hast ruled me through infancy's days, 
 Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part; 
 
 Then rise on the gale this tlie last of my lays, 
 
 The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. 
 
 This bosom, responsive to rapture no more. 
 
 Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing ; 
 
 The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar. 
 Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 
 
 Though simple the themes of my rude flowing lyre, 
 Yet even these themes are departed for ever ; 
 
 No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire, 
 My visions are flown, to return, — alas, never ! 
 
 When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl. 
 How vain is the eflort delight to prolong ! 
 
 When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul. 
 What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song? 
 
 Can the lips sing of love in the desert alone, 
 
 Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign ? 
 
 Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? 
 Ah, no ! for those hours can no longer be mine. 
 
 Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love ? 
 
 Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain ! 
 But how can my numbers in sympathy move, 
 
 When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? 
 
 Can I sing of the deeds which my fathers have done. 
 And raise my loud harp to the fame of my sires ? 
 
 For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! 
 For heroes' exploits how unequal my fires ! 
 
 Untouch'd, then, my lyre shall reply to the blast — 
 'Tis husli'd, and my feeble endeavours are o'er ; 
 
 And those wlio have lieard it will pardon the past, 
 
 When they kno w that its murmurs shall vibrate no more. 
 
 And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, 
 Since early affection and love is o'ercast : 
 
 Oil ! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, 
 
 Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. 
 
 Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; 
 
 If our songs have been languid, they surely are few : 
 Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet — 
 
 The present — which seals our eternal adieu. 
 
 1807. 
 
 TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. 
 
 Young Oak! wlien I planted thee deep in the ground, 
 I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 
 
 That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, 
 And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 
 
 Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
 On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: 
 
 They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, — 
 Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. 
 
 I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 
 A sfranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire; 
 
 Til! manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power. 
 But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire. 
 
 Oh ! hardy thou wert — even now little care [heal ; 
 
 Might revive thy young head, and tliy wounds gently 
 But thou wert not fated affection to share — 
 
 For who could suppose that a stranger would feel? 
 
 Ah, droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for a wliiie ; 
 
 Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, 
 The hand of thy master will teach thee to smile, 
 
 When infancy's years of probation are done. 
 
 Oh, live then, my Oak! tower aloft from the weeds 
 Tliat clog thy young growth, and assist tliy decay. 
 
 For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds. 
 
 And still may thy branches their beauty display. 
 
 Oh ! yet, if maturity's years may be tliine. 
 Though /shall lie low in the cavern of death, 
 
 On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, 
 Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. 
 
 For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave 
 O'er the corse of thy lord, in thy canopy laid; 
 
 While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, 
 The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 
 
 And as he, with his boys, shall revisit tliis spot. 
 He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. 
 
 Oil ! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : 
 Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. 
 
 And here, will they say, w hen in life's glowing primq 
 Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay. 
 
 And here must he sleep, till the moments of time 
 Are lost in the hours of eternity's day. 
 
 1807. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 597 
 
 EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL, 
 
 A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. 
 
 John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, 
 A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well; 
 He carried so much, and he carried so fast. 
 He could carrt/ no more — so was carried at last ; 
 For, the liquor he drank, being- too much for one. 
 He could not carri/ off, — so he's now carri-on. 
 
 September, 1807. 
 
 TO MY SON. 
 
 Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue. 
 Bright as thy mother's in their hue; 
 Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
 And smile to steal the heart away. 
 Recall a scene of former joy. 
 And touch tliy father's heart, my Boy! 
 
 And thou canst lisp a father's name — 
 Ah, William, were thine own the same, - 
 No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
 My care for thee shall purchase peace ; 
 Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy. 
 And pardon all the past, my Boy ! 
 
 Her lowly grave the turf has prest, 
 
 And tliou hast known a stranger's breast; 
 
 Derision sneers upon thy birtli, 
 
 And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; 
 
 Yet shall not these one hope destroy, — 
 
 A Father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 
 
 Why, let the world unfeeling frown. 
 Must I fond Nature's claim disown? 
 Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
 I hail thee, dearest child of love, 
 Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — 
 A Father guards thy birth, my Boy ! 
 
 Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace. 
 Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
 Ere half my glass of life is run, 
 At once a brother and a son ; 
 And all my wane of years employ 
 In justice done to thee, my Boy ! 
 
 Although so young thy heedless sire. 
 Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
 And, wert thou still less dear to me. 
 While Helen's form revives in thee. 
 The breast, which beat to former joy, 
 Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy ! 
 
 ||0 A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR 
 QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING. 
 
 When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 
 
 A moment linger'd near the gate, 
 Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, 
 
 And bade him curse his future fate. 
 
 But, wandering on through distant climes, 
 He learnt to bear his load of grief ; 
 
 Just gave a sigli to other times. 
 And found in busier scenes relief. 
 
 Thus, lady ! will it be with me. 
 And I must view thy charms no more ; 
 
 For, wliile I linger near to thee, 
 I sigh for all I knew before. 
 
 In flight I shall be surely wise, 
 
 Escaping from temptation's snare ; 
 
 I cannot view my paradise 
 Without the wish of dwelling there. 
 
 December 2, 1808. 
 
 REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. 
 
 Remind mc not, remind me not. 
 Of tliosc beloved, those vanish'd hours, 
 When all my soul was given to thee; 
 Hours that may never be forgot. 
 Till time unnerves our vital powers. 
 And thou and I shall cease to be. 
 
 Can I forget— canst thou forget, 
 Wticn playing with thy golden hair, 
 How quick thy fluttering heart did move? 
 Oh ! by my soul, I see thee yet. 
 
 With eyes so languid, breast so fair, 
 And lips, though silent, breatliing love. 
 
 When thus reclining on my breast, 
 
 Those eyes tlirew back a glance so sweet. 
 As half rcproach'd yet raised desire. 
 And still we near and nearer prest, 
 And still our glowing lips would meet, 
 As if in kisses to expire. 
 
 And then those pensive eyes would close, 
 And bid their lids each other seek. 
 Veiling the azure orbs below ; 
 While their long lashes' darken'd gloss 
 Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
 Like raven's plumage smoothed on snow. 
 
 I dreamt last night our love return'd. 
 And, sooth to say, that very dream 
 Was sweeter in its phantasy 
 Than if for other hearts I burn'd. 
 
 For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
 In rapture's wild reality. 
 
 Then tell me not, remind me not. 
 
 Of hours which, though for ever gone. 
 Can still a pleasing dream restore, 
 Till thou and I shall be forgot, 
 
 And senseless as the mouldering stone 
 Which tells that we shall be no more. 
 
598 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. 
 There was a time, I need not name. 
 
 Since it will ne'er forgotten be. 
 When all our feelings were the same 
 
 As still my soul hath been to thee. 
 
 And from that hour when first thy tongue 
 Confess'd a love which equall'd mine. 
 
 Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, 
 Unknown and thus imfelt by thine, 
 
 None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
 To think how all that love hath flown; 
 
 Transient as every faithless kiss, 
 But transient in thy breast alone. 
 
 And yet my heart some solace knew, 
 When late I heard thy lips declare. 
 
 In accents once imagined true, 
 Remembrance of the days that were. 
 
 Yes ! my adored, yet most unkind ! 
 
 Though thou wilt never love again, 
 To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 
 
 Remembrance of that love remain. 
 
 Yes ! 'tis a glorious thought to me, 
 Nor longer shall my soul repine : 
 
 Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be, 
 Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. 
 
 AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? 
 And wilt thou weep when I am low? 
 
 Sweet lady ! speak those words again: 
 Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so — 
 I would not give that bosom pain. 
 
 My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, 
 
 My blood runs coldly through my breast; 
 
 And when I perish, thou alone 
 Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 
 
 And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 
 
 Doth through my cloud of anguish sliine; 
 
 And for awhile my sorrows cease, 
 To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 
 
 Oh lady! blessed be that tear — 
 It falls for one who cannot weep : 
 
 Such precious drops are doubly dear 
 To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 
 
 Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
 With every feeling soft as thine; 
 
 But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
 A wretch created to repine. 
 
 Yet, wilt thou weep when I am low ? 
 
 Sweet lady ! speak those words again ; 
 Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so — 
 
 I would not give that bosom pain. 
 
 STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLANI 
 
 'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
 The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
 And, whistling o'er tl»e bending mast, 
 Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast; 
 And I must from this land be gone. 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 But could I be what I have been. 
 And could I see what I have seen — 
 Could I repose upon tlie breast 
 Which once my warmest wishes blest — 
 I should not seek another zone 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
 Which gave me bliss or misery; 
 And I have striven, but in vain, 
 Never to think of it again : 
 For though I fly from Albion, 
 I still can only love but one. 
 
 As some lone bird, without a mate. 
 My weary heart is desolate; 
 I look around, and cannot trace 
 One friendly smile or welcome face; 
 And even in crowds am still alone. 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 And I will cross the whitening foam, 
 And I will seek a foreign home : 
 Till I forget a false fair face, 
 I ne'er shall find a resting-place: 
 My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
 But ever love, and love but one. 
 
 The poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
 Still finds some hospitable hearth, 
 Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
 May smile in joy or soothe in woe; 
 But friend or leman I have none, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 I go — but whereso'er I flee, 
 There's not an eye will weep for me; 
 There's not a kind congenial heart, 
 Where I can claim the meanest part; 
 Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone. 
 Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 
 
 To think of every early scene. 
 
 Of what we are, and what we've been. 
 
 Would whelm some softer hearts with woe — 
 
 But mine, alas ! has stood the blow; 
 
 Yet still beats on as it begun. 
 
 And never truly loves but one. 
 
 And who that dear loved one may be 
 Is not for vulgar eyes to see, 
 And why that early love was crost. 
 Thou know'st the best, I feel the most; 
 But few that dwell beneath tlie sun 
 Have loved so long, and loved but one. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 599 
 
 I 've tried another's fetters too, 
 With cliarms perchance as fair to viewj 
 And I would fain liave loved as well, 
 But some unconquerable spell 
 Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
 A kindred care for au^ht but one. 
 
 'T would soothe to take one lingering view, 
 And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
 Yet Avish I not those eyes to weep 
 For him that wanders o'er the deep : 
 His home, his hope, his youth are gone. 
 Yet still he loves, and loves but one. 
 
 1809. 
 
 LINES TO Mr. HODGSON, 
 
 WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET. 
 
 Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, 
 
 Our embargo's oflat last; 
 Favourable breezes blowing 
 
 Bend the canvass o'er the mast. 
 From aloft the signal's streaming, 
 Hark! the farewell gun is fired; 
 Women screeching, tars blasplieming, 
 Tell us that our time's expired. 
 Here's a rascal 
 Come to task all. 
 Prying from the custom-house; 
 Trunks unpacking. 
 Cases cracking, 
 Not a corner for a mouse 
 'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket. 
 Ere we sail on board the Packet. 
 
 Now our boatmen quit their mooring. 
 
 And all hands must ply the oar; 
 Baggage from the quay is lowering, 
 
 We 're impatient — push from shore. 
 "Have a care ! that case holds liquor — 
 
 Stop tlie boat — I 'm sick — oli Lord! " 
 "Sick, ma'am, damme, you '11 be sicker 
 Ere you 've been an hour on board." 
 Thus are screaming 
 Men and women, 
 Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks ; 
 Here entangling. 
 All are wrangling, 
 Stuck together close as wax. — 
 Such the general noise and racket. 
 Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 
 
 Now we've reach'd her; lo! the captain. 
 Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; 
 
 Passengers their berths are clapt in. 
 Some to grumble, some to spew. 
 
 "Hey day ! call you that a cabin? 
 Wliy 'tis hardly three feet square ; 
 
 Not enough to stow Queen Mab in — 
 
 Who the deuce can harbour there?" 
 "Who, sir? plenty — 
 Nobles twenty 
 Did at once my vessel fill." — 
 "Did they? Jesus, 
 How you squeeze us ! 
 Would to God they did so still : 
 Then I'd scape the heat and racket 
 Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 
 
 Fletcher! Murray! Bob ! where are you? 
 
 Stretch'd along the deck like logs — 
 Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you! 
 
 Here's a rope's end for the dogs. 
 Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, 
 
 As the hatchway down he rolls. 
 Now his breakfast, now his verses, 
 Vomits forth — and damns our souls. 
 "Here's a stanza 
 On Braganza — 
 Help !" — "A couplet?" — "No, a cup 
 Of warm water — " 
 "What's the matter?" 
 "Zounds ! my liver's coming up; 
 I shall not survive the racket 
 Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 
 
 Now at length we're off for Turkey, 
 
 Lord knows when we shall come back! 
 Breezes foul and tempests murky 
 
 May unship us in a crack. 
 But, since life at most a jest is. 
 
 As philosophers allow, 
 Still to laugh by far the best is , 
 Then laugh on — as I do now. 
 Laugh at all things, 
 Great and small things, 
 Sick or well, at sea or shore; 
 While we're quaffing. 
 Let's have laughing — 
 Who the devil cares for more? — 
 Some good wine ! and who would lack it. 
 Even on board the Lisboii Packet?" 
 
 Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809. 
 
 EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET 
 AND SHOEMAKER. 
 
 Stranger! behold, interr'd together. 
 The souls of learning and of leather. 
 Poor Joe is gone, but left his all: 
 You'll find his relics in a stall. 
 His works were neat, and often found 
 Well stitoh'd, and with morocco bound. 
 Tread lightly — where the bard is laid 
 He cannot mend tlie shoe he made; 
 Yet is he happy in his hole, 
 With verse immortal as his sole. 
 But still to business he held fast. 
 And stuck to Piioebus to the last. 
 
600 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Then who shall say so good a fellow 
 Was only "leather and prunella?" 
 For character — he did not lack it; 
 And if he did, 'twere shame to "Black-it." 
 
 IlfaJta, May 16, I8I1. 
 
 i 
 
 FAREWELL TO MALTA. 
 
 Adieu, ye joys of La Valette ! 
 
 Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat ! 
 
 Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd ! 
 
 Adieu, ye mansions where — I've ventured ! 
 
 Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! 
 
 How surely he who mounts you swears !) 
 
 Adieu, ye merchants often failing ! 
 
 Adieu, thou mob for ever railing! 
 
 Adieu, ye packets — without letters ! 
 
 Adieu, ye fools — who ape your betters ! 
 
 Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine. 
 
 That gave me fever, and the spleen ! 
 
 Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs, 
 
 Adieu his Excellency's dancers ! 
 
 Adieu to Peter — whom no fault's in. 
 
 But could not teach a colonel waltzing; 
 
 Adieu, ye females fraught with graces ! 
 
 Adieu red coats, and redder faces ! 
 
 Adieu the supercilious air 
 
 Of all that Strut "en militaire I" 
 
 I go — but God knows when, or why, 
 
 To smoky towns and cloudy sky, 
 
 To things (the honest truth to say) 
 
 As bad — but in a different way. — 
 
 Farewell to these; but not adieu, 
 Triumphant sons of truest blue! 
 While either Adriatic shore. 
 And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more. 
 And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, 
 Proclaim you war and women's winners. 
 Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is. 
 And take my rhyme — because 'tis gratis." 
 
 And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser, 
 Perhaps you tliink I mean to praise her — 
 And were I vain enough to think 
 My praise was worth this drop of ink, 
 A line — or two — were no hard matter. 
 As here, indeed, I need not flatter: 
 But she must be content to shine 
 In better praises than in mine ; 
 With lively air, and open heart. 
 And fashion's ease, without its art. 
 Her hours can gaily glide along. 
 Nor ask the aid of idle song. 
 
 And now, O Malta ! since thou'st got us, 
 Thou little military hothouse ! 
 I'll not offend with words uncivil, 
 And wish thee rudely at the Devil, 
 But only stare from out my casement, 
 And ask, for what is such a place meant ? 
 
 Then, in my solitary nook. 
 Return to scribbling, or a book. 
 Or take my physic while I'm able 
 (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label), 
 Prefer my nightcap to my beaver. 
 And bless the gods — I've got a fever ! 
 
 May 26th, 1811. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, 
 
 IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR 1 
 BE CHEERFUL, AND TO "BANISH CARE." 
 
 "Oh ! banish care" — such ever be 
 The motto of thi/ revelry ! 
 Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 
 Renew those riotous delights, 
 Wherewith the children of Despair 
 Lull the lone heart, and "banish care." 
 But not in morn's reflecting hour. 
 When present, past, and future lour, 
 When all I loved is changed or gone. 
 Mock with such taunts the woes of one. 
 Whose every thought — but let them pass — 
 Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
 But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
 Place in a heart that ne'er was cold. 
 By all the powers that men revere, 
 By all unto thy bosom dear. 
 Thy joys below, thy hopes above. 
 Speak — speak of any tiling but love. 
 
 'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear. 
 The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
 And there is little in that tale 
 Which better bosoms would bewail. 
 But mine has sufler'd more tlian well 
 'T would suit philosophy to tell. 
 I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
 Have seen her seated by his side, — 
 Have seen the infant, which she bore. 
 Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, 
 When she and I in youth have smiled, 
 As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
 Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
 Ask if I felt no secret pain ; 
 And /have acted well my part. 
 And made my cheek belie my heart, 
 Return'd the freezing glance she gave, 
 Yet felt the while that woman's slave ; — 
 Have kiss'd, as if without design, 
 The babe which ouglit to have been mine, 
 And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
 Time had not made me love the less. 
 
 But let this pass — I'll whine no more, 
 Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 
 The world befits a busy brain, — 
 I'll hie me to its haunts again. 
 But if, in some succeeding year, 
 When Britain's "May is in the sere," 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 601 
 
 Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes 
 Suit with the sablest of the times. 
 Of one, whom love nor pity swaj'S, 
 Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, 
 One, wlio in stern ambition's pride, 
 Percliance not blood shall turn aside, 
 One rank'd in some recording page 
 With the worst anarchs of the age, — 
 Him wilt thou know — and knowing pause. 
 Nor with the effect forget the cause. 
 
 Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811. 
 
 \ 
 
 PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS. 
 
 BY DR. PLAGIARY. 
 
 Ifn!f stolen, with acknowledgments, to be «poken in an inarticulate voice 
 by Master P. at the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts 
 marked with the inverted commas of qnotation — thus" ". 
 
 "When energising objects men pursue," 
 Tiien Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. 
 "A modest monologue you here survey," 
 Hiss'd from the theatre the "other day," 
 As if Sir Fretful wrote "the slumberous" verse. 
 And gave his son "the rubbish" to rehearse. 
 "Yet at the thing you 'd never be amazed," 
 iKnew you the rumpus which the author raised; 
 F'Nor even here your smiles would be represt," 
 knew you these lines — the badness of the best. [tins,) 
 f'Flame! fire! and flame! !" (words borrow'dfromLucre- 
 "Dread metaphors which open wounds" like issues ! 
 "And sleeping pangs awake — and — but away" — 
 I^Confound me if I know what next to say). 
 *Lo ! Hope reviving re-expands her wings," 
 nd Master G — recites what Doctor Busby sings! — 
 *If mighty things with small we may compare," 
 Translated from the grammar for the fair !) 
 ramatic "spirit drives a conquering car," 
 nd burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of "tar." 
 'This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," 
 'o furnish melodrames for Drury-Lane. 
 I* Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," 
 knd George and I will dramatise it for ye. 
 
 In arts and sciences our isle hath shone;" 
 
 '^This deep discovery is mine alone). 
 
 'Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire" 
 
 tfy verse— or I 'm a fool— and Fame 's a liar, 
 
 Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore" [more. 
 
 With, "smiles," and "lyres," and "pencils," and much 
 
 Phese, if we win the Graces too, we gain 
 
 Oisgraces, too I "inseparable train !" 
 
 Three who have stolen their witching airs from Cupid," 
 
 You all know what I mean, unless you 're stupid): 
 
 ^Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto, 
 
 •low to produce in a "divine sestetto" ! ! 
 
 'Wliile Poesy," with these delightful doxies, 
 
 'Sustains her part" in all the "upper" boxes! 
 
 'Thus lifted gloriously, you '11 soar along," 
 
 Jorne in the vast balloon of Busby's song ; 
 
 "Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play" 
 
 (For this last line George had a holiday). 
 
 "Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," 
 
 So says the manager, and so says I. 
 
 "But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast;" 
 
 Is this the poem which tlie public lost? 
 
 "True— true — that lowers at once our mounting pride;' 
 
 But lo!— the papers print what you deride. 
 
 " 'Tis ours to look on you — ^you hold the prize," 
 
 'Tis twenty guineas, as they advertize ! 
 
 "A double blessing your rewards impart" — 
 
 I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. 
 
 "Our twofold ieeViag owns its twofold cause," 
 
 Why son and I both beg for your applause. 
 
 "When in your fostering beams you bid us live," 
 
 My next subscription-list shall say how mucli you give ! 
 
 October, 1812. 
 
 ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 
 
 When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, 
 
 (I hope I am not violent) 
 
 Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 
 
 And since not even our Rogers' praise 
 
 To common sense his thoughts could raise — 
 
 Why would they let him print his lays ? 
 
 To me, divine Apollo, grant — O ! 
 Hermilda's first and second canto, — 
 I 'm fitting up a new portmanteau ; 
 
 And thus to furnish decent lining, 
 
 My own and others' bays I 'm twining — 
 
 So, gentle Thurlow, throw me tliine in. 
 
 TO LORD THURLOW. 
 
 "I lay ray branch of laurel dowh; 
 Then thus to form Apollo's crown. 
 Let every other bring his own." 
 
 Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Kogi^rs. 
 
 "/ lay my branch of laurel down." 
 Thou "lay thy branch of laurel down ! " 
 
 Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow ; 
 And, were it lawfully thine own, 
 
 Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 
 Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough. 
 
 Or send it back to Doctor Donne : 
 Were justice done to both, I trow, 
 
 He 'd have but little, and thou— none. 
 
 "Tlien thus to form Apollo's crown." 
 A crown ! why, twist it how you will. 
 
 Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
 When next you visit Delphi's town. 
 
 Enquire amongst your fellow -lodgers, 
 They '11 tell you Phoebus gave his crown, 
 
 Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 
 
 38* 
 
m 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 "Let every other bring his own." 
 When coals to Newcastle are carried, 
 
 And owls sent to Athens, as wonders. 
 From his spouse when the Regent 's unmarried, 
 
 Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
 When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel. 
 
 When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, 
 Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel. 
 
 And thou shalt have plenty to spare. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. LEIGH 
 HUNT IN COLDBATH-FIELDS PRISON, MAY 19, 1813. 
 
 Oh you, wlio in all names can tickle the town, 
 Anacrcon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,— 
 For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, 
 Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post Bag; 
 ****** 
 
 But now to my letter — to yours 'tis an answer — 
 To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, 
 All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on 
 (According to compact) the wit in the dungeon — 
 Pray Phoebus at length our political malice 
 May not get us lodgings within the same palace ! 
 I suppose that to-night you 're engaged Avith some codgers, 
 And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers ; 
 And I, tliough with cold I have nearly my death got. 
 Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote; 
 But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, 
 And you '11 be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 
 
 EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA.Qfr'^ 
 
 Mysi^er! my sweet sister! if a name t' 
 Dearer *n4 purer were, it should be thine. 
 Mountainii and seas divide us, but I claim 
 No tears, but.tenderness to answer mine: 
 Go where I wiy, to me thou art the same — 
 A loved regreUwhicli I would not resign. 
 There yet are tv,X) things in my destiny, 
 A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 
 
 The first were nothing — had I still the last, 
 It were the haven of my happiness; 
 But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
 And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
 A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
 Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; 
 Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore, 
 He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 
 
 If my inheritance of storms hath been 
 In other elements, and on the rocks 
 Of perils, overlooked or unforeseen, 
 I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks. 
 The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen 
 My errors with defensive paradox ; 
 I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
 The careful pilot of my proper woe. 
 
 Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. 
 My whole life was a contest, since the day 
 That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd 
 The gift, — a fate, or will, that w alk'd astray ; 
 And I at times have found the struggle hard. 
 And thought of shaking off' my bonds of clay : 
 But now I fain would for a time survive. 
 If but to see what next can well arrive. 
 
 Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
 I have outlived, and yet I am not old; 
 And when I look on this, the petty spray 
 Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 
 Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
 Something — I know not wliat — does still uphold 
 A spirit of slight patience; — not in vain, 
 Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 
 
 Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
 Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair, 
 Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
 Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
 (For even to this may change of soul refer. 
 And with light armour we may learn to bear,) 
 Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
 The chief companion of a calmer lot. 
 
 I feel almost at times as I have felt 
 In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks 
 Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
 Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
 Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
 My heart with recognition of their looks; 
 And even at moments I could think I see 
 Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 
 
 Here are th^ Alpine landscapesjwhichcreate 
 A fund for contemplation; — to admire 
 Is a brief feeling of a trivial date; 
 But something worthier do such scenes inspire : 
 Here to be lonely is not desolate. 
 For much 1 view which I could most desire. 
 And, above all, a lake I can behold 
 Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 
 
 Oh that thou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
 The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
 The solitude which I have vaunted so 
 Has lost its praise in this but one regret; 
 There may be others which I less may show ; — 
 I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
 I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
 And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 
 
 I did remind thee of our own dear Lake, 
 By the old Hall w hich may be mine no more. 
 Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
 The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
 Sad havoc Time must with my memory make 
 Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before; 
 Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
 Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 603 
 
 The world is all before me; I but ask 
 Of Nature that witli which she will comply — 
 It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
 To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
 To see her gentle face without a mask. 
 And never gaze on it with apathy. 
 She was my early friend, and now shall be 
 My sister — till I look again on thee. 
 
 I can reduce all feelings but this one; 
 And that I would not; — for at length I see 
 Such scenes as those wherein my life begun — 
 The earliest — even the only paths for me. 
 Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
 
 - I had been better than I now can be; 
 The passions which have torn me would have slept; 
 
 / had not suffer'd, and thon badst not wept. 
 
 With false Ambition what had I to do ? 
 Little with Love, and least of all with Fame; 
 And yet they came unsought, and with me grew. 
 And made me all which they can make — a name. 
 Yet this was not the end I did pursue; 
 Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
 But all is over — I am one the more 
 To baffled millions which have gone before. 
 
 And for the future, this world's future may 
 From me demand but little of my care ; 
 I have outlived myself by many a day, 
 Having survived so many things that were ; 
 My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
 Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share 
 Of life which might have fiU'd a century. 
 Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 
 
 And for the remnant which may be to come 
 I am content ; and for the past I feel 
 Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
 Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
 And for the present, I would not benumb 
 My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
 That with all this I still can look around 
 Vnd worship Nature with a thought profound. 
 
 For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
 I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
 We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
 Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
 It is the same, together or apart , 
 From life's commencement to its slow decline 
 We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, 
 'he tie which bound the first endures the last ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL. 
 
 ND thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee ; 
 And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near : 
 letliought tliat joy and health alone could be 
 "Where I was not — and pain and sorrow here ! 
 
 And is it thus? — it is as I foretold. 
 
 And shall be more so ; for the mind recoils 
 Upon itself, and the wrcck'd heart lies cold. 
 
 While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. 
 It is not in the storm nor in the strife 
 
 We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more, 
 
 But in the after-silence on the shore, 
 When all is lost, except a little life. 
 
 I am too well avenged ! — but 'twas my right; 
 
 Whatever my sins might be, tliou wert not sent 
 To be the Nemesis who should requite — 
 
 Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. 
 Mercy is for the merciful ! — if thou 
 Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. 
 Thy nights arc banish'd from the realms of sleep ! — 
 
 Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel 
 
 A hollow agony which will not heal, 
 For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep ; 
 Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 
 
 The bitter harvest in a woe as real ! 
 I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 
 
 For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, 
 
 And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; 
 But thou in safe implacability 
 
 Hadst nought to dread — in thy own weakness shielded^ 
 And in my love, which hath but too much yielded. 
 
 And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare — 
 And thus upon the world — trust in thy truth — 
 And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth — 
 
 On things that were not, and on things that are — 
 Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
 A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! • 
 
 The moral Clytemuestra of thy lord. 
 And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, 
 Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better life 
 
 Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, 
 Might still have risen from out the grave of strife. 
 
 And found a nobler duty than to part. 
 But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice. 
 
 Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, 
 
 For present anger, and for future gold — 
 And buying other's grief at any price. 
 And thus once enter'd into crooked ways. 
 The early truth, which was thy proper praise, 
 Did not still walk beside thee — but at times. 
 And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, 
 Deceit, averments incompatible. 
 Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 
 
 In Janus-spirits — the significant eye 
 Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 
 Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd — 
 The acquiescence in all things which tend. 
 No matter how, to the desired end — 
 
 All found a place in thy philosophy. 
 The means were worthy, and the end is won — 
 I would not do by thee as thou hast done! 
 
 September, 1816. 
 
604 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S DRIVE. 
 
 AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY. 
 
 The Devil retum'd to hell by two, 
 
 And he stay'd at home till five; 
 When he dined on some homicides done in ragout. 
 And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, 
 And sausages made of a self-slain Jew — 
 And bethought himself what next to do, 
 
 "And," quoth he, "I'll take a drive. 
 I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night; 
 In darkness my children take most delight, 
 
 And I'll see how my favourites thrive. 
 
 "And what shall I ride in?" quoth Lucifer then — 
 
 "If I follow'd my taste, indeed, 
 I should mount in a waggon of wounded men, 
 
 And smile to see them bleed. 
 But these will be furnished again and again. 
 
 And at present my purpose is speed; 
 To see my manor as much as I may. 
 And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away. 
 
 "I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 
 
 A chariot in Seymour Place; 
 But they 're lent to two friends, who make me amends 
 
 By driving my favourite pace : 
 And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
 I have something for both at the end of their race. 
 
 "So now for the earth to take my chance." 
 
 Then up to the earth sprung he; 
 And making a jump from Moscow to France, 
 
 H^stepp'd across the sea. 
 And rested his hoof on a turnpike road, 
 No very great way from a bishop's abode. 
 
 But first as he flew, I forgot to say. 
 That he hover'd a moment upon his way 
 
 To look upon Leipsic plain; 
 And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, 
 And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair. 
 
 That he perch'd on a mountain of slain; 
 And he gazed with delight from its glowing height. 
 Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, 
 
 Nor his work done half as well: 
 For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, 
 
 That it blush'd like the waves of hell! 
 Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he : 
 
 "Methinks they have here little need of me!" 
 
 But the softest note that soothed his ear 
 
 Was the sound of a widow sighing; 
 And the sweetest sight was the icy tear. 
 Which horror froze in the blue eye clear 
 
 Of a maid by her lover lying — 
 As round her fell her long fair hair ; 
 And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air, 
 Which seem'd to ask if a God were there ! 
 And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut. 
 With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut. 
 
 A child of famine dying : 
 And the carnage begun, when resistance is done, 
 And the fall of the vainly flying! 
 
 ili :li * * * * 
 
 But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white, 
 
 And what did he there, I pray? 
 If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 
 
 What we see every day: 
 But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
 Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal. 
 And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, 
 Who bid pretty well — but they cheated him, though ! 
 
 The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, 
 
 Its coachman and his coat ; 
 So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail. 
 
 And seized him by the throat: 
 "Aha!" quoth he, "what have we here? 
 'Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer !" 
 So he sat him on his box again, 
 
 And bade him have no fear. 
 But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein. 
 
 His brothel, and his beer; 
 "Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 
 
 I would rather see him here." 
 
 ****** 
 The Devil gat next to Westminster, 
 
 And he turn'd to "the room" of the Commons ; 
 But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, 
 
 That "the Lords" had received a summons ; 
 And he thought, as a "quondam aristocrat," 
 He might peep at the peers, though to hearthem were flat 
 And he walk'd up the house so like ouc of our own. 
 That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 
 
 He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise. 
 The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, 
 And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of some size — 
 
 And Chatham, so like his friend Billy ; 
 And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, 
 Because the Catholics would not rise. 
 In spite of his prayers and his prophecies; 
 And he heard — which set Satan himself a staring — 
 A certain Chief Justice say something like swearing. 
 And the Devil was shock'd — and quoth he, "I must go, 
 For I find we have much better manners below : 
 If thus he harangues when he passes my border, 
 I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order." 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING 
 
 "'SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAK.'" 
 
 Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt : 
 A devilish deal more sad than Avitty ! 
 
 Why we should weep I can't find out. 
 Unless for thee we weep in pity. 
 
 Yet there is one I pity more; 
 
 And much, alas! I think he needs it : 
 For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, 
 
 Who, to his own misfortune, reads it 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 605 
 
 Tliy rliymes, without the aid of magic, 
 May once be read — but never after : 
 
 Yet tlieir effect 's by no means tragic, 
 Altliough by far too dull for laugliter. 
 
 But would you make our bosoms bleed, 
 And of no common pang complain — 
 
 If you would make us weep indeed. 
 Tell us, you 'U read them o'er again. 
 
 March 8, 1807. 
 
 ON FINDING A FAN. 
 In one who felt as once he felt, 
 
 Tliis might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; 
 But now his heart no more will melt. 
 
 Because that heart is not the same. 
 
 As when the ebbing flames are low, 
 
 The aid which once improved their light, 
 
 And bade them burn with fieVcer glow. 
 Now quenches all their blaze in night, — 
 
 Thus has it been with passion's fires — 
 As many a boy and girl remembers — 
 
 While every hope of love expires, 
 Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 
 
 The/irst, though not a spark survive, 
 Some careful hand may teach to burn; 
 
 The last, alas ! can ne'er survive ; 
 No touch can bid its warmth return. 
 
 Or, if it chance to wake again. 
 
 Not always doom'd its heat to smother, 
 It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 
 
 Its former warmth around another. 
 
 1807. 
 
 ON REVISITING HARROW. 
 
 Here once engaged the stranger's view 
 Young Friendship's record, simply traced; 
 
 Few were her words, — but yet, though few. 
 Resentment's hand the line defaced. 
 
 Deeply she cut — but not erased; 
 
 The characters were still so plain. 
 That Friendship once return'd, and gazed, — 
 
 Till Memory hail'd the words again. 
 
 Repentance placed them as before; 
 
 Forgiveness join'd her gentle name; 
 So fair the inscription seem'd once more. 
 
 That Friendship thought it still the same. 
 
 Thus might the record now have been ; 
 
 But, ah! in spite of Hope's endeavour, 
 Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, 
 
 And blotted out the line for ever ! 
 
 September, 1807. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name. 
 There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame: 
 But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart 
 The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of lieart. 
 
 Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace [cease ? 
 Were those hours — can their joy or their bitterness 
 We repent — we abjure — we willbrcak from our chain, — 
 We will part, — we will fly to — unite it again ! 
 
 Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! 
 Forgive me, adored one ! forsake, if thou wilt; — 
 But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, 
 And man shall not break it — whatever thou mayst. 
 
 And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee. 
 
 This soul, in its bitterest blackness, sliall be: 
 
 And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet, 
 
 With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 
 
 One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, 
 Shall turn me or fix me, shall reward or reprove ; 
 And the heartless may wonder at all I resign — • 
 Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 
 
 May, I8I4. 
 
 ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT THE 
 CALEDONIAN MEETING. 
 
 Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame 
 Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name ; 
 The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain. 
 And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane; 
 Whose bright claymore and liardihood of hand 
 No foe could tame — no tyrant could command? 
 That race is gone — but still their children breathe, 
 * And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : 
 O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine. 
 And, England ! add their stubborn strength to thine. 
 The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free, 
 But now't is only shed for fame and thee! 
 Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, 
 But give support — the world hath given him fame ! 
 
 The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
 While cheerly following where the mighty led — 
 Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
 Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, 
 To us bequeath — 'tis all their fate allows — 
 The sireless ofiispring and the lonely spouse: 
 She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
 The tearful eye in melancholy gaze, 
 Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
 The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
 The bleeding phantom of each martial form 
 Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
 While sad, she cliants the solitary song, 
 The soft lament for him who tarries long — 
 For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
 The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave! 
 
606 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POE.AIS. 
 
 'Tis Heaven — not man — must charm away the woe 
 
 Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow ; 
 
 Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
 
 Of half its bitterness for one so dear; 
 
 A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 
 
 A thornless pillow for the widow'd head; 
 
 May lighten well her heart's maternal care, 
 
 And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 
 
 May, 1814. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS 
 MOOKE. 
 
 "What say IV' — not a syllable further in prose; 
 I'm your man "of all measures," dear Tom, — so here 
 Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, [goes ! 
 On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. 
 If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood, 
 We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, 
 Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, 
 And Soiithey's last Paean has pillow'd his sleep ; — 
 That "Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey, 
 Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea. 
 Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza, [saw. 
 The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never man 
 
 The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, 
 The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes, — 
 Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman, — 
 And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man. 
 I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — 
 For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty. 
 You know, we are used to quite different graces. 
 
 The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker, 
 
 But then he is sadly deficient in whisker; 
 
 And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey- 
 
 -mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the Jersey, 
 
 Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
 
 With majesty's presence as those she invited. 
 
 Juue, 1814. 
 
 CONDOLATORY ADDRESS TO SARAH, COUNT- 
 ESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S 
 RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS. MEE. 
 
 When the vain triumph of the imperial lord. 
 Whom servile Rome obcy'd, and yet abhorr'd, 
 Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
 That left a likeness of the brave, or just-; 
 What most admired each scrutinising eye 
 Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry? 
 What spread from face to face that wondering air ? 
 The thought of Brutus — for his was not there ! 
 That absence proved his worth, — that absence fix'd 
 His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd ; 
 And more decreed his glory to endure, 
 Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 
 
 If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
 Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
 Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness, 
 Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less ; 
 If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
 Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits, 
 If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart. 
 Could with thy gentle image bear depart ; 
 That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief, 
 To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
 Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, 
 We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 
 
 What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? 
 A garden with all flowers — except the rose ; — 
 A fount that only wants its living stream ; 
 A night, with every star, save Dian's beam. 
 Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be. 
 That turn from tracing them to dream of thee; 
 And more on that recall'd resemblance pause. 
 Than all he shall not force on our applause. 
 
 Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine. 
 With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine: 
 The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien — 
 The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 
 The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, 
 Which shades, yet shows that forehead, more than fair 
 Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
 A spell which will not let our looks repose. 
 But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
 Some charm that well rewards another view. 
 These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright, 
 Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight; 
 And those must wait till every charm is gone, 
 To please the paltry heart that pleases none ; — 
 That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
 In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ; 
 Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
 Its hate oi Freedom's lovelinesss, and thine. 
 
 August, I8I4. 
 
 TO BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 Belshazzar! from the banquet turn, 
 
 Nor in thy sensual fulness fall; 
 Behold! while yet before thee burn 
 
 The graven words, the glowing wall. 
 Many a despot men miscall 
 
 Crown'd and anointed from on high; 
 But thou, the Aveakest, worst of all — 
 
 Is it not written, thou must die? 
 
 Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 
 
 Gray hairs but poorly wreathe witli them ; 
 Youth's garlands misbecome thee now. 
 
 More than thy very diadem, 
 Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem: — 
 
 Then throw the worthless bauble by. 
 Which, worn by thee, even slaves contemn ; 
 
 And learn like better men to die ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 607 
 
 oil! early in the balance weigh'd, 
 
 And ever light of word and worth, 
 Whose soul expired ere youth decay 'd, 
 
 And left thee but a mass of earth. 
 To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 
 
 But tears in Hope's averted eye 
 Lament that even thou hadst birth — 
 
 Unfit to govern, live, or die. 
 
 ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA. 
 
 Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure, 
 Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure, 
 From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes, 
 Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes. 
 
 MarcU 27, 1815. 
 
 ENDORSEMENT TO THE DEED OF SEPA- 
 RATION, IN THE APRIL OF 1816. 
 
 A YEAR ago you swore, fond she! 
 
 "To love, to honour," and so forth: 
 Such was the vow you pledged to me, 
 
 And liere 's exactly what 't is worth. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Could I remount the river of my years 
 
 To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 
 
 I would not trace again the stream of hours 
 
 Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers. 
 
 But bid it flow as now — until it glides 
 
 Into the number of the nameless tides. 
 
 ***** 
 What is this Deatli? — a quiet of the heart? 
 The whole of that of which we are a part ? 
 Per life is but a vision — what I see 
 3f all which lives alone is life to me, 
 l^nd being so — the absent are the dead, 
 irVlio haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
 ^ dreary shroud around us, and invest 
 iVith sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 
 
 j The absent are the dead — for they are cold, 
 
 llind ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
 
 ind they are changed, and cheerless, — or if yet 
 
 The unforgotten do not all forget, 
 
 Jince thus divided — equal must it be 
 
 f the deep barrier be of earth, or sea; 
 
 t may be both — but one day end it must 
 
 n the dark union of insensate dust. 
 
 The under-earth inhabitants — are they 
 Jat mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 
 •'he ashes of a thousand ages spread 
 Vherever man has trodden or shall tread? 
 >r do they in tlieir silent cities dwell 
 !ach in his incommunicative cell ? 
 
 Or have they their own language? and a sense 
 
 Of breathless being? — darken'd and intense 
 
 As midnight in her solitude ? O Earth ! 
 
 Wliere are the past? — and wherefore had llicy birtli? 
 
 The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
 
 But bubbles on thy surface; and the key 
 
 Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
 
 The ebon portal of thy peopled cave. 
 
 Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
 
 Our elements resolved to things untold, 
 
 And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
 
 The essence of great bosoms now no more. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Diodati, July, 1816. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 They say that Hope is happiness ; 
 
 But genuine Love must prize the past. 
 And Memory wakes the tlioughts that bless: 
 
 They rose tlie first — they set the last : 
 
 And al' that Memory loves the most 
 Was once our only Hope to be. 
 
 And all that Hope adored and lost 
 Hath melted into Memory. 
 
 Alas ! it is delusion ali : 
 
 The future cheats us from afar. 
 Nor can we be what we recall, 
 
 Nor dare we think on what we are. 
 
 SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. 
 
 As the Liberty lads o'er the sea 
 Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood. 
 So we, boys, we 
 Will die fighting, or live free. 
 And down with all kings but King Ludd ! 
 
 When the web that we weave is complete. 
 And the shuttle exchanged for the sword. 
 
 We will fling the winding sheet 
 
 O'er the despot at our feet. 
 And die it deep in the gore he has pour'd. 
 
 Though black as his heart its hue. 
 Since his veins are corrupted to mud. 
 
 Yet this is the dew 
 
 Which the tree shall renew 
 Of Liberty, planted by Ludd! 
 
 SO, WE 'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING. 
 
 So well '11 go no more a roving 
 
 So late into tlie night. 
 Though the heart be still as loving, 
 
 And the moon be still as bright. 
 
608 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 For tlie sword outwears its slieatli, 
 And the soul wears out the breast, 
 
 And the heart must pause to breathe. 
 And love itself have rest. 
 
 Though the night was made for loving, 
 And the day returns too soon. 
 
 Yet we 'U go no more a roving 
 By the light of the moon. 
 
 ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. 
 
 In this beloved marble view. 
 
 Above the works and thoughts of man, 
 What Nature could, but would not, do. 
 
 And Beauty and Canova can! 
 Beyond imagination's power. 
 
 Beyond the Bard's defeated art, 
 With immortality her dower, 
 
 Behold the Helen of the heart! 
 
 VERSICLES. 
 
 I READ the "Christabelj" 
 
 Very well : 
 I read the "Missionary ;" 
 
 Pretty — very : 
 I tried at "Ilderim ;" 
 
 Ahem! 
 I read a sheet of "Marg'ret of Anjouf 
 
 Can you ? 
 I turn'd a page of Scott's "Waterloo :" 
 
 Pooh ! pooh ! 
 I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white "Rylstone Doe j" 
 
 Hillo! 
 Etc. etc. etc. 
 
 TO Mr. MURRAY. 
 
 To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 
 Have publish'd "Anjou's Margaret," 
 
 Which won't be sold ofl" in a hurry 
 (At least, it has not been as yet) ; 
 
 And then, still further to bewilder 'em, 
 
 Without remorse you set up "Ilderim ;" 
 So mind you don't get into debt. 
 
 Because as how, if you should fail. 
 
 These books would be but baddish bail. 
 
 And mind you do not let escape 
 
 These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, 
 Which would be very treacherous — very, 
 
 And get me into such a scrape ! 
 For, firstly, I should have to sally, 
 All in my little boat against a Galley; 
 And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight. 
 Have next to combat with the female knight. 
 
 March 25, 1817. 
 
 EPISTLE FROM Mr. MURRAY TO Dr. POLIDOR 
 
 Dear Doctor, I have read your play, 
 Which is a good one in its way, — 
 Purges the eyes and moves the bowels. 
 And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
 With tears, that, in a flux of grief, 
 Afford hysterical relief 
 To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 
 Which your catastrophe convulses. 
 
 I like your moral and machinery ; 
 Your plot too, has such scope for scenery ; 
 Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
 The play's concoction full of art; 
 Your hero raves, your heroine cries. 
 All stab, and every body dies. 
 In short, your tragedy would be 
 The very thing to hear and see: 
 And for a piece of publication, 
 If I decline on this occasion, 
 It is not that I am not sensible 
 To merits in themselves ostensible. 
 But,— and I grieve to speak it — plays 
 Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a-days. 
 I had a heavy loss by "Manuel," — 
 Too lucky if it prove not annual, — 
 And Sotheby, with his "Orestes," 
 (Which, by the by, the author's best is,) 
 Has lain so very long on hand 
 That I despair of all demand. 
 I've advertised; but see my books, 
 Or only watch my shopman's looks; — 
 Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber. 
 My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 
 
 There's Byron too, who once did better, 
 Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
 A sort of — it's no more a drama 
 Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama; 
 So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
 I think he's lost his wits at Venice. 
 In short, sir, what with one and t'other, 
 I dare not venture on another. 
 I write in haste ; excuse each blunder ; 
 The coaches through the street so thunder ! 
 My room's so full — we've Gifford here 
 Reading MS., with Hookham Frere, 
 Pronouncing on the nouns and particles 
 Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 
 
 The Quarterly — Ah, sir, if you 
 Had but the genius to review ! — 
 A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
 Or if you only would but tell in a 
 Short compass what — but, to resume : 
 As I was saying, sir, the room — 
 The room's so full of wits and bards ; 
 Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, 
 And others, neither bards nor wits: — 
 My humble tenement admits 
 All persons in the dress of gent., 
 From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 609 
 
 A party dines witli me to-day ; 
 All clever men, who make their way; 
 Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
 Are all partakers of my pantry. 
 They're at this moment in discussion 
 On poor De Sta'el's late dissolution. 
 Her book, they say, was in advance — 
 Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France! 
 Thus run our time and tongues away, — 
 But, to return, sir, to your play: 
 Sorry, sir, but I can not deal, 
 Unless't were acted by O'Neill. 
 My hands so full, my head so busy, 
 I'm almost dead, and always dizzy ; 
 And so, with endless truth and hurry. 
 Dear Doctor, I am yours, 
 
 John Murray. 
 
 EPISTLE TO Mr. MURRAY. 
 
 My dear Mr. Murray, 
 (You're in a damn'd hurry 
 ; To set up this ultimate Canto ; 
 iBut (if they don't rob us) 
 You'll see Mr. Hobhouse 
 Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 
 
 For the Journal you hint of, 
 
 jAs ready to print off, 
 
 Ij No doubt you do right to commend it ; 
 
 ;But as yet I have writ off 
 
 iThe devil a bit of 
 
 j Our "Beppo :" — when copied, I'll send it. 
 
 Then you've ***'s Tour, — 
 No great things, to be sure, — 
 
 You could liardly begin with a less work ; 
 For the pompous rascallion. 
 Who don't speak Italian 
 
 Nor French, must have scribbled by guess-work. 
 
 fou can make any loss up 
 With "Spence" and his gossip, 
 
 A work which must surely succeed; 
 Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft, 
 With the new "Fytte" of "Wliistlecraft," 
 
 Must make people purchase and read. 
 
 Then you've General Gordon, 
 Who girded his sword on 
 
 To serve with a Muscovite master, 
 ^nd help him to polish 
 V nation so owlish. 
 
 They thought shaving their beards a disaster. 
 
 ?or the man, "poor and shrewd," 
 With whom you'd conclude 
 
 A compact without more delay, 
 Pcrliaps some such pen is 
 still extant in Venice; 
 
 But please, sir, to mention your pay. 
 
 Venice, Jauuary 8, 1818. 
 
 TO Mr. MURRAY. 
 
 Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 
 Patron and publisher of rhymes. 
 For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
 My Murray. 
 
 To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
 The unfledged MS. authors come; 
 Thou printest all — and sellest some - 
 My Murray. 
 
 Upon thy table's baize so green 
 The last new Quarterly is seen, — 
 But where is thy new Magazine, 
 My Murray ? 
 
 Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine 
 The works thou deemest most divine - 
 The "Art of Cookery," and mine. 
 My Murray. 
 
 Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist. 
 And Sermons to thy mil! bring grist ; 
 And then thou hast the "Navy List," 
 My Murray. 
 
 And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
 Without "the Board of Longitude," 
 Although this narrow paper would, 
 My Murray ! 
 
 Venice, March 25, 1818. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 What are you doing now. 
 
 Oil Thomas Moore ? 
 What are you doing now, 
 
 Oh Thomas Moore? 
 Sighing or suing now, 
 Rhyming or wooing now, 
 Billing or cooing now, 
 Which, Tliomas Moore? 
 
 But the Carnival's coming. 
 
 Oh Thomas Moore ! 
 Tlie Carnival's coming, 
 
 Oh Thomas Moore ! 
 Masking and humming, 
 Fifing and drumming, 
 Guitarring and strumming, 
 
 Oh Thomas Moore! 
 
 EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. 
 
 With death doom'd to grapple, 
 
 BeneatJj tiiis cold slab, he 
 Who lied in the Chapel 
 
 Now lies in the Abbey. 
 
 .39 
 
610 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 
 
 ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALDS 
 FORFKITUKE. 
 
 To be the father of the fatiierless, 
 
 To stretch tliehand from the tlirone's height, and raise 
 
 His oft'spring, who expired in otl)cr days 
 To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, — 
 This is to be a monarcli, and repress 
 
 Envy into unutterable praise. 
 
 Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, 
 For w iio would lift a hand, except to bless? 
 
 Were it not easy, sir, and is't not sweet 
 
 To make thyself beloved ? and to be 
 Omnipotent by mercy's means 1 for thus 
 
 Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete, 
 A despot thou, and yet thy people free, 
 
 And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 
 
 Bologna, August 12, I8I9. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIERE&. 
 
 If, for silver or for gold, 
 
 You could melt ten thousand pimples 
 
 Into half a dozen dimples, 
 Then your face we might behold. 
 
 Looking, doubtless, much more snugly ; 
 
 Yet even then 't would be d d ugly. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 The world is a bundle of hay, 
 Mankind are tlie asses who pull; 
 
 Each tugs it a different way. 
 
 And the greatest of all is John Bull. 
 
 ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO 
 HOPPNER. 
 
 His father's sense, his mother'.s grace, 
 
 In him, 1 hope, will always fit so; 
 With — still to keep him in good case, — 
 
 The health and appetite of Rizzo. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 ON MY WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 Here's a happy new year! but with reason 
 I beg you '11 permit me to say - 
 
 Wish me many returns of the season. 
 But as/<?«; as you please of the dai/. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 In digging up your bones, Tom Paine, 
 Will. Cobbett has done welt: 
 
 You visit him on earth again, 
 He '11 visit you in hell. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home. 
 Let him combat for that of his neighbours; 
 
 Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, 
 And get knock'd on the head for his labours. 
 
 To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan. 
 
 And is always as nobly requited; 
 Then battle for freedom wherever you can, 
 
 And, if not shot or hang'd, you'H get knighted. 
 
 Could Love for ever 
 Run like a river. 
 And Time's endeavour 
 
 Be tried in vain — 
 No other pleasure 
 With this could measure ; 
 And like a treasure 
 
 We 'd hug the chain. 
 But since our sigliing 
 Ends not in dying. 
 And, form'd for flying. 
 
 Love plumes his wing; 
 Then for tliis reason 
 Let's love a season ; 
 But let that season be only Spring, 
 
 When lovers parted 
 Feel broken-hearted, 
 And, all hopes thwarted, 
 
 Expect to die: 
 A few years older. 
 Ah! how much colder 
 They might behold her 
 
 For whom they sigh ! 
 When link'd together. 
 In every weather. 
 They pluck Love's feather 
 
 From out his wing — 
 He '11 stay for ever. 
 But sadly shiver 
 Without his plumage, when past ihc Spring. 
 
 Like Chiefs of Faction, 
 His life is action — 
 A formal paction 
 
 That curbs his reign, 
 Obscures his glory, 
 Despot no more, he 
 Such territory 
 
 Quits witli disdain. 
 Still, still advancing. 
 With banners glancing. 
 His power enhancing, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 611 
 
 He must move on — 
 Repose but cloj's him, 
 Retreat destroys him. 
 Love brooks not a degraded throne. 
 
 Wait not, fond lover ! 
 Till years are over. 
 And tlien recover, 
 
 As from a dream. 
 While each bewailing 
 The other's failing, 
 With wrath and railing. 
 
 All hideous seem — 
 While first decreasing. 
 Yet not quite ceasing. 
 Wait not till teasing 
 All passion blight : 
 If once diminish'd, 
 Love's reign is finish'd — 
 Then part in friendsliip, — and bid good-niglit. 
 
 So shall Affection 
 To recollection 
 The dear connection 
 
 Bring back with joy : 
 You had not waited 
 Till, tired or hated, 
 Your passions sated 
 
 Began to cloy. 
 Your last embraces 
 Leave no cold traces — 
 The same fond faces 
 
 As through the past; 
 And eyes, the mirrors 
 Of your sweet errors. 
 Reflect but rapture — not least though last. 
 
 True, separations 
 
 Ask more than patience; 
 
 What desperations 
 
 From sucli have risen! 
 But yet remaining. 
 What is 't but chaining 
 Hearts which, once waning, 
 
 Beat 'gainst their prison? 
 Time can but cloy love. 
 And use destroy love: 
 The winged boy, Love, 
 
 Is but for boys — 
 You '11 find it torture. 
 Though sharper, shorter, 
 To wean, and not wear out your joys. 
 
 THE CHARITY BALL. 
 
 }Vmat matter the pangs of a husband and father, 
 If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, 
 
 the Pharisee's glories around her she gather, 
 And the saint patronizes her "charity ball!" 
 
 What matters — a heart which, thougii faulty, was feeling, 
 Be driven to excesses which once could appal — 
 
 That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, 
 As the saint keeps her charity back for "the ball ! " 
 
 EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 TO PENELOPE. 
 
 This day, of all our days, has done 
 
 The worst for me and you: — 
 'T is just six years since we were one, 
 1 And five since we were two. 
 
 January 'i, 1 82 1. 
 
 ON MY THIRTY -THIRD BIRTH -DAY. 
 
 January 22, 1821. 
 
 Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty, 
 I have dragg'd to three and thirty. 
 What have these years left to me ? 
 Nothing — except thirty - three. 
 
 EPIGRAM, 
 
 ON THE BRASIERS' COMPANY HAVING RESOLVED TO 
 PRESENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE. 
 
 The brasicrs, it seems, are preparing to pass 
 An address, and present it themselves all in brass; — 
 A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord Harry ! [carry 
 They'll find where they're going much more than they 
 
 TO Mr. MURRAY. 
 
 For Orford and for Waldegrave 
 You give much more than me you gave; 
 Which is not fairly to behave. 
 My Murray. 
 
 Because if a live dog, 't is said, 
 Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
 A live lord must be worth two dead, 
 ;My Murray. 
 
 And if, as the opinion goes, 
 Verse hath a better sale than prose — 
 Certes, I should have more than those, 
 My Murray. 
 
 But now tliis sheet is nearly cramm'd. 
 So, ift/ou will, Z^ shan't be shamm'd, 
 And if you won'tf you may be damn'd, 
 My Murray. 
 
 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 Oh, Ca.stlereagh ! thou art a patriot now; 
 Cato died for his countrj^ so didst thou: 
 He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved. 
 Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be saved ! 
 
612 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 So Castlereagh has cut his tliroat ! — The worst 
 Of this is, — that liis own was not the first 
 
 So He has cut his throat at last ! — He ! Who ? 
 The man who cut his country's long ago. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 PosTERiTV will ne'er survey 
 A nobler grave than this : 
 
 Here lie the bones of Castlereagh : 
 Stop, traveller 
 
 STANZAS: 
 
 TO A HINDOO AIR. 
 
 Oh ! — my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
 Where is my lover? where is my lover? 
 Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover ? 
 Far — far away! and alone along the billow? 
 
 Oh! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
 Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay ? 
 How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, 
 And my head droops over thee like the willow. — 
 
 Oh ! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! 
 Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking 
 In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking; 
 Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. — 
 
 Then if thou wilt — no more my lonely Pillow, 
 In one embrace let these arms again enfold him. 
 And then expire of the joy — but to behold him! 
 Oh! ray lone bosom! — oh! my lonely Pillow ! 
 
 THE CONQUEST. 
 
 March 8 — 9, 1823. 
 
 The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing; 
 
 Him who bade England bow to Normandy, 
 And left the name of conqueror more than king 
 
 To his unconquerable dynasty. 
 Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing, 
 
 He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high: 
 The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast, 
 And Britain's bravest victor was the last. 
 
 ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
 SIXTH YEAR. 
 
 Missoloiighi, Jan. 22, 1824. 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
 
 Since others it liath ceased to move; 
 Yet, thougli I cannot be beloved, 
 Still let me love! 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf; 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief, 
 Are mine alone! 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
 
 A funeral pile ! 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jeaJous care, 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 And power of love, I cannot share, 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 
 
 Such thoughts should shake mj soul, nor notv.. 
 Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field. 
 Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
 The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake!) 
 
 Awake, my spirit! Think through whom 
 Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
 And then strike home! 
 
 Tread those reviving passions down, 
 Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live ? 
 
 The land of honourable death 
 Is here: — up to the field, and give 
 Away thy breath ! 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than found — 
 
 A soldier's grave, for thee tlie best ; 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
 And take thy rest. 
 
 TO JESSY. 
 
 The following Stanzas were addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady, : 
 months before their separation. 
 
 There is a mystic tliread of life 
 
 So dearly wreathed with mine alone, 
 
 That destiny 's relentless knife 
 At once must sever both or none. 
 
 There is a form, on which these eyes 
 Have often gazed with fond delight — 
 
 By day that form their joy supplies, 
 
 And dreams restore it through the night. 
 
 There is a voice, whose tones inspire 
 
 Sucii thrills of rapture tli rough my breast - 
 
 I would not hear a seraph-choir. 
 
 Unless that voice could join the rest. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 613 
 
 There is ^face, whose blushes tell 
 Afl'ection's tale upon the cheek — 
 
 But pallid at oue fond farewell, 
 
 Proelaims more love than words can speak. 
 
 There is a Up, which mine hath prest, 
 
 And none liad ever prest before, 
 It vow'd to make me sweetly blest, 
 
 And mine -mine only, prest it more. 
 
 There is a bosom — all my own- 
 Hath pillow'd oft this aching head; 
 
 A mouth which smiles on me alone, 
 An eye, whose tears with mine are shed. 
 
 There are two hearts, whose movements thrill 
 
 In unison so closely sweet, 
 That, pulse to pulse responsive still. 
 
 They both must heave — or cease to beat. 
 
 There are two souls, whose equal flow 
 In gentle streams so calmly run. 
 
 That when they patt— they part! — ah, no! 
 They cannot part — those souls are one. 
 
 i 
 
 LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO LADY BLESSINGTOK 
 You have asked for a verse— the request 
 
 Li a rhymer 't were strange to deny; 
 But my Hippocrene was but my breast, 
 
 And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 
 
 Were I now as I was, I had sung 
 
 What Lawrence had pencill'd so well ; 
 
 But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
 And the theme is too soft for my shell. 
 
 I am ashes where once I was fire, 
 And the bard in my bosom is dead; 
 
 Wliat I loved I now merely admire, 
 And my heart is as grey as my head. 
 
 My life is not dated by years; 
 
 There are moments which act as a plough; 
 And there is not a furrow appears 
 
 But is deep in my soul as my brow. 
 
 Let the young and the brilliant aspire 
 To sing while I gaze on in vain; 
 
 For sorrow has torn from my lyre 
 
 The string which was worthy the strain. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 .'POUND IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT CHAMOUNI. 
 
 3ow many number'd are, how few agreed, 
 
 11 age, or clime, or character, or creed ! 
 
 lere wandering genius leaves a deathless name, 
 
 ^nd Folly writes— for others do the same. 
 
 talian treachery, and English pride, 
 
 ^utch craft, and German dulness, side by side ! 
 
 The hardy Russian hails congenial snow ; 
 The Spaniard shivers as these breezes blow. 
 Knew men the objects of this varied crew. 
 To stare how many, and to feel how few ! 
 Here Nature's child, ecstatic from her school ; 
 And travelling problems, that admire by rule. 
 The timorous poet woos his modest muse, 
 And thanks his stars he 's safe from all reviews. 
 The pedant drags from out his motley store 
 A line some hundred hills have heard before. 
 Here critics too (for where 's the happy spot 
 So blest by nature as to have them not?) 
 Spit their vile slander o'er some simple phrase 
 Of foolish wonder or of honest praise; 
 Some pompous hint, some comment on mine host, 
 Some direful failure, or some empty boast. 
 Not blacker spleen could fill these furious men, 
 If Jeffrey's soul had perch'd on Giflord's pen. 
 Here envy, hatred, and the fool of fame, 
 Join'd in one act of wonder when they came : 
 Here beauty's worshipper in fiesh or rock. 
 The incarnate fancy, or the breathing block, 
 Sees the white giant in his robe of light. 
 Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height ; 
 And stops, while hastening to the blest remains 
 And calmer beauties of the classic plains. 
 And here, whom hope beguiling bids to seek 
 Ease for his breast, and colour for his cheek. 
 Still steals a moment from Ausonia's sky. 
 And views and wonders on his way to die. 
 
 But he, the author of these idle lines. 
 What passion leads him, and what tie confines? 
 For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms 
 What joy elates him, and what grief consumes? 
 Impassion'd, senseless, vigorous, or old, 
 What matters ?— bootless were his story told. 
 Some praise at least one act of sense may claim; 
 He wrote these verses, but he hid his name. 
 
 ENIGMA 
 
 ON THE LETTER H. 
 
 'T WAS whisper'd in heaven, 't was mutter'd in hell, 
 
 And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell : 
 
 On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest. 
 
 And the depths of the ocean its presence confest. 
 
 'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder. 
 
 Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. 
 
 'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath. 
 
 Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death ; 
 
 It presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, 
 
 Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth: 
 
 Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam. 
 
 But woe to the wretch w ho expels it from home. 
 
 In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, 
 
 Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drown'd : 
 
 'T will not soften the heart, and, though deaf to the ear, 
 
 'T will make it acutely and instantly hear. 
 
 But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower — 
 
 Oh ! breathe on it softly —it dies in an liour. 
 
614 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 ENIGMA 
 
 ON THE LETTER I, WRITTEN IN A LADY'S SCRAP-BOOK. 
 I AM not in youth, nor in manhood, nor age, 
 
 But in infancy ever am known ; 
 I'm a stranger alike to the fool and the sage, 
 And tho' I'm distinguish'd in history'^s page, 
 
 I always am greatest alone. 
 
 I am not in earth, nor the sun, nor the moon. 
 
 You may search all the sky — I 'm not there; 
 In the morning and evening — tho' not in the noon. 
 You may plainly perceive me— for like a balloon 
 I am midway suspended in air. 
 
 I am always in riches, and yet I am told 
 
 "Wealth ne'er did my presence desire; 
 I dwell with the miser, but not with his gold. 
 And sometimes I stand in his chimney so cold, 
 
 Tho' I serve as a part of the fire. 
 
 I often am met in political life — 
 
 In my absence no kingdom can be; 
 And they say there can neither be friendship nor strife. 
 No one can live single, no one take a wife, 
 
 Without interfering with me. 
 
 My brethren are many, and of my whole race 
 
 Not one is more slender and tall; 
 And tho' not the eldest I hold the first plac«, 
 And even in dishonour, despair, and disgrace, 
 
 I boldly appear 'mong them all. 
 
 Tho' disease may possess me, and sickness and pain, 
 
 I am never in sorrow or gloom ; 
 Tho' in wit and in wisdom I equally reign, 
 I 'm the heart of all sin, and have long lived in vain, 
 
 Yet I ne'er shall be found in the tomb. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKERESS. 
 Sweet Girl ! though only once we met. 
 That meeting I shall ne'er forget; 
 And though we ne'er may meet again, 
 Remembrance will thy form retain ; 
 I would not say "I love," but still 
 My senses struggle with my will; 
 In vain to drive thee from my breast. 
 My thoughts are more and more repressed; 
 In vain I check the rising sighs, 
 Another to tlic last replies : 
 Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
 Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 
 What though we never silence broke. 
 Our eyes in sweeter language spoke. 
 The tongue in flattering language deals, 
 And tells a tale it never feels; 
 Deceit the guilty lips impart. 
 And hush the mandates of the heart; 
 But souls' interpreters, the eyes, 
 Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 
 
 As thus our glances oft conversed, 
 
 And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 
 
 No spirit from within reproved us. 
 
 Say rather 't was the spirit moved us— 
 
 Though what they utter'd I repress. 
 
 Yet I conceive thou 'It partly guess ; 
 
 For as on thee my memory ponders, 
 
 Perchance to me thine also wanders. 
 
 Thus for myself at least I'll say, 
 
 Thy form appears through night, through day ; 
 
 Awake, with it my fancy teems, — 
 
 In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams, — 
 
 The vision charms the hours away, 
 
 And bids me curse Aurora's ray 
 
 For breaking .slumbers of delight, 
 
 Which makes me wish for endless night, 
 
 Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 
 
 Shall joy or woe my steps await, 
 
 Tempted by love, by storms beset, 
 
 Thine image I can ne'er forget. 
 
 Alas ! again no more we meet. 
 
 No more our former looks repeat ; 
 
 Then let me breathe this parting prayer. 
 
 The dictates of my bosom's care : 
 
 "May Heaven so guard my lovely Quaker 
 
 That anguish never may o'ertake her. 
 
 But blessed be aye her heart's partaker. 
 
 Oh may the happy mortal, fated 
 
 To be by nearest ties related, 
 
 For her each hour new joys discover. 
 
 And lose the husband in the lover. 
 
 May that fair bosom never know 
 
 What 'tis to feel the restless woe 
 
 Which stings the soul with vain regret 
 
 Of him, — who never can forget." 
 
 LINES, 
 
 INTENDED AS AN OPENING TO THE "SIEGE OF CORINTH 
 
 In the year since Jesus died for men. 
 
 Eighteen hundred years and ten, 
 
 We were a gallant company. 
 
 Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 
 
 Oh ! but we went merrily ! 
 
 We forded the river, and clomb the high hill, 
 
 Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 
 
 Whether we lay in the cave or the shed. 
 
 Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed; 
 
 W^hether we couch'd in our rough capote, 
 
 On the rougher plank of our gliding boat. 
 
 Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread 
 
 As a pillow beneath the resting head. 
 
 Fresh we woke upon the morrow ; 
 
 All our thoughts and words had scope, 
 
 We had health, and we had hope, 
 Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
 We were of all tongues and creeds; — 
 Some were those who counted'beads, 
 Some of mosque, and some of church, 
 
 And some, or I mis-saj^, of neither; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 615 
 
 Yet through the wide world might ye search 
 Nor find a motlier crew nor blither. 
 
 But some are dead, and some are gone, 
 And some are scatter'd and alone, 
 And some are rebels on the hills 
 
 That look along Epirus' valleys, 
 
 Where Freedom still at moments rallies, 
 Anfl pays, in blood Oppression's ills ; 
 
 And some are in a far countree, 
 And some all restlessly at home; 
 
 But never more, oh ! never, we 
 Shall meet to revel and to roam. 
 
 But those hardy days flew cheerily, 
 
 And when they now fall drearily. 
 
 My thoughts, like swallows, skim tlie main, 
 
 And bear my spirit back again 
 
 Over the earth, and through the air, 
 
 A wild bird, and a wanderer. 
 
 'Tis this that ever wakes my strain, 
 
 And oft, too oft, implores again 
 
 The few who may endure my lay. 
 
 To follow me so far away. 
 
 Stranger — wilt thou follow now, 
 
 And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow ? 
 
 SONNET TO SAMUEL ROGERS, Esq. 
 loGERs! much honoured, howsoe'er assail'd 
 By wanton ignorance or ribald mirth, 
 liy dwelling as a temple has been hail'd 
 Sacred to art, to genius, and to worth, 
 hyself the high priest. Star and coronet 
 Are mated there with blushing merit; there 
 he frost-nipp'd bud of talents oft hath met 
 The warmth that nursed it till its fruit it bare, 
 one more than thou have true desert extoli'd. 
 None more than thou have scorn'd the heartless proud- 
 bw many sufferers hast thou consoled 
 All silently ! Nor need they speak aloud, 
 I hopes to shame the wretch condemn'd to carve 
 ood for foul stomachs, or himself to starve. 
 
 ON SAM ROGEIiS. 
 
 QUESTION and ANSWER. 
 
 Question. 
 
 Nose and chin would shame a knocker, 
 Wrinkles that wouid puzzle Cocker ; 
 Mouth which marks the envious scorner, 
 With a scorpion in each corner, 
 Turning its quick tail to sting you 
 In the place that most may wring you; 
 Eyes of lead-like hue, and gummy ; 
 Carcass pick'd out from some mummy ; 
 Bowels (but they were forgotten 
 Save the liver, and that's rotten) ; 
 Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden, — 
 
 Form the devil would frighten God in. 
 Is't a corpse stuck up for show, 
 Galvanised at times to go? 
 With the scripture in connection, 
 New proof of the resurrection ? 
 Vampire, ghost, orgoul, what is it? 
 I would walk ten miles to miss it. 
 
 Answer. 
 
 Many passengers arrest one, 
 
 To demand the same free question 
 
 Shortcr's my reply, and franker, — 
 
 That's tlie Bard, the Beau, the Banker. 
 
 Yet if you could bring about 
 
 Just to turn him inside out, 
 
 Satan's self would seem less sooty, 
 
 And his present aspect ^ Beauty. 
 
 Mark that (as he masks the bilious 
 
 Air, so softly supercilious) 
 
 Chasten'd bow, and mock humility, 
 
 Almost sicken to servility; 
 
 Hear his tone (which is to talking 
 
 That which creeping is to walking, 
 
 Now on all-fours, now on tip-toe) ; 
 
 Hear the tales he lends his lip to; 
 
 Little hints of heavy scandals; 
 
 Every friend in turn he handles ; 
 
 All which women or which men do. 
 
 Glides forth in an inuendo, 
 
 Clothed in odds and ends of humour — 
 
 Herald of each paltry rumour, 
 
 From divorces down to dresses. 
 
 Women's frailties, men's excesses. 
 
 All which life presents of evil 
 
 Make for him a constant revel. 
 
 You're his foe, for that he fears you, 
 
 And in absence blasts and sears you: 
 
 You're his friend — for that he hates you - 
 
 First caresses, and then baits you — 
 
 Darting on the opportunity 
 
 When to do it with impunity: 
 
 You are neither — then he'll flatter. 
 
 Till he finds some trait for satire ; 
 
 Hunts your weak point out, then shows it 
 
 Where it injures to disclose it, 
 
 la the mode that's most invidious, 
 
 Adding every trait that's liideous — 
 
 From tlie bile, whose blackening river 
 
 Rushes through his Stygian liver. 
 
 Then he thinks himself a lover — 
 
 Why ? I really caui't discover. 
 
 In his mind, age, face, or figure ; 
 
 Viper-broth might give him vigour, — 
 
 Let him keep the cauldron steady. 
 
 He the venom has already. 
 
 For his faults — he has but one, — 
 
 'Tis but envy, when all's done. 
 
 He but pays tlie pain he suffers. 
 
 Clipping, like a pair of snufters, 
 
 Lights which ought to burn the brighter 
 
 For this temporary blighter. 
 
616 
 
 mSCELLANEOUS POE.lfS. 
 
 He's the cancer of his species, 
 And will eat himself to pieces, — 
 Plague personified, and famine, — 
 Devil, whose sole deliglit is damning. 
 
 For his merits, would you know'em? 
 Once he wrote a pretty Poem. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Do you know Doctor Nott, 
 
 With a crook in his lot. 
 Who several years since tried to dish up 
 
 A neat Codicil 
 
 To the princess's Will, 
 That made Doctor Nott not a Bishop ! 
 
 So the Doctor, being found 
 
 A little unsound 
 In his doctrine, at least as a teacher, 
 
 And kicked from one stool 
 
 As a knave and a fool, 
 Has mounted another as preacher! 
 
 In that gown, like a skin 
 
 With no lion within. 
 He still for the bench would be driving, 
 
 And roareth away, 
 
 A true Vicar of Bray, 
 Except that his bray lost his living. 
 
 "Gainst free-thinkers" he roars, 
 
 You should all shut your doors, 
 Or be bound in the Devil's indentures." 
 
 And here I agree. 
 
 For who ever would be 
 A guest wher^ old Simony enters ! 
 
 Let the Priest who beguiled 
 
 His Sovereign's child 
 To his own dirty views of promotion. 
 
 Wear the sheep's clothing still 
 
 Among flocks to his will 
 And dishonour the cause of devotion. 
 
 The Altar and Throne 
 
 Are in peril alone 
 From such as yourself, who would render 
 
 The Altar itself 
 
 A shop let for pelf 
 And pray God to pay his defender. 
 
 But, Doctor, one word, 
 
 Which perhaps you have heard — 
 "They should never throw who have windows 
 
 Of glass" to be broken: 
 
 And by that same token. 
 As a sinner, you can't care what sin does. 
 
 But perhaps you do well : 
 Your own windows, they tell, 
 
 Have long ago sufTer'd ereasure ; 
 
 Not a fragment remains 
 
 Of your character's panes, 
 Since the Regent refused you a glazier. 
 
 Though your visions of lawn 
 
 Have all been withdrawn. 
 And you miss'd your bold stroke for a mitre, 
 
 In a very snug way ' 
 
 You may still preach and pray, 
 And from bishop sink into backbiter ! 
 
 LINES TO LADY HOLLAND. *) 
 
 Lady, accept the gift a hero wore, 
 In spite of all this elegiac stuff; 
 
 Let not seven stanzas, written by a bore. 
 Prevent your Ladysliip from taking snutf. 
 
 THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 
 
 [WRITTEN December 29, 1806.] 
 
 Father of Light ! great God of Heaven ! 
 
 Hear'st thou the accents of despair? 
 Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 
 
 Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? 
 
 Father of Light, on thee I call! 
 
 Thou seest my soul is dark within; 
 Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 
 
 Avert from me the death of sin. 
 
 No shrine I seek, to sects unknown; 
 
 Oil point to mc the path of truth ! 
 Thy dread omnipotence I own; 
 
 Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 
 
 Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, 
 
 Let superstition hail the pile; 
 Let priests, to spread their sable reign. 
 
 With tales of mystic rights beguile. 
 
 Shall man confine his Maker's sw ay 
 To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? 
 
 Thy temple is the face of day; 
 
 Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless throne. 
 
 Shall man condemn his race to hell, 
 Unless they bend in pompous form? 
 
 Tell us that all, for one who fell. 
 Must perish in the mingling storm ? 
 
 Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 
 
 Yet doom his brother to expire, 
 Whose soul a difterent hope supplies, 
 
 Or doctrines less severe inspire? 
 
 *) Tliese lines were composed on reading in the newspapers 
 address to Lady Holland, by the Earl of Carlisle, persuading her 
 reject the snuff-box bequeathed to her by Napoleon, beginning: — 
 "Lady, reject the gift," etc. — 
 
WALTZ. 
 
 617 
 
 Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, 
 
 Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? 
 Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground. - 
 
 Their great Creator's purpose know? 
 
 Shall those, who live for self alone. 
 Whose years float on in daily crime — 
 
 Shall they by Faith for guilt atone. 
 And live beyond the bounds of Time? 
 
 Father! no prophet's laws I seek, — 
 Thy laws in Nature's works appear; — 
 
 I own myself corrupt and weak, 
 Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear ! 
 
 Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 
 Through trackless realms of jether's space: 
 
 Who calm'st the elemental war. 
 Whose hand from pole to pole I trace : — 
 
 Thou, who in wisdom placed me here. 
 
 Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence, 
 
 Ah ! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, 
 Extend to me thj' wide defence. 
 
 To Thee, my God, to thee I call! 
 
 Whatever weal or woe betide. 
 By thy command I rise or fall. 
 
 In tJiy protection I confide. 
 
 If, when this dust to dust 's restored. 
 My soul shall float on airy wing, 
 
 How shall thy glorious name, adored, 
 Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 
 
 But, if this fleeting spirit share 
 With clay the grave's eternal bed. 
 
 While life j'et throbs I raise my prayer. 
 Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 
 
 To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 
 Grateful for all thy mercy past, 
 
 And hope, my God, to thee again 
 This erring life may fly at last. 
 
 WALTZ, 
 
 AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN. 
 
 Qualis in Euiotje ripis, aut per juga Cynthi 
 Exercet Diana chores. Virgil. 
 
 Such on Eurotas' banks, or Cynthia's height, 
 Diana seems; and so she charms the sight, 
 When in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
 The quire of Nymphs, and overtops their heads. 
 
 Dryuen's Virgil. 
 
 TO THE PUBLISHER. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 ''.I AM a country-gentleman of a midland-county. I might 
 have been a Parliament-man for a certain borough, hav- 
 ing had the offer of as many votes as General T. at the 
 general election (in 1812). But I was all for domestic 
 happiness; as fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I 
 married a middle-aged Maid of Honour. We lived 
 happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my wife 
 and I were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway (a 
 rlistant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town, 
 rhiiiking no harm, and our girls being come to a mar- 
 riageable (or as they call it, marketable) age, and having 
 resides a Chancery-suit inveterately entailed upon the 
 family-estate, we came up in our old chariot, of which. 
 
 by the bye, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than 
 a week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, 
 of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could 
 drive,but never seethe inside — that place beingreserved 
 for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner general 
 and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s 
 dancing (she was famous for birth-night - minuets in the 
 latter end of the last century), I unbooted, and went to a 
 baIlattheCountess's,expectingto see a country-dance, or, 
 at most, cotillions, reels, and all the old paces to tlie newest 
 tunes. But, judge of my surprise, on arriving, to see poor 
 dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the loins of 
 a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on be- 
 fore; and his, to say truth, rather more than half round 
 her waist, turning round, and round, and round, to a 
 
 39* 
 
618 
 
 WALTZ. 
 
 d— d see -saw up and down sort of tune, that reminded 
 me of the "Black Joke," only more "affettuoso," till it 
 made me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. 
 By and bye they stopped a bit, and I thought they would 
 sit or fall down: — but, no; with Mrs. H.'s hand on his 
 shoulder, "■ quam familiariler" (as Terence said when I 
 was at school), they walked about a minute, and then at 
 it again, like two cockchafers spitted on the same bodkin. 
 I asked what all this meant, wlien, with a loud laugh, a 
 child not older than our Willielmina (a name I never 
 heard but in the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother 
 would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach), said 
 "Lord, Mr. Hornem, can't you see they are valtzing," or 
 waltzing (I forget which) ; and then up she got, and her 
 mother and sister,and away tiiey went, andround-about- 
 ed it till supper-time. Now that I know what it is, I like 
 
 it of all things, and so does Mrs. H.; though I have bro- 
 ken my shins, and four times overturned Mrs. Hornem's 
 maid in practising the preliminary steps in a morning. 
 Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn for rhyme, 
 tastily displayed in some election-ballads, and songs in 
 honour of all the victories (but till lately I have had little 
 practice in that way), I sat down, and with the aid of W. 
 F., Esq., and a few hints from Dr. B. (whose recitations 
 I attend, and am monstrous fond of Master B.'s manner 
 of delivering his father's late successful D. L. Address), 
 I composed the following hymn, wherewithal to make 
 my sentiments known to the Public, whom, nevertheless, 
 I heartily despise as well as the Critics. 
 I am, Srii, yours, 
 
 HORACE HORNEM. 
 
 Muse of the many-twinkling feet! whose charms 
 
 Are nOw extended up from legs to arms; 
 
 Terpsichore! — too long misdeem'd a maid — 
 
 Reproachful term — bestow'd but to upbraid — 
 
 Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine. 
 
 The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 
 
 Far be from thee and thine the name of prude; 
 
 Mock'd, yet triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; 
 
 Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 
 
 If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 
 
 Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; 
 
 Dance forth — sans armour thou shalt take the field, 
 
 And own — impregnable to most assaults, 
 
 Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz." 
 
 Hail, nimble Nymph ! to whom the young hussar. 
 The whisker'd votary of Waltz and War — 
 His night devotes, despite of spur and boots, 
 A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes: 
 Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! — beneath whose banners 
 A modern hero fought for modish manners; 
 On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame, [aim. 
 Cock'd — fired — and miss'd his man — but gain'd his 
 Hail moving Muse! to whom the fair one's breast 
 Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest 
 Oh! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
 The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
 To "energize the object I pursue," 
 And give both Belial and his dance their due ! — 
 
 Imperial Waltz ! imported from the Rhine 
 (Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine). 
 Long be thine import from all duty free, 
 And Hock itself be less esteem'd than thee; 
 In some few qualities alike — for Hock 
 Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
 The head to Hock belongs — thy subtler art 
 Intoxicates alone the heedless heart : 
 Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
 And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 
 
 Oh, Germany! Iiow much to thee we owe. 
 As heaven-born Pitt can testify below ; 
 
 Ere cursed Confederation made thee France's, 
 
 And only left us tliy d — d debts and dances ; 
 
 Of subsidies and Hannover bereft 
 
 We bless thee still — for George the Third is left! 
 
 Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth. 
 
 For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 
 
 To Germany, and Highnesses Serene, 
 
 Who owe us millions — don't we owe the Queen? 
 
 To Germany, what owe we not besides? 
 
 So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides; 
 
 Who paid for vulgar, with their royal blood. 
 
 Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud; 
 
 Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 
 
 A dozen Dukes — some Kings — a Queen — and Waltz. 
 
 But peace to her — her Emperor and Diet, 
 Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's "fiat;" 
 Back to my theme — Oh ! Muse of motion say. 
 How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way ? 
 
 Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales. 
 From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had mails), 
 Ere yet unlucky Fame — compel I'd to creep 
 To snowy Gottenburg — was chill'd to sleep; 
 Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
 Heligoland ! to stock thy mart with lies ; 
 While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send. 
 Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend ; 
 She came — Waltz came — and with her certain sets 
 Of true despatches, and as true gazettes ; 
 Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch. 
 Which Moniteur nor Morning-Post can match ; 
 And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — 
 Ten plays, and forty talcs of Kotzebue's; 
 One envoy's letters, six composers' airs. 
 And loads from Frankfort and from Leipzig fairs ; 
 Meiner's four volumes upon womankind. 
 Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind; 
 Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and to back it, 
 Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 
 Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freiglit. 
 Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate. 
 
WALTZ. 
 
 619 
 
 The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, 
 And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 
 Not decent David, when, before the ark. 
 His grand pas-seul excited some remark ; 
 Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 
 The knight's fandango friskier than it ought; 
 Not soft Herodias, when with winning tread 
 Her nimble feet danced off anotlier's head; 
 Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 
 Display'd so much oileg, or more oineck, 
 Tlian thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 
 Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 
 
 To you — ye husbands often years! whose brows 
 
 che with the annual tributes of a spouse; 
 
 o you, of nine years less — who only bear 
 
 he budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 
 ith added ornaments around them roll'd, 
 
 f native brass, or law-awarded gold; 
 
 o you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
 To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match ; 
 To you, ye children of — whom chance accords 
 Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords ; 
 To you — ye single gentlemen ! who seek 
 Torments for life, or pleasures for a week; 
 \s love of Hymen your endeavours guide, 
 To gain your own, or snatch another's bride ; 
 To one and all the lovely stranger came, 
 Ind every ball-room echoes with her name. 
 
 Endearing Waltz — to tliy more melting tune 
 IBow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon ; 
 Scotch reels avaunt! and country-dance forego 
 four future claims to each fantastic toe; 
 STaltz — Waltz — alone both legs and arms demands, 
 jiberal of feet, and lavish of Jier hands; 
 lands which may freely range in public sight 
 Vhere ne'er before — but — pray "put out the light." 
 ifethinks tlie glare of yonder chandelier 
 Ihines much too far — or I am much too near; 
 ind true, though strange — Waltz wliispers this remark, 
 ^y slippery steps are safest in the dark!" 
 lut here the Muse with due decorum halts, 
 ind lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 
 
 Observant travellers! of every time; 
 Te quartos ! publish'd upon every clime; 
 ► say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round, 
 fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound; 
 Sin Egypt's Almas — tantalizing group — 
 lolumbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
 tail aught from cold Kamtschatka to Cape Horn 
 ^ith Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne? 
 hf no! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
 bch tourist pens a paragraph for "Waltz." 
 
 i Shades of those belles, whose reign began of yore, 
 
 Ilitli George the Third's — and ended long before — 
 Kugh in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
 urst from your lead, and be yourselves alive ! 
 jack to the ball-room speed your spectred host; 
 . ool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
 
 No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake; 
 No stiflstarch'd stays make meddling fingers ache 
 (Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
 Goats in their visage, women in their shape) ; 
 No damsel faints when rather closely press'd. 
 But more caressing seems when most caress'd ; 
 Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts. 
 Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial "Waltz." 
 Seductive Waltz ! — though on thy native shore 
 Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore; 
 Werter — to decent vice though much inclined ; 
 Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind — 
 Though gentle Genlis, in her strife Avith Sta'el, 
 Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
 Thee fashion hails — from Countesses to queans, 
 And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes; 
 Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads. 
 And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads; 
 With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce. 
 And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce. 
 Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts, 
 And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of "Waltz." 
 
 Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut; 
 The Court, the Regent, like herself were new ; 
 New face for friends, for foes some new rewards. 
 New ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
 New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread; 
 New coins (most new) to follow those that fled; 
 New victories — nor can we prize them less. 
 Though Jenky wonders at his own success : 
 New wars, because the old succeed so well, 
 That most survivors envy those who fell ; 
 New mistresses — no — old — yet 'tis true. 
 Though they be old, the thing is something new; 
 Each new, quite new — (except some ancient tricks) ; 
 New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new 
 With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, [sticks ! 
 New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue; 
 
 So saith the Muse — my , what say you? 
 
 Such was the time when Waltz miglit best maintain 
 Her new preferments in this novel reign; 
 Such was the time, nor ever yet was such. 
 Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much; 
 Morals and minuets, Virtue and her stays. 
 And tell-tale Powder — all have had their days. 
 
 The ball begins — the honours of the house 
 First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 
 Some potentate — or royal or serene — 
 With K — t's gay grace, or sapient G — st— r's mien. 
 Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 
 Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 
 From where the garb just leaves the bosom free, 
 That spot where hearts were once supposed to be; 
 Round all the confines of the yielded waist. 
 The strangest hand may wander undisplaced; 
 The lady's in return may grasp as much 
 As princely paunches off"er to her touch. 
 Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 
 One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 
 
620 
 
 FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 
 
 The other to the shoulder no less royal 
 
 Ascending with aflcctioa truly loyal ; 
 
 Thus front to front the partners move or stand. 
 
 The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand; 
 
 And all in turn may follow in their rank, 
 
 The Earl of — Asterisk — and Lady — Blank; 
 
 Sir — such a one — witli those of Fashion's host, 
 
 For whose blest surnames — -vide "Morning-Post ;" 
 
 (Or if for that impartial print too late, 
 
 Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date) - 
 
 Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow. 
 
 The genial contact gently undergo ; 
 
 Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 
 
 If "nothing follows all this palming work?" 
 
 True honest Mirza — you may trust my rhyme — 
 
 Something does follow at a fitter time; 
 
 The breast thus publicly resign'd to man, 
 
 In private may resist him if it can. 
 
 O ye! who loved our grandmothers of yore, 
 Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more! 
 And thou, my Prince! whose sovereign taste and will 
 It is to love the lovely beldames still; 
 
 Thou, ghost of Q ! whose judging sprite 
 
 Satan may spare to peep a single night, 
 Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss — 
 Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this; 
 To teach the young ideas how to rise. 
 Flush in the cheek and languisli in the eyes; 
 Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame. 
 With half-told wish, and ill-dissembled flame; 
 For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
 Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest? 
 
 But ye — who never felt a single thought 
 For what our morals are to be or ought; 
 Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, 
 Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap ? 
 Hot from the hand promiscuously applied. 
 Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side ; 
 Where were the rapture then to clasp the form, 
 From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm? 
 At once Love's most endearing thought resign, 
 To press the hand so press'd by none but thine; 
 To gaze upon that eye which never met 
 Another's ardent look without regret; 
 Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
 Come near enough — if not to touch — to taint; 
 If such thou lovest — love her then no more. 
 Or give — like her — caresses to a score; 
 Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
 The little left behind it to bestow. 
 
 Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme? 
 Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
 Terpsichore forgive ! — at every ball 
 My wife now waltzes — and my daughters shall; 
 My son (or stop — 'tis needless to inquire — 
 These little accidents should ne'er transpire; 
 
 Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
 Will wear as green a bough for him as me), 
 Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 
 Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends, 
 
 FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 
 
 FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 "The land where I was born sits by the seas, 
 
 Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 
 
 With all his followers, in search of peace. 
 Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
 
 Seized him for the fair person which was ta' en 
 
 From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 
 Love, w ho to none beloved to love again 
 
 Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, 
 
 That, as thou see'st, yet, yet it doth remain. 
 Love to one death conducted us along. 
 
 But Caina waits for him our life who ended." 
 
 These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. — 
 Since I first llsten'd to these souls offended, 
 
 I bow'd my visage, and so kept it till — 
 
 "What think'st thou?" said the bard; when I 
 And recommenced: "Alas ! unto such ill [unbended, 
 
 How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies 
 
 Led these tiieir evil fortune to fulfil!" 
 And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, 
 
 And said, "Francesca, thy sad destinies 
 
 Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
 But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs. 
 
 By what and how thy love to passion rose, 
 
 So as his dim desires to recognise?" 
 Then she to me : "The greatest of all woes 
 
 Is to remind us of our happy days 
 
 In misery, and that thy teacher knows. 
 But if to learn our passion's first root preys 
 
 Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
 
 I will do even as he who weeps and says. — 
 We read one day for pastime, seated nigh. 
 
 Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. 
 
 We were alone, quite unsuspiciously : 
 But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 
 
 All o'er discoloured by that reading were; 
 
 But one point only wholly us o'erthrew ; 
 When we read the long-sigh'd-for smile of her. 
 
 To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover, 
 
 He who from me can be divided ne'er 
 Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over. 
 
 Accursed was the book and he who wrote ! 
 
 That day no further leaf we did uncover." 
 
 While thus one spirit told us of their lot. 
 
 The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 
 
 I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote. 
 And fell down even as a dead body falls. 
 
621 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE; 
 
 tEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE "AD PISONES, DE ARTE POETICA," 
 AND INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO "ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 
 
 "Ergo fuogar vice cotis, acutum 
 
 Reddere qu» ferrum valet, exsor» ipsa secaudi." 
 
 HoR. De Aite Poet. 
 
 "Rlijtnes arc diflicult things — they are 4tubborn thingS; sir." 
 
 Fielding's Amelia. 
 
 Athens. Capuchin Convent, March 12, 1811. 
 
 o would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
 costly canvass with each flatter'd face, 
 used his art, till Nature, with a blush, 
 •w cits grow centaurs underneatli his brush ? 
 ', should some limner join, for show or sale, 
 aid of honour to a mermaid's tail? 
 low Dubost — as once the world has seen — 
 rade God's creatures in his grapliic spleen? 
 t all that forced politeness, which defends 
 fififbls in their faults, could gag his grinning friends, 
 ieve me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
 book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
 plays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
 :tic nightmares, without head or feet. 
 
 *oets and painters, as all artists know, 
 
 'lay shoot a little with a lengtlien'd bow ; 
 
 IV^e claim this mutual mercy for our task, 
 nd grant in turn the pardon which we ask ; 
 ut make not monsters spring from gentle dams — 
 irds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 
 
 A labour'd, long exordium, sometimes tends 
 Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends; 
 nd nonsense in a lofty note goes down, 
 s pertness passes with a legal gown : 
 hus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
 he clear brook babbling through the goodly plain: 
 he groves of Granta, and her gothic halls, [walls: 
 
 ing's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and old 
 r, in advcnt'rous numbers, neatly aims 
 paint a rainbow, or — the river Thames. 
 
 You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine — 
 
 ut daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign; 
 
 ou plan a vase — it dwindles to a pot; 
 
 hen glide down Grub-street — fasting and forgot; 
 
 augh'd into Lethe by some quaint Review, 
 
 /hose wit is never troublesome till — true. 
 
 In fine, to whatsoever you aspire. 
 Let it at least be simple and entire. 
 
 The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
 (Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe,) 
 Are led astray by some peculiar lure. 
 I labour to be brief — become obscure; 
 One falls while following elegance too fast ; 
 Another soars, inflated with bombast; 
 Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fiy. 
 He spins his subject to satiety; 
 Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 
 Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves! 
 
 Unless your care 's exact, your judgment nice, 
 The flight from folly leads but into vice; 
 None are complete, all wanting in some part. 
 Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
 For galligaskins Slowsliears is your man; 
 But coats must claim another artisan. 
 Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 
 As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame ; 
 Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
 Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose ! 
 
 Dear authors! suit your topics to your strength. 
 And ponder well your subject, and its length; 
 Nor lift your load, before you 're quite aware 
 What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear. 
 But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, 
 Await the poet, skilful in his choice; 
 With native eloquence he soars along, 
 Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 
 
 Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
 With future parts the now omitted line: 
 This shall the author choose, or that reject. 
 Precise in style, and cautious to select; 
 Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
 To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
 
622 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 Then fear not if 't is needful to produce 
 
 Some term unknown, or obsolete in use. 
 
 As Pitt has furnish'd us a word or two, 
 
 Which lexicographers declined to do, 
 
 So you indeed, with care — (but be content 
 
 To take this license rarely) — may invent. 
 
 New words find credit in these latter days, 
 
 If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
 
 "What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
 
 To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. 
 
 If you can add a little, say why not. 
 
 As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott? 
 
 Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, 
 
 Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues; 
 
 'T is then — and shall be — lawful to present 
 
 Reform in writing, as in parliament. 
 
 As forests shed their foliage by degrees. 
 So fade expressions which in season please; 
 And we and ours, alas ! are due to fate. 
 And works and words but dwindle to a date. 
 Though as a monarch nods,and commerce calls. 
 Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals; 
 Thougli swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd, sustain 
 The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain, 
 And rising ports along the busy shore 
 Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar. 
 All, all must perish; but, surviving last, 
 The love of letters half preserves the past. 
 True, some decay, yet not a few revive; 
 Though those shall sink which now appear to thrive, 
 As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
 Our life and language must alike obey. 
 
 The immortal wars which gods and angels wage, 
 Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page? 
 His strain will teach wliat numbers best belong 
 To themes celestial told in epic song. 
 
 The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
 The lover's anguish, or the friend's complaint. 
 But which deserves the laurel — rhyme or blank? 
 Which holds on Helicon the higher rank? 
 Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
 This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 
 
 Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. 
 You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's dean. 
 
 Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied 
 To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. 
 Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's days, 
 No sing-song hero rants in modern plays; 
 While modest Comedy her verse foregoes. 
 For jest and pun in very middling prose. 
 Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse. 
 Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. 
 But so Thalia pleases to appear, 
 Poor Virgin ! damn'd some twenty times a year ! 
 
 Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight: — 
 Adapt your language to your liero's state. 
 At times Melpomene forgets to groan. 
 And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone; 
 Nor unregarded will the act pass by 
 Where angry Townly lifts his voice on high. 
 Again, our Sliakspeare limits verse to kings. 
 When common prose will serve for common things; 
 And lively Hal resigns heroic ire, 
 To "hollowing Hotspur" and the sceptred sire. 
 
 'T is not enough, ye bards, with all your art. 
 To polish poems ; — they must touch the heart : 
 Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song, 
 Still let it bear the hearer's soul along; 
 Command your audience or to smile or weep, 
 Whiche'er may please you — any tiling but sleep. 
 The poet claims our tears; but, by his leave, 
 Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 
 
 If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 
 LuH'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
 Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, 
 And men look angry in the proper place. 
 At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 
 And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye; ' 
 
 For nature form'd at first the inward man. 
 And actors copy nature — when they can. 
 She bids the beating heart with rapture bound, 
 Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground; 
 And for expression's aid, 't is said, or sung. 
 She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue, 
 Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
 (At least in theatres) with common sense; 
 O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit. 
 And raise a laugh with any thing — but wit. 
 
 To skilful writers it will much import. 
 Whence spring their scenes, from common life or cour 
 Whether they seek applause by smile or tear. 
 To draw a "Lying Valet," or a "Lear," 
 A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
 A wandering "Peregrine," or plain "John Bull ;" 
 All persons please when nature's voice prevails, 
 Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. 
 
 Or follow common fame, or forge a plot. 
 Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not? 
 One precept serves to regulate the scene: — 
 Make it appear as if it miffht have been. 
 
 If some Draweansir you aspire to draw. 
 Present him raving, and above all law : 
 If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, 
 Macbetli's fierce dame is ready to your hand ; 
 For tears and treachery, for good or evil, 
 Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil! 
 But if a new design you dare essay, 
 And freely wander from the beaten way. 
 True to your characters, till all be past. 
 Preserve consistency from first to last. 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 623 
 
 'Tis hard to venture where our belters fail, 
 Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale; 
 And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 
 A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and err ; 
 Yet copy not too closely, but record. 
 More justly, thought for thought than Avord for word ; 
 Nor trace your prototype tlirough narrow ways, 
 But only follow where he merits praise. 
 
 For you, young bard ! whom luckless fate may lead 
 To tremble on the nod of all who read. 
 Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls, 
 Beware — for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles ! 
 "Awake a louder and a loftier strain," — 
 And pray, what follows from his boiling brain ? — 
 He sinks to Southey's level in a trice. 
 Whose epic mountains never fail in mice! 
 Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 
 The temper'd warblings of his master-lyre; 
 Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 
 "Of man's first disobedience and the fruit" 
 He speaks, but, as his subject swells along. 
 Earth, Heaven, and Hades echo with the song. 
 Still to the midst of things he hastens on, 
 As if we witness'd all already done ; 
 Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 
 To raise the subject, or adorn the scene; 
 Gives, as each page improves upon the sight, 
 Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness — light; 
 And truth and fiction with such art compounds, 
 We know not where to fix their several bounds. 
 If you would please the public, deign to hear 
 What sootlies the many-headed monster's ear; 
 If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
 jApplaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, 
 JDeserve those plaudits- — study nature's page, 
 jAnd sketcli the striking traits of every age; 
 While varying man and varying years unfold 
 t (Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told. 
 iObscrve his simple childhood's dawning days, 
 iHis pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays; 
 Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, 
 lAnd prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens! 
 
 1 Behold him Freshman ! forced no more to groan 
 
 O'er Virgil's devilish verses and — his own; 
 
 Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse, 
 
 He flies from Tavell's frown to "Fordham's Mews;" 
 
 (Unlucky Tavell ! doom'd to daily cares 
 
 By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,) 
 
 Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain, 
 
 jBeforc hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
 
 IRough with his elders, with his equals rash. 
 
 jCivil to sharpers, prodigal of cash, 
 
 Constant to nought — save hazard and a whore, 
 
 Yet cursing both — for both have made him sore ; 
 
 lUnread (unless, since books beguile disease, 
 
 :The p - X becomes his passage to degrees) ; 
 
 Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term away, 
 
 And, unexpell'd perhaps, retires M. A.; 
 
 Master of arts! as hells and clubs proclaim, 
 
 I Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name! 
 
 Launch 'd into life, extinct his^arly fire, 
 He apes the selfish prudence of his sire; 
 Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, 
 Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank; 
 Sits in the Senate; gets a son and heir; 
 Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
 Mute though he votes, unless when call'd to cheer. 
 His son's so sharp — he'll see the dog a peer! 
 
 Manhood declines — age palsies every limb; 
 He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him; 
 Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, 
 And avarice seizes all ambition leaves ; 
 Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets, 
 O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's debts; 
 Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy. 
 Complete in all life's lessons — but to die ; 
 Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please. 
 Commending every time, save times like these; 
 Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot. 
 Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot! 
 
 But from the Drama let me not digress, 
 Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. 
 Though woman weep, and hardest hearts are stirr'd, 
 When what is done is rather seen than heard. 
 Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
 Are better told than acted on the stage; 
 The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
 And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
 True Briton all beside, 1 here am French — 
 Bloodshed' tis surely better to retrench 
 The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
 In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show ; 
 We hate the carnage while we see the trick, 
 And find small sympathy in being sick. 
 Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
 Appals an audience with a monarch's death; 
 To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
 Young Arthur's eyes, can ours or nature bear? 
 A'haltered heroine Johnson sought to slay — 
 We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play ; 
 And (Heaven be praised!) our tolerating times 
 Stint metamorphoses to pantomimes ; 
 And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would quake 
 To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
 Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief. 
 We loathe the action which exceeds belief: 
 And yet, God knows ! what may not authors do. 
 Whose postscripts prate of dyeing "heroines blue?" 
 
 Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can. 
 Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man ; 
 Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
 Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
 Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forbid, 
 I loatlie an opera worse than Dennis did; 
 Where good and evil persons, right or wrong. 
 Rage, love, and aught but moralise, in song. 
 Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends 
 Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends ! 
 
624 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
 On whores, spies, singers, wisely shipp'd away. 
 Our giant capital, wliose squares are spread 
 Where rustics carn'd, and now may beg, their bread, 
 In all iniquity is grown so nice, 
 It scorns amusements whicli are not of price. 
 Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
 Aches witli orchestras which he pays to Iiear, 
 Whom shame, not sympatliy, forbids to snore, 
 His anguish doubling by his own "encore;" 
 Squeezed in "Fop's Alley," jostled by the beaux, 
 Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes; 
 Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease 
 Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release: 
 Why this, and more, he suffers — can ye guess? — 
 Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress ! 
 
 So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools; 
 Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of fools! 
 Ere scenes were play'd by many a reverend clerk 
 (What harm, if David danced before the ark?) 
 In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
 Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse jokes. 
 Improving years, with things no longer known. 
 Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan, 
 Who still frisk on vvitli feats so lewdly low, 
 'Tis strange Benvolio suffers such a show; 
 Suppressing peer ! to whom eacli vice gives place, 
 Oaths, boxing, begging, — all, save rout and race. 
 
 Farce follow 'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime 
 In ever -laughing Foote's fantastic time : 
 Mad wag! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best, 
 And turn'd some very serious things to jest. 
 Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers, 
 Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers : 
 "Alas, poor Yorick!" now for ever mute! 
 Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 
 
 We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
 Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
 When "Chrononhotonthologos must die," 
 And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 
 
 Moschus ! with whom once more I hope to sit 
 And smile at folly, if we can't at wit ; 
 Yes, friend ! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell, 
 And bear Swift's motto, "Vive la bagatelle !" 
 Which charm'd our days in each ^Egean clime. 
 As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. 
 Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past, 
 Soothe thy life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last, 
 But find in thine, like pagan Plato's bed. 
 Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 
 
 Now to the Drama let us lend our eyes, 
 Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies; 
 Corruption foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance; 
 Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 
 Yet Chesterfield, whose polish'd pen inveighs 
 'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays ; 
 
 Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains. 
 
 And damning dulness of lord cliamberlains. 
 
 Repeal that act ! again let Humour roam 
 
 Wild o'er the stage — we've time for tears at home ; 
 
 Let "Archer" plant the horns on "Sullen's" brows, 
 
 And "Estifania" gull her "Copper" spouse; 
 
 The moral's scant — but that may be excused, 
 
 Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 
 
 He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 
 
 Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill; 
 
 Ay, but Macheath's example — psha! — no more! 
 
 It form'd no thieves — the thief was form'd before; 
 
 And, spite of puritans and Collier's curse, 
 
 Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 
 
 Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men! 
 
 Nor burn damn'd Drury if it rise again. 
 
 But why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal ! 
 
 Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal ! 
 
 For times of fire and faggot let them hope ! 
 
 Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 
 
 As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 
 
 So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 
 
 Even now the songs of Solyma begin; 
 
 Faith cants, perplex'd apologist of sin ! 
 
 While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves, 
 
 And Simeon kicks, where Baxter only "shoves." 
 
 Whom nature guides, so writes, that every dunce. 
 Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once; 
 But after inky thumbs and bitten nails. 
 And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 
 
 Let Pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
 To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope ? 
 Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, 
 For art too rude, for nature too refined. 
 Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 
 'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 
 
 A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
 In this nice age, when all aspire to taste ; 
 The dirty language, and the noisome jest, 
 Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest, 
 Proscribed not only in the world polite. 
 But even too nasty for a city knight! 
 
 Peace to Swift's faults! his wit hath made tliem pas 
 Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hudibras ! 
 Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, 
 Who fromour couplet lopp'd two final feet; 
 Nor less in merit than the longer line, 
 This measure moves a favourite of the Nine. 
 Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
 Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain, j 
 
 Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late [ 
 
 This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight, 
 And, varied skilfully, surpasses far 
 Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war, 
 Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime. 
 Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 
 
Hl^TS FROM HORACE, 
 
 625 
 
 But many a skilful judge abhors to see, 
 What few admire — irregularity. 
 Tiiis some vouchsafe to pardon; but 'tis hard 
 When sucli a word contents a British bard. 
 
 And must the bard his glowing thoughts confine, 
 Lest censure Jiover o'er some faulty line ? 
 Remove whate'er a critic may suspect. 
 To gain the paltry suffrage oi "correct?" 
 Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase. 
 To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 
 
 Ye, who seek finish'd models, never cease, 
 By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
 But our good fathers never bent their brains 
 To heathen Greek, content with native strains, 
 riie few who read a page, or used a pen, 
 Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
 The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
 Were quaint and careless, any thing but chaste; 
 STet, whether right or wrong the ancient rules, 
 [t will not do to call our fathers fools! 
 Though you and I, who eruditely know 
 To separate the elegant and low, 
 [Uan also, when a hobbling line appears, 
 Detect with fingers, in default of ears. 
 
 In sooth I do not know, or greatly care 
 To learn, who our first English strollers were; 
 3r if, till roofs received the vagrant art, 
 9ur Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; 
 But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 
 There 's pomp enough, if little else, in plays ; 
 Jfor will Melpomene ascend her throne 
 (Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone. 
 
 Old comedies still meet with much applause, 
 Though too licentious for dramatic laws : 
 \.i least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest, 
 I!urtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 
 
 Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside, 
 3ur enterprising bards pass nought untried ; 
 Sor do they merit slight applause who choose 
 in English subject for an English muse, 
 ind leave to minds which never dare invent 
 French flippancy and German sentiment. 
 tVhere is that living language which could claim 
 Poetic more, as philosophic, fame, 
 [fall our bards, more patient of delay, 
 VfTould stop, like Pope, to polish by the Avay ? 
 
 I 
 
 ■Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
 ^^■tlirow whole quartos with their quires of faults, 
 B^raio soon detect, and mark where'er we fail, 
 
 \nd prove our marble with too nice a nail! 
 
 Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
 
 He only thought, hui you would make, us mad ! 
 
 But, truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
 \gainst that ridicule they deem so hard ; 
 
 In person negligent, they wear, from sloth, 
 Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth ; 
 Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet, 
 And walk in alleys, rather than the street. 
 
 With little rhyme, less reason^ if you please, 
 The name of poet may be got with ease, 
 So that not tuns of helleboric juice 
 Shall ever turn your head to any use ; 
 Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a Lake, 
 And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake; 
 Then print your book, once more return to town, 
 And boys shall hunt your hardship up and down. 
 
 Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight, 
 To purge in spring — like Bayes — before I write? 
 If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 
 I know no scribbler with a madder style; 
 But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice 
 I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
 I'll labour gratis at a grinder's wheel, 
 And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steel. 
 Nor write at all, unless to teach the art 
 To those rehearsing for the poet's part; 
 From Horace show the pleasing paths of song. 
 And from my own example — what is wrong. 
 
 Though modern practice sometimes differs quite, 
 'Tis just as well to think before you write; 
 Let every book that suits your theme be read. 
 So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 
 
 He who has learn'd the duty which he owes 
 To friends and country, and to pardon foes ; 
 Who models his deportment as may best 
 Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest; 
 Who takes our laws and worship as they are, 
 Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar ; 
 In practice, rather than loud precept, wise. 
 Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophise : 
 Such is the man the poet should rehearse. 
 As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 
 
 Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told. 
 Without much grace, or weiglit, or art, will hold 
 A longer empire o' er the public mind 
 Than sounding trifles, empty, though refijied. 
 
 Unhappy Greece ! thy sons of ancient days 
 The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 
 Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
 With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
 Our boys (save those whom public S(!hools compel 
 To "long and short" before they're taught to spell) 
 From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
 „A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
 Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
 The third, how much will the remainder make ? — 
 "A groat." — "Ah, bravo ! Dick hath done the sum ! 
 He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 
 
 40 
 
626 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 
 'Tis clear, are fit for any thing but rhymes; 
 And Locke will tell you, that the father's right 
 Who hides all verses from his children's sight; 
 For poets (says this sage, and many more,) 
 Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore; 
 And Delphi now, however rich of old, 
 Discovers little silver, and less gold, 
 Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
 Is poor as Irus, or an Irish mine. 
 
 Two objects always should the poet move, 
 Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
 Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
 For our remembrance your didactic line ; 
 Redundance places memory on the rack, 
 For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 
 
 Fiction does best when taught to look like truth. 
 And fairy fables bubble none but youtli : 
 Expect no credit for too wondrous tales, 
 Since Jonas only springs alive from whales ! 
 
 Young men with aught but elegance dispense; 
 Maturer years require a little sense. 
 To end at once : — that bard for all is fit 
 Who mingles well instruction with his wit; 
 For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
 The patronage of Paternoster-row ; 
 His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass 
 (Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass), 
 Through three long weeks the taste of London lead. 
 And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 
 
 But every thing has faults, nor is't unknown 
 That harps and fiddles often lose their tone. 
 And wayward voices, at their owner's call. 
 With all his best endeavours, only squall; 
 Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark, 
 And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their mark. 
 
 Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view, 
 We must not quarrel for a blot or two ; 
 But pardon equally to books or men. 
 The slips of human nature, and the pen. 
 
 Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 
 Despises all advice too much to mend. 
 But ever twangs the same discordant string, 
 Give him no quarter, howsoe'cr he sing. 
 Let Havard's fate o'ertake him, who, for once. 
 Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 
 At first none deem'd it his ; but when his name 
 Announced the fact — what then? — it lost its fame. 
 Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, 
 In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 
 
 As pictures, so shall poems be; some stand 
 The critic eye, and please when near at hand; 
 But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
 This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, 
 Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, 
 But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new. 
 
 Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance, or choice, 
 Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice, 
 Receive this counsel, and be timely wise; 
 Few reach the summit which before you lies. 
 Our church and state, our courts and camps, concede 
 Reward to very moderate heads indeed ! 
 In these, plain common sense will travel far ; 
 All are not Erskines who mislead the bar : 
 But poesy between the best and worst 
 No medium knows ; you must be last or first; 
 For middling poets' miserable volumes 
 Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 
 
 Again, my Jeffrey! — as that sound inspires, 
 How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires ! 
 Fires, such aS gentle Caledonians feel 
 When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel, 
 Or mild Eclectics, when some, worse than Turks, 
 Would rob poor Faith to decorate "good works." 
 Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim — 
 My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 
 Mightiest of all Dunedia's beasts of chase ! 
 For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 
 Arise, my Jeffrey ! or my inkless pen 
 Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men; 
 Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
 Alas! I cannot "strike at wretched kernes." 
 Inhuman Saxon! wilt thou then resign 
 A muse and heart hy choice so wholly thine? 
 Dear, d — d contemner of my schoolboy songs, 
 Hastthouno vengeance for my manhood's wrongs' 
 If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed, 
 Hastthouno weapon for my daring deed? 
 What! not a word! — and am I then so low? 
 Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe? 
 Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent? 
 No wit for nobles, dunces by descent ? 
 No jest on "minors," quibbles on a name. 
 Nor one facetious paragraph of blame? 
 Is it for this on Ilion I have stood. 
 And tliought of Homer less than Holyrood? 
 On shore of Euxine or ^gean sea. 
 My hate, untravell'd, fondly turn'd to thee. 
 Ah! let me cease; in vain my bosom burns, 
 From Corydon unkind Alexis turns : 
 Thy rhymes are vain; thy Jefl"rey then forego. 
 Nor woo that anger which he will not sliow. 
 What then? — Edina starves some lankcr son, 
 To write an article thou canst not shun ; 
 Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 
 As bold in Billingsgate, though less renown'd. 
 
 As if at table some discordant dish 
 Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish ; 
 As oil in lieu of butter men decry. 
 And poppies please not in a modern pie; 
 If all such mixtures then be half a crime. 
 We must have excellence to relish rliyme. 
 Mere roast and boil'd no epicure invites; 
 Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 627 
 
 Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gnn: 
 Will he who swims not to the river run ? 
 And men unpractised in exchanging- knocks 
 Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box. 
 Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, 
 None reach expertness without years of toil; 
 But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease, 
 Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please. 
 Why not? — shall I, thus qualified to sit 
 For rotten boroughs, never show my wit? 
 Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum sate, 
 And lived in freedom on a fair estate; 
 Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs. 
 To all their income, and to — twice its tax ; 
 Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault, 
 Shall I, I say, suppress my attic salt ? 
 
 Thus think "the mob of gentlemen ;" but you, 
 Besides all this, must have some genius too. 
 Be this your sober judgment, and a rule, 
 And print not piping hot from Southey's school, 
 Wlio (ere another Thalaba appears), 
 I trust, will spare us for at least nine years. 
 And hark'ye, Southey ! pray — but don't be vex'd — 
 Burn all your last three works — and half the next. 
 But Avhy this vain advice? once published, books 
 Can never be recall'd — from pastry-cooks! 
 Though "Madoc," with "Pucelle," instead of punk. 
 May travel back to Quito — on a trunk! 
 
 Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
 Led all wild beasts but women by the ear; 
 And had he fiddled at the present hour, 
 We 'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower; 
 A.nd old Amphion, such were minstrels then, 
 Bad built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
 Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
 Did more than constables to keep the peace; 
 Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
 Call'd county-meetings, and enforced the laws. 
 Cut down crown-influence with reforming scythes, 
 And served the church — without demanding titlies; 
 And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
 Bach poet was a prophet and a priest. 
 Whose old-establish'd board of joint controls 
 [ncluded kingdoms in the cure of souls. 
 
 Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince, 
 IVnd fighting 's been in fashion ever since ; 
 kad old Tyrtaeus, when the Spartans warr'd, 
 (A limping leader, but a lofty bard,) 
 riiough wall'd Ithome had resisted long, 
 Ebeduced the fortress by the force of song. 
 
 When oracles prevail'd, in times of old. 
 In song alone Apollo's will was told. 
 Then if your verse is what all verse should be, 
 Viidgods were not ashamed on 't, wliy should we? 
 
 The Muse, like mortal females, may be woo'd; 
 {[ft-torns she '11 seem a Paphian, or a prude; 
 
 Fierce as a bride when first she feels aff"riglit, 
 Mild as the same upon the second night ; 
 Wild as the wife of alderman or peer, 
 Now for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
 Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
 Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 
 
 If verse be studied with some show of art, 
 Kind Nature always will perform her part; 
 Though without genius, and a native vein 
 Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain — 
 Yet art and nature join'd will win the prize, 
 Unless they act like us and our allies. 
 
 The youth who trains to ride, or run a race, 
 Must bear privations with unruffled face. 
 Be call'd to labour when he thinks to dine. 
 And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
 Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight. 
 Have followed music through her farthest flight; 
 But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, 
 "I 've got a pretty poem for the press ;" 
 And that's enough ; then write and print so fast; — 
 If Satan take the hindmost, who 'd be last? 
 They storm the types, they publish, one and all. 
 They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. 
 Provincial maidens, men of high command. 
 Yea, baronets have ink'd the bloody hand ! 
 Cash cannot queJl them; Pollio play'd this prank; 
 (Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank !) 
 Not all the living only, but the dead. 
 Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' head; 
 Damn'd all their days, they posthumously thrive — 
 Dug up from dust, though buried when alive! 
 Reviews record this epidemic crime. 
 Those Books of Martyrs to tlie rage for rhyme. 
 Alas! woe worth the scribbler! often seen 
 In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine. 
 There lurk his earlier lays ; but soon, hot-press 'd, 
 Behold a quarto ! — Tarts must tell the rest. 
 Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords 
 To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords. 
 Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 
 Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale! 
 Hark to those notes, narcotically soft! 
 The cobbler-laureats sing to Capel Loff"t ! 
 Till, lo! that modern Midas, as he hears, 
 Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 
 
 There lives one druid, who prepares in time 
 'Gainst future feuds his poor revenge of rhyme; 
 Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse. 
 To publish faults which friendship should excuse. 
 If friendship 's nothing, self-regard might teach 
 More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 
 But what is shame, or what is aught to him ? 
 He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim. 
 Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate. 
 Some folly cross'd; some jest, or some debate; 
 Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
 The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 
 
628 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 Perhaps at some pert speech you 've dared to frown, 
 
 Perliaps your poem may have pleased the town; 
 
 If so, alas I 't is nature in the man — 
 
 May Heaven forgive you, for he never can! 
 
 Then be it so; and may his withering bays 
 
 Bloom fresh in satire, thougli they fade in praise! 
 
 While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink, 
 
 The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 
 
 But springing upwards from the sluggisli mould. 
 
 Be (what they never were before) be — sold ! 
 
 Should some rich bard (but such a monster now. 
 
 In modern physics, we can scarce .allow), 
 
 Should some pretending scribbler of the court. 
 
 Some rhyming peer — tliere 's plenty of the sort — 
 
 All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, 
 
 (Ah! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn!) 
 
 Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 
 
 Their last dramatic work by candle-light, 
 
 How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf. 
 
 Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 
 
 Yet, since 't is promised at the rector's death. 
 
 He '11 risk no living for a little breath. 
 
 Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line, 
 
 (The Lord forgive him!) "Bravo! grand! divine!" 
 
 Hoarse with those praises (which, by flattery fed. 
 
 Dependence barters for her bitter bread), 
 
 He strides and stamps along with creaking boot. 
 
 Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot ; 
 
 Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 
 
 As when the dying vicar will not die ! 
 
 Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart; — 
 
 But all dissemblers overact their part. 
 
 Ye, who aspire to "build the lofty rhyme," 
 Believe not all who laud your false "sublime;" 
 But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
 "Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
 And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
 Without amendment, and he answers, "Burn!" 
 That instant throw your paper in the fire. 
 Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire; 
 But if (true bard !) you scorn to condescend, 
 And will not alter what you can't defend. 
 If you will breed this bastard of your brains, — 
 We '11 have no words — I 've only lost my pains. 
 
 Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought, 
 As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 
 If your cool friend annoy you now and then, 
 And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen ; 
 
 No matter, throw your ornaments aside, — 
 Better let him than all the world deride. 
 Give light to passages too much in shade, 
 Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you 've made ; 
 Your friend's "a Johnson," not to leave one word. 
 However trifling, which may seem absurd; 
 Such erring trifles lead to serious ills. 
 And furnish food for critics, or their quills. 
 
 As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune, 
 Or the sad influence of the angry moon. 
 All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues. 
 As yawning waiters fly Fitzscribble's lungs ; 
 Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 
 As prelate's homily, or placeman's speech ; 
 Long as the last years of a lingering lease, 
 When riot pause's until rents increase. 
 While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
 O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways, 
 If by some chance he walks into a well. 
 And shouts for succour with stentorian yell, 
 "A rope! help. Christians, as ye hope for grace!" 
 Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace; 
 For there his carcass he might freely fling. 
 From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 
 Though this has happen'd to more bards than one ; 
 I '11 tell you Budgell's story, — and have done. 
 
 Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good, 
 (Unless his case be much misunderstood) 
 When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
 "To die like Cato," leapt into the Thames! 
 And therefore be it lawful through the town 
 For any bard to poison, hang, or drown. 
 Who saves the intended suicide receives 
 Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves ; 
 And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
 The glory of that death they freely choose . 
 
 Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
 Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse; 
 Dosed with vile drams on Sunday he was found, 
 Or got a child on consecrated ground ! 
 And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage — 
 Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his rage. 
 If free, all fly his versifying fit. 
 Fatal at once to simpleton or wit. 
 But /»'»?, unhappy! whom he seizes, — lum 
 He flays with recitation limb by limb ; 
 Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breacli, 
 And gorges like a lawyer — or a leech. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 ]\h]T UQ Its ftu/f liirtt, fi7]re rt vtUtt, 
 
 HO.VER. 
 
 He whistled as he went for want of thought. 
 
 Drvdex. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 
 
 KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, etc. etc. 
 
 THESE FOliMS ARE INSCRIGEU BY HIS OBLIGED WASU ANU 
 AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookes 
 from thy tower to-day ; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert 
 comes ; it howls in thy empty court. Ossian. 
 
 Phrough thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds 
 Thou, thehall of my fathers, artgoneto decay; [whistle; 
 . thy once smiling garden the hemlock and thistle 
 Have choked up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way. 
 
 If the mail-cover'd Barons, who, proudly, to battle 
 Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 
 
 'he 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-laurell'd wreath; 
 
 Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan slumbers, 
 Unnerved is tlie 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; [tell. 
 
 How you fought! how you died! still her annals can 
 
 On Marston, with Rupert 'gainst traitors contending, 
 Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; 
 
 For the rights of a monarch, their country defending, 
 Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. 
 
 Shades of heroes, farewell! 5'our descendant, departing 
 From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! 
 
 ifcroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting 
 New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 
 
 Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; 
 
 Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, 
 The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
 
 That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish. 
 He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown; 
 
 Like you will he live, or like you will he perish; 
 When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own. 
 
 1803. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 
 
 AoTiQ Ui^vv fiev iku/ii7ti(; tn t,(ooiaiv £wog. 
 
 Laertics. 
 
 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 ! 
 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 tjiee, his dying hour will cheer, 
 Yet other ofl'spriug soothe his anguish here : 
 But, wlio with me shall hold thy former place? 
 Thine image, Avhat new friendship can eflace? 
 
fo 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 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. 
 
 1803. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice i" 
 Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; 
 When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, 
 Or, dark in mist, descend the mountains' 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; 
 JTiat, only that, shall single out the spot, 
 By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 
 
 1803. 
 
 THE TEAR. 
 
 O lacbr}rmaram fons, tenero sacros 
 Dueentiam ortas ex animo ; qaater 
 Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit. 
 
 Grat. 
 
 When Friendship or Love 
 
 Our sympathies move; 
 When Truth, in a glance, should appear. 
 
 The lips may beguile, 
 
 With a dimple or smile, 
 But the test of affection 's a Tear. 
 
 Too oft is a smile 
 
 But the hypocrite's wile, 
 To mask detestation, or 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, 
 Tiirough 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. 
 
 Bj' 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. 
 
 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." 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 631 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Wliat, 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 iiim, 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 sad requiem gave, 
 
 As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 
 
 He sunk, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight 
 
 Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state; 
 
 When, lo ! a Hercules, in Fox, appear' d, 
 
 Who, for a time, the ruin'd fabric rear'd ; 
 
 He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied; 
 
 With him, our fast reviving hopes have died: 
 
 Not one great people only raise his urn, 
 
 AH 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, 
 
 Wliile friends and foes alike his talents own, 
 
 Fox shall, in Britain's future annals, shine, 
 
 Vor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign, 
 
 Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, 
 
 ?or Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 
 
 AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 
 
 ielivered previous to the performance of "The IVheel 
 of Fortune," at a private theatre. 
 
 JINCE the refinement of this polish'd age 
 las swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
 5mce taste has now expunged licentious wit, 
 iVhicli stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; 
 Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek, 
 j'lor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek; 
 :)h! let the modest Muse some pity claim, 
 knd meet indulgence though she find not fame. 
 |5till, not for her alone we wish respect, 
 Others appear more conscious of defect ; 
 To-niglit, no veteran Roscii you behold, 
 n all the arts of scenic action old ; 
 !«' 'Jo Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 
 'io SiDDONS draw the sympathetic tear; 
 To-night, you throng to witness the debut, 
 )f embryo-actors, to the drama new. 
 Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try; 
 plip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly; 
 IViling in this our first attempt to soar, 
 )rooping, 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 Personse 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 timid 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. 
 
 STANZAS TO A LADY. 
 
 With the Poems of Camoens. 
 
 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 aflection 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. 
 
632 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 These might the boldest sylph appal, 
 When gleaming with meridian blaze; 
 
 Thy beauty must enrapture all; 
 
 But who can dare thine ardent gaze? 
 
 'Tis said, that Berenice's hair 
 
 In stars adorns the vault of heaven; 
 
 But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
 Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 
 
 For, did those eyes as planets roll. 
 Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: 
 
 E'en suns, which systems now controul, 
 Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. 
 
 TO WOMAN. 
 
 Woman ! experience might have told me, 
 
 That all must love thee who behold thee; 
 
 Surely, experience might have taught. 
 
 Thy firmest promises are nought; 
 
 But, placed in all thy charms before me. 
 
 All I forget, but to adore thee. 
 
 Oh Memory ! thou choicest blessing. 
 
 When join'd with hope, when still possessing; 
 
 But how much cursed by every lover. 
 
 When hope is fled, and passion's over. 
 
 Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, 
 
 How prompt are striplings to believe her! 
 
 How throbs the pulse, when first we view 
 
 The eye that rolls in glossy blue, 
 
 Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 
 
 A beam from under hazel brows! 
 
 Row quick we credit every oath, 
 
 And hear her plight the willing troth ! 
 
 Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, 
 
 When, 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'll surely forgive; 
 
 Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
 For in visions alone your affection can live; 
 
 I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 
 
 Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast, 
 
 Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
 Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last. 
 
 What rapture celestial is mine! 
 
 They tell us, that slumber, the sister of death, 
 
 Mortality's emblem is given ; 
 To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 
 
 If this be a foretaste of heaven ! 
 
 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 smil< 
 
 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 heat! 
 And climb'd thy steep summit, oh! Morven of Snow, 
 To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, 
 Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, 
 Uututor'd by science, a stranger to fear. 
 And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew. 
 No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 
 Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you? 
 
 Yet, it could not be love, for I knew not the name ; 
 
 What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? 
 
 But, still, I perceive an emotion the same 
 
 As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild : 
 
 One image, alone, on my bosom imprest, 
 
 I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; • 
 
 And few were my Avants, 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 the billows oi 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 aVIary, were spread to my vieyv ; 
 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, 
 Aild'delight but in days I have witness'd before. 
 Ah! splendour has raised, but embittcr'd my lot; 
 More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew ; 
 Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forge 
 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; 
 When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 
 I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene ; 
 When, haply, some light 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 tlie day may arrive, when the mountains, once mor 
 
 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? 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 633 
 
 TO 
 
 Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other, 
 
 The friendships of childhood, tliough fleeting, are true; 
 
 The love whicii you felt, was the love of a brother, 
 Nor less the affection I cherish 'd for you. 
 
 I But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion ; 
 
 The attachment of years in a moment expires ; 
 Like Love too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, 
 j But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. 
 
 Full oft have we w ander'd 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, w hich has lost, may in future redeem you, 
 Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 
 
 1 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, 
 J If danger demanded, were wholly your own; 
 j You knew me unalter'd, by years or by distance, 
 Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 
 
 You knew, — but away with the vain retrospection, 
 The bond of affection no longer endures ; 
 
 Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, 
 And sigii 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 aECElVING HER PICTURE. 
 
 This faint resemblanceof 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, 
 
 W^hose 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. 
 
 But Where's the beam so sweetly straying? 
 
 Whicli gave a lustre to its blue. 
 Like Luna o'er the ocean playing. 
 
 Sweet copy ! far more dear to me. 
 
 Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art. 
 Than all the living forms could be. 
 
 Save her who placed thee next my heart. 
 
 Lest time might shake my wavering soul. 
 She placed it, sad, with needless fear. 
 
 Unconscious, that her image, there. 
 Held every sense in fast controul. 
 
 Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 'twill cheer ; 
 
 My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; 
 In life's last conflict 'twill appear. 
 
 And meet my fond expiring gaze. 
 
 DAM^TAS. 
 
 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 yet 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; 
 
 Damsetas ran through all the maze of sjn. 
 
 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 chai* 
 
 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. 
 'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, 
 Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 
 He in dimpling smiles appears. 
 Or mourns in sweetly timid tears; 
 Or 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 cool 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. 
 40* 
 
 m 
 
634 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 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 ofl', in searcli of reason, 
 
 Brings prudence back in proper season. 
 
 All I shall therefore say (wbate'er 
 
 I think is neither here nor there), 
 
 Is.that such lips, of looks endearing. 
 
 Were form'd for better things, than sneering. 
 
 Of sootiiing 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 tcazing. 
 
 At once I'll tell thee our opinion, 
 
 Concerning woman's soft dominion: 
 
 Howe'er we gaze with admiration, 
 
 On eyes of blue, or lips carnation ; 
 
 Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
 
 Howe'er those beauties may distract us; 
 
 Still fickle, we are prone to rove. 
 
 These cannot fix our souls to love; 
 
 It is not too severe a stricture. 
 
 To say they form a pretty picture. 
 
 But wouldst thou see the secret chain. 
 
 Wh ich binds us in your humble train, 
 
 lail you queens of all creation, 
 
 Av, in a word, 'tis Animation. 
 
 OSCAR OF ALVA. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 How sweetly shines, through azure skies. 
 The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore; 
 
 Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 
 And hear the din of arms no more. 
 
 But often has yon rolling moon 
 
 On Alva's casques of silver play'd; « 
 And view'd, at midnight's silent noon. 
 
 Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd. 
 
 And, on tlie crimson'd rocks beneath, 
 Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, 
 
 Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, 
 She saw tlie 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 liglit: 
 
 But, now, she glimmer'd from above, 
 A sad funereal torch of night. 
 
 Faded is Alva's noble race. 
 
 And gray her towers are seen afar; 
 
 No more her heroes urge the chase. 
 Or roll the crimson tide of war. 
 
 But, who was last of Alva's clan? 
 
 Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? 
 Her towers resound no steps of man. 
 
 They echo to the gale alone. 
 
 And, when that gale is fierce and high, 
 A sound is heard in yonder hall, 
 
 It rises hoarsely through the sky, 
 
 And vibrates o'er the mouldering 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 cliieftain's hearth 
 Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 
 
 They feast upon the mountain-deer. 
 The pibroch raised its piercing note; 
 
 To gladden more their Highland cheer, 
 The strains in martial numbers float; 
 
 And they who heard the war-notes wild, 
 Hoped that, one day, the pibroch's strain 
 
 Should play before the hero's child. 
 While he should lead the Tartan train. 
 
 Another year is quickly past, 
 And Angus hails another son; 
 
 His natal day is like the last, 
 
 Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 
 
 Taught by their sire to bend the bow. 
 On Alva's dusky hills of wind, 
 
 The boys in childhood chased the roe. 
 And left their hounds in speed behind. 
 
 But, 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 streamed along the gale ; 
 
 But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 
 And pensive seem'd his ciieck, and pale. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 635 
 
 But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, 
 
 His dark eye shone through beams of truth; 
 Allan had early learn'd controul, 
 
 And smooth his words had been from youth. 
 
 Both, both were brave: the Saxon spear 
 Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel; 
 
 And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, 
 But Oscar's bosom knew to feel. 
 
 While Allan's soul belied his form, 
 Unworthy with such charms to dwell; 
 
 Keen as the lightning of the storm. 
 On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 
 
 From high Southannon's distant tower 
 Arrived a young and noble dame; 
 
 With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
 Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came: 
 
 And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride. 
 
 And Angus on his Oscar smiled ; 
 It soothed the father's feudal pride, 
 
 Thus to obtain 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 their chieftain's call. 
 
 It is not war their aid demands. 
 The pibroch plays the song of peace. 
 
 To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands. 
 Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 
 
 But where is Oscar ? sure 'tis late : 
 Is this a bridegroom's ardent ilame ? 
 
 While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
 Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 
 
 At length young Allan join'd the bride : 
 "Why comes not Oscar?" Angus said; 
 
 "Is he not here ?" the Youth replied, 
 "With me he roved not o'er the glade. 
 
 Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
 'Tis his to chase the bounding roe ; 
 
 Or Ocean's waves prolong his stay. 
 Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 
 
 "Oh! no!" the anguish'd Sire rejoin'd, 
 "Nor chase, nor wave my Boy delay; 
 
 Would he to Mora seem unkind? 
 Would aught to her impede his way? 
 
 Oh! search, ye Chiefs ! oh! search around! 
 
 Allan, with these, through Alva fly. 
 Till Oscar, till my son is found; 
 
 Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 
 
 All is confusion, *— through the vale, 
 The name of Oscar hoarsely rings. 
 
 It rises on the murmuring gale, 
 
 Till Night expands her dusky wings. 
 
 It breaks the stillness of the night, 
 
 But echoes through her shades in vain ; 
 
 It sounds through morning's misty light. 
 But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 
 
 Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 
 For Oscar search'd each mountain-cave; 
 
 Then hope is lost in boundless, grief. 
 His locks in gray 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. 
 
 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 j ust 1" 
 
 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 liis Father's sight. 
 And sorrow 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 w as laid. 
 And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 
 
 If Oscar lived, some other maid 
 Had claim'd bis faithless bosom's care.' 
 
 And Angus said, if one year more 
 In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 
 
 His fondest scruples should be o'er. 
 And he would name their nuptial day. 
 
 
636 
 
 HOUllS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last, 
 Arrived the dearl}' destined morn ; 
 
 The year of anxious trembling past, 
 What smiles tlie Lover's clieeks 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 mirtli re-echo loud. 
 And all their former joy recall. 
 
 But, who is he, whose darken'd brow 
 Glooms in the midst of general mirth? 
 
 Before his 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 gory red; 
 
 His voice is like the rising storm, 
 But light and trackless is his tread. 
 
 'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, 
 The bridegroom's health is deeply 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' clieek with wonder glows, 
 
 And Mora's tender bosom blusJj'd. 
 
 ■jpid naan!" he cried, "this pledge is done; 
 ^Th6Ti sawst 'twas duly drank by me; 
 It hail'd tiie nuptials of thy son; 
 Now will I claim a pledge from tlice. 
 
 While all around is mirth and joj'. 
 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 siglit; 
 
 And Allan is my last resource. 
 
 Since martial Oscar's death, or flight." 
 
 "'Tis well," replied the stranger stern, 
 And fiercely flasii'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; 
 
 Perchance the chief has only roved ; 
 For him thy Beltane yet may burn. 
 
 Fill high the bowl, the table round. 
 
 We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 
 
 Witii wine let every cup be crown'd; 
 Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 
 
 "With all my soul," old Angus said, 
 
 And fiJl'd his goblet to the brim ; 
 "Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, 
 
 I ne'er shall find a son like him." 
 
 "Bravely old man, this health has sped. 
 
 But why does Allan trembling stand '. 
 Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 
 
 And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 
 
 The crimson glow of Allan's face 
 
 Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue; 
 The drops of death each other chase, 
 
 Adown in agonizing dew. 
 
 Thrice did he raise the goblet high. 
 
 And thrice his lips refused to taste; 
 For thrice he caught the stranger's eye, 
 
 On his with deadly fury placed. 
 
 "And is it thus a brother hails 
 
 A brother's fond remembrance here ? 
 If thus aflection's strength prevails. 
 
 What might we not expect from fear?" 
 
 Roused by the sneer, he rais'd the bowl ; 
 
 „WouId Oscar now could share our mirth !" 
 Internal fear appall'd his soul; 
 
 He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 
 
 "'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice !" 
 Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming Form ; 
 
 "A murderer's voice!" the roof replies. 
 And deeply swells the bursting storm. 
 
 The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink. 
 The stranger's gone, — amidst the crew 
 
 A Form was seen, in tartan green. 
 And tall the shade terrific grew. 
 
 His waist was bound with a broad belt round. 
 
 His plume of sable stream'd on high ; 
 But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, 
 
 And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 
 
 And thrice he smiled, with his eye so w ild. 
 
 On Angus, bending low the knee; 
 And thrice he frown'd on a Ciiief on the ground. 
 
 Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 
 
 Tin: bolts loud roll, from pole to pole. 
 
 The thunders through tlie 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. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 637 
 
 "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 sliall Allan rise ! 
 
 But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 
 
 His lo(!ks are lifted by the gale; 
 And Allan's barbed arrow lay. 
 
 With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 
 
 And wJience 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 liis 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? 
 
 park 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. 
 
 pLo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb, 
 Which rises o'er a warrior dead? 
 
 It glimmers through the twilight gloom; 
 Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 
 
 [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 gray, what hoary bard. 
 Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? 
 
 jThe 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 hallo w'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 DORSET. 
 
 In looking over my papers, to select a few additional Poems for tlie 
 second edition, I found the following lines, which I had totally for- 
 gotten, composed in the Snmraer of 1805, a short time previous to 
 my departure from Harrow. They were addressed to a young school- 
 . fellow of high rank, who had 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 reperusal, I found 
 them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, I have now 
 • published them, for the first time, after a slight revision, 
 
 Dorset! whose early steps vvith mine have stray'd. 
 Exploring every path of Ida's glade ; 
 
 Whom, still, afl'ection taught me to defend, 
 And made me less a tyrant than a friend; 
 Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
 Bade thee obey, and gave me to command ; 
 Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower 
 The gift of riches, and the pride of power; 
 Even now a name illustrious is thine own, 
 Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 
 Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul, 
 To shun fair science, or evade control; 
 Though passive tutorS; 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 rules;" 
 Believe them not, — they point the path to shame, 
 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! 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear; 
 For well I know that virtue lingers there. 
 
 Yes! I have mark'd tb.ccmany 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 tarae, 
 I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 
 'Tis 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. 
 
638 
 
 TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 
 
 As first in rank, the first in talent too ; 
 Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun, 
 Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 
 
 Turn to the annals of a former day, 
 Briglit are the deeds thine earlier Sires display ; 
 One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth, 
 And call'd, proud boast ! the British Drama forth. 
 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 distinguished from the glittering throng. 
 The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song. 
 Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name; 
 Not Iieir to titles only, but to fame. 
 The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, 
 To me, this little scene of joys and woes; 
 Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 
 Shades, where Hope, Peace and Friendship, all were 
 
 mine; 
 Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
 And gild their pinions, as the moments Hew; 
 Peace, that reflection never frown'd away. 
 By dreams of ill, to cloud some future day ; 
 Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell, 
 Alas! they love not long, who love so well. 
 
 To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er 
 Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, 
 Receding slowly through the dark blue deep, 
 Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 
 
 Dorset ! farewell! I will not 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 selfsame 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 or foe, 
 A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe ; 
 With thee no more again I hope to trace 
 The recollection of our early race : 
 No more, as once, in social hours, rejoice. 
 Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice- 
 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. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 
 
 ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL, WHEN 
 DYING. 
 Animula ! vagula, blandula, 
 Hospes, comesque, corporis, 
 Quaj nunc abibis in loca? 
 Pallidula, rigida, nudula. 
 Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos. 
 
 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. 
 
 Equal to Jove that youth must be. 
 Greater than Jove, he seems to me, 
 Who, free from jealousy's alarms, 
 Securely views thy matchless charms. 
 
 That cheek, which ever dimpling glows. 
 That mouth from whence such music flows, 
 To him, alike, are always known. 
 Reserved for him, and him alone. 
 Ah ! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me, 
 I cannot choose but look on thee; 
 But, at the sight, my senses fly; 
 I needs must gaze, but gazing die; 
 Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 
 Parch'd to the throat, my tongue adheres, 
 My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short. 
 My limbs deny their slight support; 
 Cold dews my 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 fegls a temporary death. 
 
TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 
 
 639 
 
 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 controH'd, 
 Fit comrades in Elysian regions move. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 
 
 LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSERIS. 
 
 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 ilew, 
 No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 
 
 But lightly o'er her bosom movecf . 
 And softly fluttering here and there, 
 He never sought to cleave tlie air ; 
 But chirrup'd oft, and free from care. 
 
 Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
 Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne 
 From whence he never can return, 
 His death, and Lesbia's grief, I mourn, 
 
 Who sighs, alas! 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. 
 
 TO ELLEN. 
 
 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 siiould sated be, 
 Still would I kiss and cling to tiiee : 
 Nought should my kiss from thine dissever. 
 Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
 E'en though the number did exceed 
 The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
 To part would be a vain endeavour; 
 Could I desist? — ah ! never — never. 
 
 TRANSLATION 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 Cadmus 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; 
 With glowing strings the epic strain 
 To Jove's great son I raise again ; 
 •Alcides and his glorious deeds, 
 Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds ; 
 All, all in vain, my wayward lyre 
 Wakes silver-notes of soft desire. 
 Adieu! ye chiefs renown'd in arms! 
 Adieu! the clang of war's alarms. 
 To other deeds my soul is strung, 
 And sweeter notes shall now be sung; 
 My harp shall all its powers reveal. 
 To tell the tale my heart must feel; 
 Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim, 
 In songs of bliss, and sighs of tlame. 
 
 ODE IlL 
 'TwAS now the hour, when Night had driven 
 Her car half round yon sable heaven ; 
 Bootes, only, seem'd 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 faultering accents, sweetly mild; 
 "A hapless infant here I roam. 
 Far from my dear maternal home. 
 Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast, 
 The mighty storm is pouring fast; 
 No prowling robber lingers here; 
 A wandering baby, who can fear?" 
 I heard his seeming artless tale, 
 I heard his siglis upon the gale; 
 My breast was never pity's foc, 
 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. 
 (Ah ! little did 1 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, 
 
640 
 
 TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 
 
 Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, 
 Than swift he seized his slendei- bow: 
 "I fain would know, my gentle host," 
 He cried, "if tliis its strength has lost; 
 I fear, relax'd with midnight-dews. 
 The strings tlieir former aid refuse." 
 With poison tipt, his arrow flies. 
 Deep in my tortured heart it lies : 
 Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd: 
 "My bow can still impel the shaft, 
 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; • 
 
 Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?" 
 
 FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. 
 
 FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF iESCHYLUS. 
 
 Great Jovel 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, 
 Wlien placed aloft in godlike state, 
 
 The blushing beauty by thy side. 
 Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 
 And mirthful strains the hours beguiled i 
 The Nymphs and Tritons danced around. 
 Nor yet tliy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd. 
 
 Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804. 
 
 THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS. 
 
 A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ^NEID, LIB. 9. 
 Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, 
 Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; 
 Well skill'd in fight, tiie 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 watcii the movements of the Daunian host, 
 With liim, Euryalus sustains the post: 
 No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 
 And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy; 
 Though few the seasons of his youthful life. 
 As yet a novice in the martial strife, 
 'Twas his, with beauty,valour's gift to share, 
 A soul heroic, as his form was fair; 
 These burn with one pure flame of generous love, 
 III peace, in war, united still they move; 
 Friendship and glory form their joint reward, 
 And now combined they hold the nightly guard. 
 
 "What God!" exclaim'd the first, "instils this fire? 
 Or, in itself a God, what great desire? 
 
 My labouring soul, with anxious thought opprest. 
 Abhors this station of inglorious rest: 
 Tiie love of fame with this can ill accord, 
 Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
 Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 
 Where drunken slumbers 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 mound, 
 Alethinks, an easy path perchance were found; 
 Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, 
 And lead ^neas 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? 
 And I by thee despised, and left afar. 
 As one unfit to sJiare the toils of war? 
 Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught ; 
 Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought; 
 Not thus, when Ilion fell, by heavenly hate, 
 I track'd ^neas through tJie walls of fate; 
 Thou knowst my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 
 And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear ; 
 Here is a soul with hope immortal burns 
 And li/e, ignoble life, for glori/ spurns; 
 Fame, fame is cheaply carn'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 tliy worth and valour than my own, 
 I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne! 
 So may I triumph, as 1 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 lengthened term deserve. 
 When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
 Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me; 
 Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, 
 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 signalize 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 .' 
 
TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 
 
 641 
 
 HcHce, let us haste!"— their brother-guards arose, 
 Roused by their call, nor court agaiu repose ; 
 The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, 
 Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 
 Nov.', o'er the eartli a solemn stillness ran, 
 And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
 Save wJiere the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
 Alternate converse, and their plans unfold ; 
 On one great point the council are agreed, 
 An instant message to tlieir prince decreed ; 
 Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield. 
 And poised, with easy arm, his ancient shield ; 
 WJien Nisus and his friend their leave request 
 To ofter something to tlieir high beliest. 
 With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, 
 Tlie faithful pair before the throne appear; 
 lulus greets them; at his kind command, 
 The elder hrst address'd the hoary band. 
 
 "With patience," thus Hyrtacides began, 
 /'Attend, nor judge from youth, our humble plan. 
 Where yonder beacons, half-expiring, beam, 
 lOur slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
 Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, 
 iBetween the ocean and the portal placed: 
 jBencath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
 Whose shade securely our design will cloak, 
 i'lf you, yc Chiefs, and Fortune will allow, 
 iWe'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow, 
 Where Pallas' walls, at distance, meet the sight, 
 jSccn o'er the glade, when not obscured by night; 
 flMicn shall ^neas in his pride return. 
 While iiostile matrons raise their offsprings' urn. 
 And Latian spoils, and purpled heaps of dead, 
 Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread , 
 jSach is ourpurpose, not unknown the way, 
 jWhere yonder torrent's devious waters stray: 
 pit have we seen, when liunting by the stream, 
 The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 
 Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
 IVIovcd by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd: 
 H'Ye parent Gods! who rule the fate of Troy, 
 Iptill dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
 ^Vhcn minds like these in striplings thus yc raise, 
 ijfours is the god-like act, be yours the praise; 
 a gallant youth my fainting hopes revive, 
 jVnd Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
 Then, in his warm embrace, the boys he press'd, 
 iVnd, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast; 
 iVjth tears the burning cheek of each bedevv'd, 
 iud, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew 'd : — 
 'What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
 >an wc bestow, which you may not despise? 
 )ur deities the first, best boon have given, 
 J nternal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
 h Vhat poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth, 
 *' )oubtIess, await such young exalted worth; 
 t' . Eneas and Ascanius shall combine 
 n 'o yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 
 
 ulus tlicn: ''By all the powers above! 
 )' $y those Penates 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 Argivc robber's prey. 
 
 Two massy tripods also shall be thine, 
 
 Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine; 
 
 An ancient cup which Tyrian Dido gave. 
 
 While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave: 
 
 But, when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
 
 When great ^neas wears Hesperia's crown, 
 
 The casque, the buckler, and tlie fiery steed. 
 
 Which Turnus guides with more than mortal Speed, 
 
 Are thine; no envious lot shall then be cast, 
 
 I pledge my word, irrevocably pass'd ; 
 
 Nay more, twelve slaves and tw ice six captive dames. 
 
 To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 
 
 And all the realms which now the Latins sway, 
 
 The labours of to-night shall well repay. 
 
 But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
 
 Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
 
 Henceforth , affections 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." 
 
 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 bog, tlie nearest to my heart: 
 My mother sprung from Priam's royal line, 
 Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine; 
 Nor Troy, nor King Accstcs' realms restrain 
 Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 
 Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
 A bright example of maternal love. 
 Unknown, the secret cnterprize 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 cluld 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. 
 41 
 
642 
 
 TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 
 
 To cheer thy mother's years shall be uiy aim, 
 Creusa's style but wanting to the dame; 
 Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, 
 liut 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 tlie rewards which once to tliee were vow'd, 
 If tiiou 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, 
 Mnesthcus, 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 sigiiing gale? 
 
 The trench is past, and, favour'd by the night. 
 Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary llight. 
 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 ; 
 I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe. 
 And clear thy road, with many a deadly blow." 
 His whispering accents thou the youth represt. 
 And pierced proud Rhamnes tiirough his panting breast; 
 Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed; 
 Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed; 
 To Turnus de^r, a prophet and a prince, 
 His omens more than augur's skill evince; 
 But he, who thus foretold the fate of all. 
 Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
 Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell, 
 And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell: 
 The charioteer along his courser's sides 
 Expires, the steel his sever'd 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 eartli with clotting gore. 
 Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire. 
 And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful lire; 
 Half the long night in childish games was past, 
 Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last; 
 Ah! happier far, had he the morn survey 'd. 
 And, till Aurora's dawn, his skill display 'd. 
 
 In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, 
 His hungry fangs a Lion thus may steep ; 
 
 'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls. 
 With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls ; 
 Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams. 
 In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 
 
 Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came. 
 But falls on feeble crowds without a name; 
 His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel. 
 Yet wakeful Rhajsus 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; 
 Thro' wine and blood, commingling as they flow, 
 The 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 w ith carnage, and witii 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 arts emboss'd. 
 What bowls and mantles, in confusion toss'd. 
 They leave regardless! yet, one glittering prize 
 Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes; 
 The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt. 
 The gems w hich 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; 
 While the slow foot their tardy march delay. 
 The knights, impatient, spur along the way: 
 Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, 
 To Turnus with their master's promise sped: 
 Now, they approach the trench, and view the walla 
 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; 
 Tiie 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 w here Latinus' steeds in safety graze. 
 
TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 
 
 643 
 
 Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
 On every side they seek his absent friend. 
 "O God ! my boy," lie 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, 
 Tiic 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, 
 IJack 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 I 
 Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, 
 On Luna's orb he cast his phrenzied eye: 
 "Goddess serene, transcending every star! 
 Queen of the sky ! whose beams are seen sfar; 
 By night, Heaven owns tliy sway, by day, the grove; 
 When, as chaste Dian, here thou deignst to rove; 
 If e'er myself or sire have sought to grace 
 Thine altars with the produce of the cliace; 
 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 gaze ; 
 While pale tliey stare, thro' 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 Avith wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall; 
 "Thou youth accurst ! thy life shall pay for all." 
 Quick from the sheath his ilaming glave he drew 
 And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
 Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, 
 Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals; 
 Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise. 
 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, beneatii unnumber'd wounds he bleeds. 
 Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
 In viewless circles w heel'd his falchion flies. 
 Nor quits tiie hero's grasp, till Volscens dies ; 
 Deep in his throat its end the weapon found. 
 The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the v,ound. 
 Thus Nisus all his fond afl'ection 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, 
 W hat mind can stem tlie 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 afl'ection gently thrills 
 
 The soul, by purer dreams possest. 
 The pleasing balm of mortal ills. 
 
 In love can soothe the acliing breast; 
 If thus, thou com'st in gentle guise. 
 
 Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven. 
 What heart, unfeeling, would despise 
 
 The sweetest boon the Gods have given ? 
 
 But never from thy golden bow 
 
 May I beneath the shaft expire. 
 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. 
 
644 
 
 FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 May 110 distracting thoughts destroy 
 
 The holy calm of sacred love! 
 May all the hours be uing'd with joy, 
 
 Which hover faithful hearts above ! 
 Fair Venus! on tiiy myrtle-shrine, 
 
 May I with some fond lover sigh ! ~ 
 Whose heart may mingle pure w itli mine, 
 
 Witli me to live, with me to die. 
 
 My native soil ! beloved before, 
 
 Now dearer, as my peaceful home, 
 Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 
 
 A hapless, banish'd wretch to roam; 
 Tliis very day, 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 unknown, 
 Bids her he fondly loved depart, 
 
 Unpitied, helpless, and alone; 
 Who ne'er unlocks, with silver key. 
 
 The milder treasures of his soul; 
 May such a friend be far from me. 
 
 And Ocean's storms between us roll ! 
 
 FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE- 
 EXAMINATION. 
 
 High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
 Magnus his ample front sublime uprears; 
 Placed on his chair of state, he seems a Gk>d, 
 While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod ; 
 As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
 His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome. 
 Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
 Uuskill'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 with a critic's ken. 
 What! though he knows not how his fathers bled. 
 When civil discord piled the fields witli dead. 
 When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 
 Or Henry trampled on the crest of France; 
 Though, marv'ling at the name of Magna Charta, 
 Yet, well he recollects tlie 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' Athenfan's glowing style, or Tully'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 w ord. 
 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 Granta'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, or Porson's note, 
 More than the verse on which the critic wrote ; 
 
FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 645 
 
 Vain as their honours, heavy as tlieir ale, 
 Sad as tlicir wit, and tedious as their tale, 
 To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel, 
 When Self and Church demand a bigot-zeal. 
 Witli eager haste tliey court the lord of power, 
 Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour : 
 To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, 
 Wliile distant mitres to their eyes are spread; 
 But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 
 Tiiey'd lly to seek the next who fiU'd liis place. 
 S«ich are the men who learning's treasures guard, 
 Such is their practice, such is their reward; 
 This much, at least, we way presume to say, 
 The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF * * *. 
 
 Tu semper amorij 
 Sb roenioi', et cari coinitis iie abscedat imago. 
 
 Valerius Flaccus. 
 
 Frmind of my youth ! w hen young we roved. 
 Like striplings mutually beloved, 
 
 With friendsliip's purest glow ; 
 The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours. 
 Was such as pleasure seldom showers 
 
 On mortals here below. 
 
 The recollection seems, alone, 
 "Dearer than all the joys I've known, 
 
 Wlien distant far from you; 
 Thougli pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain. 
 To trace those days and hours again. 
 
 And sigh again, adieu! 
 
 My pensive memory lingers o'er 
 Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more. 
 
 Those scenes regretted ever; 
 The measure of our youth is full, 
 Life's evening-dream is dark and dull, 
 
 And we may meet — ah ! never ! 
 
 LAs 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 ynfathom'd gulph appear. 
 
 And botli shall quit the shore. 
 
 Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied 
 One wisii, nor breathed a thought beside, 
 
 Now How in diflerent channels ; 
 Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
 *Tis yours to mix in polisii'd courts. 
 
 And sliine in Fashion's annals. 
 
 'Tis mine to waste on love my time. 
 Or vent my reveries in rhyme, 
 
 Without the aid of Reason; 
 For Sense and Reason (Critics know it) 
 Have quitted every amorous Poet, 
 
 Nor left a thought to seize on. 
 
 Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard ! 
 Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard. 
 
 That he, who sang before all, — 
 He, who the lore of love expanded. 
 By dire Reviewers should be branded, 
 
 As void of wit and moral. 
 
 And yet, while beauty's praise is thine. 
 Harmonious favourite of the Nine! 
 
 Repine not at thy lot ; 
 Thy soothing lays may still be read. 
 When Persecution's arm is dead. 
 
 And Critics are forgot. 
 
 Stiir, 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, 
 
 I 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 oftends 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 'twould be your fate 
 To add one star to royal state; 
 
 May regal smiles attend you ! 
 And should a noble Monarch reign, 
 You will not seek his smiles in vain, 
 
 If worth can recommend you. 
 
 Yet, since in danger courts abound. 
 Where specious rivals glitter round, 
 
 From snares may Saints preserve you! 
 And grant your love or friendsliip 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 ! 
 
646 
 
 FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 wave at once a Poet's fame, 
 
 To prove a Prophet here. 
 
 GRANTA, A MEDLEY. 
 
 AQyvQiutq ).Qyy_uiai {laxov xuc nuvxa KQuxtjacui;, 
 
 Oil ! 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, unroof d, old Granta's halls 
 
 Pedantic inmates full display; 
 Fellows who dream on lawn, or stalls, 
 
 The price of venal votes to pay. 
 
 Then would 1 view each rival wight, 
 
 Petty and Palmerston survey; 
 Who canvass there with all Iheir might, 
 
 Against the next elective day. 
 
 Lo ! 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 H — , indeed, may not demur; 
 
 Fellows are sage, reflecting men! 
 They know preferment can occur 
 
 But very seldom, — now and then. 
 
 They know the Chancellor has got 
 
 Some pretty livings in disposal; 
 Each hopes that one may be his lot. 
 
 And, therefore, smile on his proposal. 
 
 Now, from the soporific scene 
 
 I'll turn mine eye as night grows later, 
 
 To view, unheeded and unseen, 
 The studious sons of Alma Mater. 
 
 There, in apartments small and damp. 
 
 The candidate for college-prizes 
 Sits poring by the midnight-lamp, 
 
 Gtoes 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, meters Attic; 
 Or agitates his anxious breast 
 
 In solving problems mathematic ; 
 
 Who reads false quantities in Scale, 
 Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle; 
 
 Deprived of many a wholesome 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; 
 
 Whose daring revels shock the sight, 
 AVhen vice and infamy combine; 
 
 When drunkenness and dice unite. 
 And every sense is steep'd in wine. 
 
 Not so the methodisticcrew. 
 
 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. 
 
 'Tis morn, — from these I turn my sight : 
 What scene is this which meets the eye? 
 
 A numerous crowd array'd in white. 
 Across the green in numbers fly. 
 
 Loud rings, in air, tlie ehapel-beil, 
 
 'Tis hush'd: What sounds are these I hear' 
 The organ's soft celestial swell 
 
 Rolls deeply on the listening ear. 
 
 To this is join'd 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 pxcused. 
 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 hir 
 
 To us his psalms had ne'er descended. 
 In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 
 
 The luckless Israelites, when taken. 
 By some inhuman tyrant's order, 
 
 Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, 
 On Babylonian river's border: 
 
FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 647 
 
 Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 
 Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
 
 They miglit have set their liearts at case, 
 The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 
 
 But, if I scribble longer now, 
 
 The deuce a soul will stay to read; 
 
 My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 
 'Tis almost time to stop, indeed. 
 
 Therefore, farewell, old Grama's spires, 
 
 No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
 No more thy theme my Muse inspires, 
 
 Tlie reader 's tired, and so am I. 
 
 LACHIN Y GAIR. 
 
 LicHiN Y Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch na o*rr, 
 towers proudly preeminent in tlie Northern Highlands, near Inver- 
 cauld. One of our modern Tourists mentions it as the liighest moun- 
 tain, perhaps in Great Britain; be this as it may. it is certainly one 
 of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our "Caledonian Alps." 
 Its appearance is of a dusliy hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal 
 snows: near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early p;irt of my life, 
 the recollection of which has given birth to the following Stanzas. 
 
 |i\VAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 
 
 In you let the minions of luxury rove; 
 [Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, 
 
 Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: 
 |Jfet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 
 
 Round their while summits though elements war, 
 [Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing fouu- 
 
 I sigh for the valley of dark Loch ua Garr. [tains, 
 
 Ui! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd, 
 
 My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; 
 pn chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, 
 
 As daily 1 strode through the pine-cover'd glade; 
 sought not my home till the day's dying glory 
 
 Gave place to the rays of the bright polar-star; 
 'or Fancy was cheer'd by traditional story 
 
 Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 Jbades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 
 Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale? 
 
 purely the soul of the hero rejoices. 
 And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale: 
 
 iound Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, 
 Winter presides in his cold icy car ; 
 
 Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers — 
 hey dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 tarr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding 
 ell you that Fate had forsaken your cause? 
 |t ! were you destined to die at Culloden, 
 gTictory crown'd not your fall with applause; 
 311 were you happy, in death's early slumber. 
 You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar; 
 riie pibroch resounds to tlie piper's loud number 
 Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 fears have roU'd on. Loch na Garr, since I left you ; 
 Years must elapse ere I tread you again; 
 
 Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, 
 Yet, still, are you dearer than Albion's plain: 
 
 England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic. 
 To one who has roved on the mountains afar; 
 
 Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic, 
 
 The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! 
 
 TO ROMANCE. 
 
 Parent of golden dreams, Romance! 
 
 Auspicious Queen of childish joys! 
 Who leadst along, in airy dance. 
 
 Thy votive train of girls and boys; 
 At length, in spells no longer bound, 
 
 I break the fetters of my youth ; 
 No more I tread thy mystic round, 
 
 But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 
 
 And, yet, 'tis hard to quit the dreams 
 
 Which haunt the unsuspicious soul. 
 Where every nymph a goddess seems, 
 
 Whose eyes througli rays immortal roll; 
 While Fantsy holds her boundless reign, 
 
 And all assume a varied hue ; 
 When virgins seem no longer vain, 
 
 And even woman's smiles are true. 
 
 And must we own thee but a name. 
 
 And from thy hall of clouds descend? 
 Nor find a Sylph in every dame, 
 
 A Pylades in every friend ? 
 But leave, at once, thy realms of air. 
 
 To mingling bands of fairy elves: 
 Confess that woman's false as fair, 
 
 And friends have feelings for — themselves ? 
 
 With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway ; 
 
 Repentant, now thy reign is o'er : 
 No more thy precept 1 obey. 
 
 No more on fancied pinions soar : 
 Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye, 
 
 And think that e^e to truth was dear; 
 To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 
 
 And melt beneath a wanton's tear. 
 
 Romance ! disgusted with deceit, 
 
 Far from thy motley court I fly. 
 Where Afl'ectation liolds her seat. 
 
 And sickly Sensibility; 
 Whose silly tears can never flow 
 
 For any pangs excepting thine; 
 Who turns aside from real woe. 
 
 To steep in dew thy gaudy slniue. 
 
 Now join with sable Sympathy, 
 
 With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds ; 
 Who heaves with thee her simple sigh. 
 
 Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; 
 And call thy sylvan female quire. 
 
 To mourn a swain for ever gone, 
 Who once could glow with equal fire. 
 
 But bends not now before thy throne. 
 
648 
 
 FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears, 
 
 On all occasions, swiftly flow ; 
 Whose bosoms lieave with fancied fears, 
 
 With fancied flames and phrenzy glow ; 
 Say, will you mourn my absent name, 
 
 Apostate from your gentle train? 
 An infant Bard, at least, may claim 
 
 From you a sympathetic strain. 
 
 Adieu! fond race, a long adieu! 
 
 The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
 Even now the gulf appears in view. 
 
 Where unlamented you must lie: 
 Oblivion's blackening lake is seen 
 
 Convulsed by gales you cannot weather, 
 Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 
 
 Alas ! must perish altogether. 
 
 ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me vhh ull 
 their deeds. Ossian. 
 
 Newstead ! fast falling, once resplendent dome! 
 
 Religion's shrine! repentant Henry's pride! 
 Of Warriors, Monks, and Pames the cloister'd tomb. 
 
 Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide ; 
 
 Hail! to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall. 
 Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state; 
 
 Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted liall 
 Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 
 
 No mail-clad Serfs, obedient to their Lord, 
 In grim array, the crimson cross demand; 
 
 Or gay assemble round the festive board, 
 Their chief's retainers, an inmortal band. 
 
 Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 
 
 Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time; 
 
 Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
 A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime. 
 
 But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the Chief, 
 
 His feudal realm in other regions lay; 
 In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, 
 
 Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 
 
 Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound, 
 The Monk abjured a world he ne'er could view; 
 
 Or blood-stain'd Guilt repenting solace found. 
 Or Innocence from stern Oppression flew. 
 
 A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise. 
 
 Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl: 
 And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, 
 
 Sought shelter in the Priest's protecting cowl. 
 
 Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
 The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay," 
 
 In sainted fame the sacred Fathers grew, 
 Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray. 
 
 Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, 
 Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade. 
 
 The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend. 
 Or matin-orisons to Mary paid. 
 
 Years roll on years — to ages, ages yield — 
 
 Abbots to Abbots in a line succeed : 
 Religion's charter 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 the kind gift recalls. 
 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 offcasts, 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 now, 
 
 Encircled by insulting rebel powers ; 
 War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow. 
 
 And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 
 
 Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, 
 Tho' 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 the 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; 
 
 But Charles' protecting genius hither flew. 
 
 The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 
 
 TremblingjShe snatch'd him from the unequal strife. 
 
 In other fields the torrent to repel, 
 For nobler combats, here, reserved his life. 
 
 To lead the band where god-like Falkland 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 tliy sacred sod ; 
 
 O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse. 
 Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 
 
FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 649 
 
 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 of buried gold. 
 
 Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre. 
 The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death; 
 
 No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, 
 Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 
 
 At length, the sated murderers, gorged with prey. 
 Retire — the clamour of the fight is o'er ; 
 
 Silence again resumes her awful sway. 
 And sable Horror guards the massy door. 
 
 Here Desolation holds her dreary court; 
 
 What satellites declare her dismal reign ! 
 Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort 
 
 To 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 lier cave receives his bones, 
 
 Loathing the offering of so dark a death. 
 
 The legal Ruler now resumes the helm. 
 He guides thro' gentle seas the prow of state: 
 
 Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm. 
 And heals tlie bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. 
 
 The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells, 
 j Howling resign their violated nest; 
 Again the master on his tenure dwells, 
 Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. 
 
 iVassals, within thy hospitable pale, 
 
 I Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's return ; 
 
 Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 
 
 «ad matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn, 
 ousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
 I Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 
 !\nd, hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note. 
 The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 
 
 . I j.ne 
 
 I Wh 
 
 ^W 1 
 
 th their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : 
 What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase! 
 dying stag seeks refuge in the lake, 
 ulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 
 
 h! happy days! too happy to endure ! 
 j Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew ; 
 |"Jo splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 
 ' Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 
 
 uom these descending, sons to sires succeed; 
 I Time steals along, and Death uprears his dan : 
 Mother 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 — 
 
 Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers — 
 These, these he views, and views them but to weep. 
 
 Yet arc his tears no emblem of regret: 
 Chcrish'd affection only bids them flow. 
 
 Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget. 
 But warm his bosom with impassiou'd glow. 
 
 Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes, 
 Or gew-gaw grottos of the vainly great ; 
 
 Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 
 Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate. 
 
 Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine. 
 
 Thee to eradiate 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 conculerini jucundo sanus amico. 
 
 UURiCK 
 
 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, 
 
 41* 
 
650 
 
 FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
 And hearts with early rapture swell; 
 If frowning Age, with cold coutroul, 
 Confines the current of the soul, 
 Congeals the tear of Pity's eye. 
 Or checks the sympathetic sigh, 
 Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan, 
 And bids me feel for self alone; 
 Oh ! may my bosom never learn 
 
 To soothe its wonted heedless flow ; 
 Still, still, despise the censor stern, 
 
 But ne'er forget another's woe. 
 Yes, as you knew me in the days 
 O'er which Remembrance yet delays. 
 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'll 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 luU'd by Zephyr to repose. 
 Full often has my infant Muse, 
 
 Attuned to love her languid lyre : 
 But now, without a theme to choose. 
 
 The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
 My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown ; 
 
 E — is a wife, and C — a mother, 
 And Carolina sighs alone, 
 
 And Mary's given to another; 
 And Cora's eye, which rolled on me. 
 
 Can now no more my love recall : 
 In truth, dear L — , 'twas time to flee. 
 
 For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
 And though the Sun, with genial rays. 
 His beams alike to all displays, 
 And every lady's eye's a sun. 
 These last should be confined to one. 
 The soul's meridian don't become her. 
 Whose sun displays a general summer ! 
 Thus faint is every former flame. 
 And passion's self is now a name: 
 As when the ebbing flames are low, 
 
 The aid which once improved their light. 
 And bade them burn Avith fiercer glow, 
 
 Now quenches all their sparks in night; 
 Thus has it been with passion's fires, 
 
 As many a boy and girl remembers. 
 While all the force of love expires, 
 
 Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 
 
 But now dear L — , 'tis midnight's noon, 
 And clouds obscure the watery moon. 
 
 Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
 Described in every stripling's verse; 
 For why should I the path go o'er. 
 Which every bard has trod before ? 
 Yet, ere yon silver lamp of nigiit 
 
 Has thrice perform'd her stated round. 
 Has thrice retraced her path of light, 
 
 And chased away the gloom profound, 
 I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
 Shall see her rolling orbit wend. 
 Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
 Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; 
 And then, with those our childhood knew, 
 We'll mingle 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 
 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 
 
 For once my soul, like thine, was pure. 
 And all its rising fires could smother ; 
 
 But now thy vows no more endure, 
 Bestow'd by thee upon another. 
 
 Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 
 And spoil the blisses that await him ; 
 
 Yet, let my rival smile in 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, 
 
 'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; 
 
 Nor hope nor memory yield their aid. 
 But pride may teach me to forget thee. 
 
 Yet all this giddy waste of years. 
 
 This tiresome round of palling pleasures, 
 
 These varied loves, these 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. 
 
FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 '631 
 
 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 wild. 
 
 Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave. 
 The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride 
 
 Accords not with the freeborn soul. 
 Which loves the mountain's craggy side. 
 
 And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 
 
 Fortune ! take back these cultured lauds, » 
 
 Take back this name of splendid sound! 
 I hate the touch of servile hand« — 
 
 I hate the slaves that cringe around: 
 Place me along the rocks I love. 
 
 Which sound to ocean's wildest roar, 
 I ask but this — again to rove 
 
 Through scenes my youth hath known before. 
 
 Few are my years, and yet I feel 
 
 The world was ne'er design'd for me; 
 Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 
 
 The hour when man must cease to be? 
 Once I beheld a splendid dream, 
 
 A visionary scene of bliss ; 
 Truth ! wherefore did thy hated beam 
 
 Awake me to a world like this ? 
 
 I loved — but those I loved are gone; 
 
 Had friends — my early friends are fled ; 
 How cheerless feels the heart alone. 
 
 When all its former hopes are dead ! 
 Though gay companions, o'er the bowl, 
 
 Dispel awhile the sense of ill, 
 Though Pleasure stirs 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 or 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 boist'rous joy is but a name. 
 
 And Woman ! lovely Woman, thou, 
 
 My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
 How cold must be my bosom now. 
 
 When e'en thy smiles begin to pall ! 
 Without a sigh would I resign 
 
 This busy scene of splendid woe. 
 To make that calm contentment mine 
 
 Which Virtue knows, or seems to know. 
 
 Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 
 
 I seek to shun, not hate mankind; 
 My breast requires the sullen glen. 
 
 Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
 Oh! that to me the wings were given 
 
 Which bear the turtle to her nest! 
 Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 
 
 To flee away and be at rest. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OP 
 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 drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay. 
 And frequent mused the twilight-hours away ; 
 Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, 
 But ah ! without the thoughts which then were mine : 
 How do thy branches, moaning to the blast. 
 Invite the bosom to recall tiiepast , 
 And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
 "Take, while thou canst, a lingering last farewell!" 
 When Fate shall chill at length this fever'd breast. 
 And calm its cares and passions into rest. 
 Oft have I thought 'twould soothe my dying hour, 
 If aught may soothe when life resigns her power. 
 To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, 
 Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell ; 
 With this fond dream, methinks 'twere sweet to die. 
 And here it linger 'd, here my heart might lie; 
 Here might I sleep, where all my hopes arose. 
 Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose: 
 For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
 Prest by the turf where once my childhood play'd; 
 Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
 Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; 
 Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, 
 Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here; 
 Deplored by those in early days allied. 
 And unremember'd by the world beside. 
 
652 
 
 MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF PULCL 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The Morgaute Maggiore, of the first canto of which 
 tins translation is ofiered, divides with the Orlando In- 
 namorato the honour of having formed and suggested the 
 style and story of Ariosto. The great defects of Boiardo 
 were his treating too seriously the narratives of chivalry, 
 and his harsh style, Ariosto, in his continuation, by a 
 judicious mixture of the gaiety of Pulci, has avoided the 
 one, and Berni, in his reformation of Boiardo's poem, 
 has corrected the other. Pulci may be considered as the 
 precursor and model of Berni altogether, as he has partly 
 been to Ariosto, however inferior to both his copyists. 
 He is no less the founder of a new style of poetry very 
 lately sprung up in England. I allude to that of the inge- 
 nious Whistlecraft. The serious poems on Roncesvalles 
 in the same language, and more particularly the excellent 
 one of Mr. Merivale, are to be traced to the same source. 
 It has never yet been decided entirely, whether Pulci's 
 intention was or was not to deride the religion, which is 
 one of his favourite topics. It appears to me, that such an 
 intention would have been no less hazardous to the poet 
 than to the priest, particularly in that age and country; and 
 the permission to publish the poem, and its reception 
 among the classics of Italy, prove that it neither was nor 
 is so interpreted. That he intended to ridicule the mo- 
 nastic life, and suffered his imagination to play with the 
 simple dulness of his converted giant, seems evident 
 enough; but surely it were as unjust to accuse him of 
 irreligion on this account, as to denounce Fielding for 
 his Parson Adams, Barnabas, Th wackum, Supple, and the 
 Ordinary in Jonathan Wild, — or Scott, for the exquisite 
 use of his covenanters in the "Tales of my Landlord." 
 
 In the following translation I have used the liberty o 
 the original with the proper names; as Pulci uses Can 
 Ganellon, or Ganellone; Carlo, Carlomagno, or Carlo 
 mano; Rondel, or Rondello, as it suits his convenience 
 so has the translator. In other respectsthe version i; 
 faithful to the best of the translator's ability in combining 
 his interpretation of the one language with the not vcri 
 easy task of reducing it to the same versification in thi 
 other. The reader is requested to remember that the anti 
 quated language of Pulci, however pure, is not easy t( 
 the generality of Italians themselves, from its great mix 
 ture of Tuscan proverbs; and he may therefore be mor( 
 indulgent to the present attempt. How far the traiislatoi 
 has succeeded, andjivhether or no he shall continue th( 
 work, are questions which the public will decide. Hi 
 was induced to make the experiment partly by his lovi 
 for, and partial intercourse with, the Italian language, o 
 which it is so easy to acquire a slight knowledge, anc 
 with which it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner U 
 become accurately conversant. The Italian languag*' i 
 like a capricious beauty, who accords her smiles to all 
 her favours to few, and sometimes least to those \vh( 
 have courted her longest. The translator wished also t( 
 present in an English dress a part at least of a poem neve 
 yet rendered into a northern language; at the same tinn 
 that it has been the original of some of the most celebra 
 ted productions on this side of the Alps, as well as o 
 those recent experiments in poetry in England wliicl 
 have been already mentioned. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 In the beginning was the Word next God ; 
 
 God was the Word, the Word no less was he ; 
 
 This was in the beginning, to my mode 
 
 Of thinking, and witliout him nought could be : 
 
 Therefore, just Lord ! from out thy high abode. 
 
 Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 
 
 One only, to be my companion, who 
 
 Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through. 
 
 And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride. 
 Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 
 Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside. 
 The day thy Gabriel said, "All hail!" to thee. 
 Since to thy servants pity 's ne'er denied. 
 With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 
 Be to my verses then benignly kind, 
 And to the end illuminate my mind. 
 
MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 653 
 
 'T was in the season when sad Philomel 
 Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 
 Deplores the ancient woes which both befel, 
 And makes the nymphs enamour'd, to tlie hand 
 Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 
 His car (but temper'd by his sire's command) 
 Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 
 Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow; 
 
 When I prepared my bark first to obey, 
 
 As it should still obey, the helm, my mind, 
 
 And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
 
 Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 
 
 By several pens already praised ; but they 
 
 Who to diffuse his glory were inclined. 
 
 For all that I can see in prose or verse. 
 
 Have understood Charles badly — and wrote worse. 
 
 Leonardo Aretino said already. 
 
 That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
 
 Of genius quick, and diligently steady, 
 
 No hero would in history look brighter ; 
 
 He in the cabinet being always ready, 
 
 And in the field a most victorious fighter, * 
 
 Who for the church and Christian faith had wrought, 
 
 Certes far more than yet is said or thought. 
 
 You still may see at Saint Liberatore 
 The abbey, no great way from Manopeli, 
 Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory, 
 Because of the great battle in which fell 
 A pagan king, according to the story, 
 And felon people whom Charles sent to hell : 
 And there are bones so many, and so many, 
 Near them Giusafl'a's would seem few, if any. 
 
 But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize 
 His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 
 Florence, by his great bounty don't arise, 
 And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow. 
 All proper customs and true courtesies : 
 Whate'er thou hast acquired from then till now. 
 With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance. 
 Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 
 
 Twelve paladins had Charles, in court, of whom 
 
 The wisest and most famous was Orlando; 
 
 Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 
 
 In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann'd too, 
 
 While the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the doom 
 
 Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do ; 
 
 And Dante in his comedy has given 
 
 To him a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 
 
 'T was Christmas-day; in Paris all his court 
 
 Charles held; the chief, I say, Orlando was. 
 
 The Dane; Astolfo there too did resort. 
 
 Also Ansuigi, tlie gay time to pass 
 
 In festival and in triumphant sport, 
 
 The much renown'd Saint Dennis being the cause; 
 
 Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 
 
 And gentle Bclinghieri too came there : 
 
 Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 
 
 Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 
 
 Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salemone, 
 
 Walter of Lion's Mount, and Baldovin, 
 
 Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 
 
 Were there, exciting too much gladness in 
 
 The son of Pepin: — when his knights came hither, 
 
 He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 
 
 But watchful fortune lurking, takes good heed 
 Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. 
 While Charles reposed him thus in word and deed, 
 Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing; 
 Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 
 To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the King, 
 One day he openly began to say, 
 "Orlando must we always then obey ? " 
 
 " A thousand times I 've been about to say, 
 Orlando too presumptuously goes on; 
 Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, 
 Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 
 Each have to honour thee and to obey ; 
 But he has too much credit near the throne. 
 Which we won't sufler, but are quite decided 
 By such a boy to be no longer guided. 
 
 "And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 
 To let him know he was a gallant kniglit. 
 And by the fount did much the day to win ; 
 But I know who that day liad won the fight 
 If it iiad not for good Gherardo been : 
 The victory was Almonte's else; his sight 
 He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 
 In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 
 
 "If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 
 When there advanced the nations out of Spain, 
 The christian cause had sufler'd shamefully, 
 Had not his valour driven them back again. 
 Best speak the truth when there 's a reason why : 
 Know then, oh emperor! that all complain: 
 As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 
 O'er which I cross'd with two and sixty counts. 
 
 "'Tis fit thy grandeur should dispense relief, 
 
 So that each here may have his proper part, 
 
 For the whole court is more or less in grief: 
 
 Perhaps thou deemst this lad a Mars in heart?" 
 
 Orlando one day heard this speech in brief, 
 
 As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 
 
 Displeased he was with Gan because he said it. 
 
 But much more still that Charles should give him credit. 
 
 And with the sword he vrould have murder'd Gan, 
 But Oliver thrust in between the pair, 
 And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 
 And thus at length they separated were. 
 Orlando, angry too with Carloman, 
 Wanted but little to have slain him there; 
 Tlien forth alone from Paris went the chief, 
 Ajid burst and madden'd with disdain and grief. 
 
654 
 
 MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 From Ermcllina, consort of the Dane, 
 He took Cortana, and then took Rondcll, 
 And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the plain; 
 And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 
 Stretch'd forth her arms to clasp her lord again : 
 Orlando, in whose brain all was not well, 
 As "Welcome my Orlando home," slie said, 
 Raised up his sword to smite her on the head. 
 
 Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 
 On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take, 
 Which Aldabella thought extremely strange. 
 But soon Orlando found himself awake; 
 And his spouse took his bridle on this change, 
 And he dismounted from his horse, and spake 
 Of every thing which pass'd without demur. 
 And then reposed himself some days with her. 
 
 Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
 
 And far as Pagan countries roam'd astray. 
 
 And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
 
 The traitor Gan remember'd by the way; 
 
 And wandering on in error a long space, 
 
 An abbey which in a lone desert lay. 
 
 Midst glens obscure, and distant lands he found. 
 
 Which form'd the Christian's and the Pagan's bound. 
 
 The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by blood 
 Descended from Angrante: under cover 
 Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, 
 But certain savage giants look'd him over ! 
 One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 
 And Alabaster and Morgante hover 
 Second and third, with certain slings, and throw 
 In daily jeopardy the place below. 
 
 The monks could pass the convent gate no more, 
 Nor leave their cells for water or for wood. 
 Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, before 
 Unto the prior it at length seem'd good ; 
 Enter'd, he said that he was taught to adore 
 Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood. 
 And was baptized a Christian; and tlien show'd 
 How to the abbey he had found his road. 
 
 Said the abbot: "You are welcome; what is mine 
 We give you freely, since that you believe 
 With us in Mary Mother's Son divine; 
 And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 
 The cause of our delay to let you in 
 To be rusticity, you shall receive 
 The reason why our gate was barr'd to you; 
 Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 
 
 "When hither to inhabit first we came 
 These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 
 As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 
 They seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 
 From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
 *Twas fit our quiet dwelling to secure; 
 But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must guard 
 Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 
 
 "These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch; 
 For late there have appear'd three giants rough; 
 What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 
 I know not, but they are all of savage stuff; 
 When force and malice with some genius match, 
 You know, they can do all — we are not enough : 
 And these so much our orisons derange, 
 I know not what to do till matters change. 
 
 "Our ancient fathers living the desert in, 
 
 For just and holy works were duly fed; 
 
 Think not they lived on locusts sole, 'tis certain 
 
 That manna was rain'd down from heaven instead ; 
 
 But here 'tis fit we keep on the alert in 
 
 Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'ddownfor bread, 
 
 From off' yon mountain daily raining faster, 
 
 And Hung by Passamont and Alabaster. 
 
 "The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far; he | 
 
 Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, j 
 
 And flings them, our community to bury, 
 
 And all that I can do but more provokes," 
 
 While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
 
 A stone from one of their gigantic strokes. 
 
 Which nearly crush'd Rondell, came tumbling over. 
 
 So that he took a long leap imder cover. 
 
 *For God's sake, cavalier, come in with speed ; 
 The manna's falling now," the abbot cried: 
 "This fellow does not wish my horse should feed. 
 Dear Abbot," Roland unto him replied; 
 "Of restiveness he 'd cure him had he need; 
 That stone seems with good- will and aim applied." 
 The holy father said, "I don't deceive; 
 They'll one day fling the mountain, I believe." 
 
 Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 
 And also made a breakfast of his own : 
 "Abbot," he said, "I want to find that fellow 
 Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone." 
 Said the abbot: "Let not my advice seem shallow. 
 As to a brother dear I speak alone; 
 I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife, 
 As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 
 
 "That Passamont has in his hand three darts — 
 Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you must ; 
 You know that giants have much stouter hearts 
 Than us, with reason, in proportion just; 
 If go you will, guard well against their arts, 
 For these are very barbarous and robust." 
 Orlando answer'd, "This I'll see, be sure, 
 And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 
 
 The abbot sign'd the great cross on his front, 
 "Then go you with God's benison and mine;" 
 Orlando, after he had scaled the mount. 
 As the abbot had directed, kept the line 
 Right to the usual haunt of Passamont; 
 Who, seeing him alone in this design, 
 Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant. 
 Then asked him : "If he wish'd to stay as servant ?" 
 
MORGANTE MAGGIORB. 
 
 655 
 
 And promised him an office of great ease . 
 But, said Orlando, "Saracen insane ! 
 I come to kill you, if it shall so please 
 God, not to serve as footboy in your train; 
 You with his monks so oft have broke the peace — 
 Vile dog ! 'tis past his patience to sustain." 
 The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, 
 When he received an answer so injurious. 
 
 And being return'd to where Orlando stood, 
 
 Who had not moved him from the spot, and swinging 
 
 The cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude, 
 
 As show'd a sample of his skill in slinging ; 
 
 It roll'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 
 
 And head, and set both head and helmet ringing, 
 
 So that he swoon'd with pain as if he died. 
 
 But more than dead, he seem'd so stupificd. 
 
 Then Passamont, who thought him slain outriglit. 
 Said, "I will go, and, while he lies along. 
 Disarm me : why such craven did I fight?" 
 But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long, 
 Especially Orlando, such a knight, 
 As to desert would almost be a wrong. 
 While the giant goes to put off his defences, 
 Orlando has recall'd his force and senses: 
 
 And loud he shouted, "Giant, where dost go ? 
 Thou thoughtst me doubtless for the bier outlaid; 
 To the right about — without wings thou'rt too slow 
 To fly my vengeance — currish renegade ! 
 'T was but by treachery thou laidst me low." 
 The giant his astonishment betray'd, 
 And turn'd about, and stopp'd his journey on, 
 And then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone. 
 
 Orlando had Cortana bare in hand, 
 To split the head in twain was what he schemed — 
 Cortana clave the skull like a true brand. 
 And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd, 
 Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay lie bann'd. 
 And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed; 
 But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
 Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, — 
 
 Saying: "What grace to me thou 'st this day given ! 
 
 And 1 to thee, oh Lord, am ever bound. 
 
 (know my life was saved by thee from heaven. 
 
 Since by the giant I was fairly down'd. 
 
 All things by thee are measured just and even; 
 
 Our power without thine aid would nouglit be found: 
 
 [ pray thee take heed of me, till I can 
 
 At least return once more to Carloman," 
 
 And having said thus much, he went his way; 
 And Alabaster he found out below. 
 Doing the very best that in him lay 
 To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
 Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan sa}', 
 'How thiukst thou, glutton, such a stone to throw ?" 
 When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring. 
 He suddenly betook him to his sling. 
 
 And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large, 
 
 That if it had in fact fulfill'd its mission. 
 
 And Roland not avail'd him of his targe, 
 
 There would have been no need of a physician. 
 
 Orlando set himself in turn to charge. 
 
 And in his bulky bosom made incision 
 
 With all his sword. The lout fell; but, o'erthrown, he 
 
 However by no means forgot Macone. 
 
 Morgante had a palace in liis mode, 
 Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth, 
 And stretch'd himself at ease in this abode. 
 And shut himself at night within his birth. 
 Orlando knock'd, and knock' d, again to goad 
 The giant from his sleep; and he came forth. 
 The door to open, like a crazy thing. 
 For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 
 
 He thought that a fierce serpent had attack'd him, 
 
 And Mahomet he call'd, but Mahomet 
 
 Is nothing worth, and not an instant back'd him; 
 
 But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
 
 At liberty from all the fears which rack'd him ; 
 
 And to the gate he came with great regret — 
 
 "Who knocks here?" grumbling all the while, said he: 
 
 "That," said Orlando, "you will quickly see. 
 
 "I came to preach to you, as to your brothers, 
 Sent by the miserable monks — repentance; . 
 For Providence divine, in you and others, 
 Condemns the evil done by new acquaintance. 
 'Tis writ on high — your wrong must pay another's ; 
 From heaven itself is issued out this sentence; 
 Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 
 I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 
 
 Morgante said : "O gentle cavalier ! 
 Now by thy God say me no villany ; 
 The favour of your name I fain would hear. 
 And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
 Replied Orlando : "So much to your ear 
 I by my faith disclose contentedly; 
 Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
 And, if you please, by you may he adored." 
 
 The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone: 
 "I have had an extraordinary vision ; 
 A savage serpent fell on me alone, 
 And Macon would not pity my condition; 
 Hence to l!iy God, who for ye did atone 
 Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition; 
 His timely succour set me safe and free. 
 And I a Christian am disposed to be." 
 
 Orlando answer'd : "Baron just and pious, 
 If this good wish your heart can really move 
 To the true God, who will not then deny us 
 Eternal honour, you will go above. 
 And, if you please, as friends we will ally us. 
 And I will love you with a perfect love. 
 Your idols are vain liars full of fraud. 
 The only true God is the Christian's God. 
 
656 
 
 MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 "The Lord descended to the virgin breast 
 Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine; 
 If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest, 
 Without whom neither sun or star can shine. 
 Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test, 
 Your renegado God, and worship mine, — 
 Baptise yourself with zeal, since you repent." 
 To which Morganteanswer'd: "I'm content." 
 
 And then Orlando to embrace him flew, 
 And made much of his convert, as he cried, 
 "To the abbey I will gladly marshal you ;" 
 To whom Morgante, "Let us go,"replied ; 
 "I to the friars have for peace to sue." 
 Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride, 
 Saying: "My brother, so devout and good. 
 Ask the abbot pardon, as I wish you would : 
 
 "Since God has granted your illumination, 
 
 Accepting you in mer(;y for his own. 
 
 Humility should be your first oblation." 
 
 Morgante said : "For goodness' sake,make known — 
 
 Since that your God is to be mine — your station. 
 
 And let your name in verity be shown; 
 
 Then will I every thing at your command do." 
 
 On which the other said, he was Orlando. 
 
 "Then," quoth the giant, "blessed be Jesu, 
 A thousand times with gratitude and praise ! 
 Oft, perfect baron ! have I heard of you 
 Through all the different periods of my days : 
 And, as I said, to be your vassal too 
 I wish, for your great gallantry always." 
 Thus reasoning, they continued much to say, 
 And onwards to the abbey went their way. 
 
 And by the way, about the giants dead 
 Orlando with Morgante reason'd: "Be, 
 For their decease, I pray you, comforted. 
 And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me; 
 A tliousand wrongs unto the monks they bred ; 
 And our true scripture soundeth openly — 
 Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill. 
 Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 
 
 "Because his love of justice unto all 
 Is such, he wills his judgment should devour 
 All who have sin, however great or small; 
 But good he well remembers to restore: 
 Nor without justice holy could we call 
 Him, whom I now require you to adore: 
 All men must make his will their wishes sway, 
 And quickly and spontaneously obey. 
 
 "And here our doctors are of one accord, 
 Coming on this point to the same conclusion — 
 That in their thoughts who praise in heaven the Lord, 
 If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 
 For their unfortunate relations stored 
 In hell below, and damn'd in great confusion, — 
 Their happiness would be reduced to nought. 
 And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 
 
 "But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
 Which seems to him, to them too must appear 
 Well done; nor could it otherwise befall; 
 He never can in any purpose err: 
 If sire or mother suffer endles thrall. 
 They don't disturb themselves for him or her; 
 What pleases God to them must joy inspire; — 
 Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 
 
 "A word unto the wise," Morgante said, 
 "Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 
 How much I grieve about my brethren dead ; 
 And if the will of God seem good to me. 
 Just, as you tell me, 't is in heaven obey'd — 
 Ashes to ashes, — merry let us be! 
 I will cut off the hands from both their trunks, 
 And carry them unto the holy monks. 
 
 "So that all persons may be sure and certain 
 
 That they are dead, and have no further fear 
 
 To wander solitary this desert in. 
 
 And that tliey may perceive my spirit clear 
 
 By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the curtain 
 
 Of darkness, making his bright realm appear." 
 
 He cut his brethren's hands off at these words. 
 
 And left them to the savage beasts and birds. 
 
 Then to the abbey they went on together. 
 Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 
 Tlie monks, who knew not yet the fact, ran thither. 
 To their superior, all in breathless rout, 
 Saying, with tremor, "Please to tell us whether 
 You wish to have this person in or out?" 
 The abbot, looking through upon the giant, 
 Too greatly fear'd, at first, to be compliant. 
 
 Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 
 Said quickly : "Abbot, be thou of good cheer ; 
 He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated, 
 And hath renounced his Macon false;" which here 
 Morgante with the hands corroborated, 
 A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear : 
 Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored. 
 Saying: "Thou hast contented me, oh Lord !" 
 
 He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated. 
 And more than once contemplated his size; 
 And then he said: "Oh giant celebrated, 
 Know, that no more my wonder will arise. 
 How you could tear and fling the trees you la(o did, 
 When I behold your form with my own eyes. 
 You now a true and perfect friend will show 
 Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 
 
 "And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 
 Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 
 Till one day by the Spirit being inflamed, 
 "Why dost thou persecute me thus?" said Ciirist; 
 And then from his offence he was reclaim'd. 
 And went for ever after preaching Christ; 
 And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 
 O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 
 
MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 657 
 
 "So, my Morgante, you may do likewise; 
 
 He who repents, — thus writes the Evangelist, — 
 
 Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 
 
 Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
 
 You may be sure, should each desire arise 
 
 With just zeal for the Lord, that you'll exist 
 
 Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
 
 But you were lost and damn'd to hell before !" 
 
 And thus great honour to Morgante paid 
 The abbot : many days they did repose. 
 One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd, 
 And sauu^r'd here and there, where'er they chose, 
 The abbcrf^how'd a chamber,where array'd 
 Much aroiour was, and hung up certain bows; 
 And one of these Morgante for a whim 
 Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 
 
 There being a want of water in the place, 
 Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
 "Morgante,! could wish you in this case 
 To go for water." "You shall be obey'd 
 In all commands," was the reply, "straight-way." 
 Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid. 
 And went out on his way unto a fountain, 
 Where he was wont to drink below the mountain. 
 
 Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears, 
 Which suddenly along the forest spread; 
 Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
 An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head; 
 And lo ! a monstrous herd of swine appears. 
 And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 
 And to the fountain's brink precisely pours ; 
 So that the giant 's join'd by all the boars. 
 
 Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 
 Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 
 And pass'd unto the other side quite thorough ; 
 So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near. 
 Another, to revenge his fellow farrow, 
 Against the giant rush'd in fierce career, 
 And reach'd the passage with so swift a foot, 
 Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 
 
 Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 
 
 He gave him such a punch upon the head 
 
 As floor'd him, so that he no more arose — 
 
 Smashing the very bone; and he fell dead 
 
 Next to the other. Having seen such blows, 
 
 The other pigs along the valley fled ; 
 
 Morgante on his neck the bucket took. 
 
 Full from the spring, which neither swerved nor shook. 
 
 The tun was on one shoulder, and there were 
 The hogs on t' other, and he brush'd apace 
 On to the abbey, though by no means near. 
 Nor split one drop of water in his race. 
 Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 
 With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 
 Marveil'd to see his strength so very great; — 
 So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 
 
 The monks, who s^ the water fresh and good, 
 Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork; 
 All animals are glad at sight of food : 
 They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 
 With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood. 
 That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 
 Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 
 For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 
 
 As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate; 
 And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 
 In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat. 
 Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 
 The abbot, who to all did honour great, 
 A few days after this convivial scene. 
 Gave to Morgante a fine horse well train'd, 
 Which he long time had for himself maintain'd. 
 
 The horse Morgante to a meadow led, 
 To gallop, and to put him to the proof, 
 Thinking that he a back of iron had, 
 Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough; 
 But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 
 And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof. 
 Morgante said: "Get up, thou sulky cur!' 
 And still continued pricking with the spur. 
 
 But finally he thought fit to dismount, 
 And said, "I am as light as any feather. 
 And he has burst — to this what say you. Count?" 
 Orlando answer'd, "Like a ship's mast rather 
 You seem to me, and with the truck for front : — 
 Let him go ; fortune wills that we together 
 Should march, but you on foot, Morgante, still." 
 To which the giant answered, "So I will. 
 
 "When there shall be occasion, you shall see 
 How I approve my courage in the fight" 
 Orlando said : "I really think you '11 be. 
 If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight, 
 Nor will you napping there discover me : 
 But never mind your horse, though out of sight 
 'T were best to carry him into some wood, 
 If but the means or way I understood." 
 
 The giant said : "Then carry him I will, 
 Since that to carry me he was so slack — 
 To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 
 But lend a hand to place him on my back." 
 Orlando answer'd: "If my counsel still 
 May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 
 To lift or carry this dead courser, who. 
 As you have done to him, will do to you. 
 
 "Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead. 
 As Nessus did of old beyond all cure; 
 I don't know if the fact you 've heard or read. 
 But he will make you burst, you may be sure." 
 "But help him on my back," Morgante said, 
 "And you shall see what weight I can endure : 
 In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, 
 With all the bells, I 'd carry yonder belfry." 
 
 42 
 
658 
 
 MORGANTE MaGGIORE. 
 
 The abbot said : "The steeple may d^^well, 
 But, for the bells, you 've broken them I wot." 
 Morgante answer'd, "Let tliem pay in hell 
 The penalty, who lie dead in yon grot:" 
 And hoisting up the horse from where lie fell, 
 He said: "Now look if I the gout have got,* 
 Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force;" — 
 And then he made two gambols with the horse. 
 
 Morgante was like any mountain framed; 
 So if he did this, 'tis no prodigy; 
 But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 
 Because he was one of his family ; 
 And, fearing that he miglit be hurt or maim'd, 
 Once more he bade him lay his burthen by; 
 "Put down, nor bear him further the desert in." 
 Morgante said, "I'll carry him for certain." 
 
 He did ; and stow'd him in some nook away, 
 And to the abbey then return'd with speed. 
 Orlando said : " W hy longer do we stay ? 
 Morgante, here is nought to do indeed." 
 The abbot by the hand he took one day, 
 And said with great respect, he had agreed 
 To leave his Reverence; but for this decision 
 He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 
 
 The honours they continued to receive 
 Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim'd: 
 He said : "I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 
 The lost days of time past, which may be blamed; 
 Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave, 
 Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 
 And know not how to show my sentiment, 
 So much I see you with our stay content. 
 
 "But in my heart I bear through every clime, 
 The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 
 So much I love you in so short a time; 
 For me, from heaven reward you with all good, 
 The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime! 
 "Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood : 
 Meanwhile we stand expectant of your blessing, 
 And recommend us to your prayers with pressing. 
 
 Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard. 
 His heart grew soft with inner tenderness, 
 Such fervour in his bosom bred each word; 
 And, "Cavalier," he said, "if I have less 
 Courteous and kind to your great worth appear'd. 
 Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 
 I know I've done too little in tiiis case; 
 But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 
 
 "We can indeed but honour you with masses. 
 And sermons, thanksgivings, and paternosters. 
 Hot suppers, dinners (fitting other places 
 In verity much rather than the cloisters) ; 
 But such a love for you my heart embraces, 
 For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters, 
 That wheresoe'er you go, I too shall be, 
 And, on the other part, you rest with me. 
 
 "This may involve a seeming contradiction; 
 But you, I know, are sage, and feel, and taste, 
 And understand my speech with full conviction. 
 For your just pious deeds may you be graced 
 With the Lord's great reward and benediction, 
 By whom you were directed to this waste : 
 To his high mercy is our freedom due, 
 For which we render thanks to him and you. 
 
 "You saved at once our life and soul : such fear 
 
 The giants caused us, that the way was lost 
 
 By which we could pursue a fit career 
 
 Li search of Jesus and the saintly host; 
 
 And your departure breeds such sorrow here. 
 
 That comfortless we all are to our cost; 
 
 But months and years you could not stay in sloth. 
 
 Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth; 
 
 "But to bear arms and wield the lance; indeed. 
 With these as much is done as with this cowl; 
 In proof of which the scripture you may read. 
 This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 
 By your compassion; now in peace proceed. 
 Your state and name I seek not to unroll, 
 But, if I'm asked, tliis answer shall be given. 
 That here an angel was sent down from hearen. 
 
 "If you want armour or aught else, go in. 
 Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you chuse; 
 And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 
 Orlando answer'd: "If there should lie loose 
 Some armour, ere our journey we begin. 
 Which migiit be turn'd to my companion's use, 
 The gift would be acceptable to me." 
 The abbot said to him: "Come in and see." 
 
 And in a certain closet, where the wall 
 Was cover 'd with old armour like a crust, 
 The abbot said to them: "I give you all." 
 Morgante rummaged piece-meal from the dust 
 The whole, which, save one cuirass, was too small, 
 And that too liad the mail inlaid witli rust. 
 They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly. 
 Which ne'er had suited others so compactly. 
 
 'T was an immeasurable giant's, who 
 By the great Milo of Argante fell 
 Before the abbey many years ago. 
 The story on the wall was figured well; 
 In the last moment of the abbey's foe. 
 Who long had waged a war implacable: 
 Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew liini, 
 And there was Milo as he overthrew him. 
 
 Seeing this history, Count Orlando said 
 In his own heart, "Oh God! who in the sky 
 Knowst all things, how was Milo hither led, 
 Who caused the giant in this place to die?" 
 And certain letters, weeping, then he read. 
 So that he could not keep his visage dry, — 
 As I will tell in the ensuing story. 
 From evil keep you, the high King of Glory ! 
 
659 
 
 THE BLUES*); 
 
 A LITERARY ECLOGUE 
 
 'Nimium ne crede colori." — Vikgil. 
 O trust not, yc beautiful creatures, to hue. 
 Though your hair were as red, as your stockings arc blue. 
 
 ECLOGUE FIRST. 
 
 London — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 
 
 Enter Tracv, meeting I.nkel„ 
 
 Ink. You 're too late. 
 
 Tra. Is it over? 
 
 Lik. Nor will be this hour. 
 
 But the benches are cramm'd, like a garden in flower, 
 With the pride of our belles, who have made it the 
 
 fashion ; 
 So, instead of "beaux arts," we may say "la belle passion" 
 For learning, which lately has taken the lead in 
 The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. 
 
 Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my patience 
 With studying to study your new publications. 
 There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Wordswords 
 With tiieir damnable — [and Co. 
 
 Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know 
 
 Whom you speak to? 
 
 Tra. Right well, boy, and so does "the Row **) :" 
 You 're an author — a poet — 
 
 Lik, And think you that 1 
 
 Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
 The Muses? 
 
 Tra. Excuse me : I meant no offence 
 
 To the Nine ; though the number who make some pretence 
 
 *) About the year 1781, it was much the fashion for several ladies to 
 have evening assemblies, where the fair sex might participate in con- 
 rersation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to 
 please. These societies were denominated Blue-stocking Clubs ; the origin 
 «^ which title being little known, it may be worth while to relate it. One 
 Of the most eminent members of those societies, when they first com- 
 menced, was Mr. Stillingneet, whose dress was remarkably grave, and in 
 particular it was observed that he wore blue stockings. Such was the 
 j excellence of his conversation, that his absence was felt as so great a loss, 
 ' that it used to be said, "We can do nothing without the blue itockings;" 
 and thus by degrees the title was etablished. 
 
 **) Paternoster-row — long and still celebrated as a very bazaar of 
 booksellers. Sir Walter Scott "hitches into rhyme" one of the most im- 
 portant firms — that 
 
 "Of Longman, Hurst, Rces, Orme, and Brown, 
 Our fathers of the Row." 
 
 To their favours is such but the subject to drop, 
 
 I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, 
 (Next door to the pastry-cook's; so that when I 
 Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
 On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces. 
 As one finds every author in one of those places;) 
 Where I just had been skimming a charming critique, 
 So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek! 
 Where your friend — you know who — has just got such 
 
 a threshing. 
 That it is, as tlie phrase goes, extremely "refreshing." 
 What a beautiful word ! 
 
 Ink. Very true; 't is so soft 
 
 And so cooling — they use it a little too oft: 
 And the papers have got it at last — but no matter. 
 So tliey 've cut up our friend then? 
 
 Tra. Not left him a tatter — 
 
 Not a rag of his present or past reputation, 
 Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. 
 
 Ink. I'm sorry to hear this! for friendship, you know 
 
 Our poor friend! — but I thought it would terminate so. 
 Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock it. 
 You don't happen to have the Review in your pocket? 
 
 Tra. No; I left a round dozen of authors and others 
 (Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's,) 
 All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps. 
 And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 
 
 Ink. Let us join them. 
 
 Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture ? 
 
 Ink. Why, the place is so cramm'd, there's not room 
 for a spectre. 
 Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 
 
 Tra. How can you know that till you hear him? 
 
 Ink. I licard 
 
 Quite enough; and, to tell you the truth, my retreat 
 Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 
 
 Tra. 1 have had no great loss then? 
 
 Ink. Loss ! — such a palaver ! 
 
 I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
 
660 
 
 THE BLUES. 
 
 Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours 
 To the torrent of trasli which around him he pours, 
 Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such labour, 
 That come— do notmake me speak ill of one's neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 Tra, /make you! 
 
 Ink. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 
 
 You compell'd me, by speaking the truth — 
 
 Tra. To speak ill? 
 
 Is that your deduction? 
 
 Ink. When speaking of Scamp ill, 
 
 I certainly /0//0W, not set an example. 
 The fellow's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 
 
 Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one fool 
 makes many. 
 But we two will be wise. 
 
 Ink. Pray? then, let us retire. 
 
 Tra. I would, but 
 
 Ink. There must be attraction much higher 
 
 Than Scamp, or the Jews' harp he nicknames his lyre, 
 To call you to this hot-bed. 
 
 Tra. I own it — 't is true — 
 
 A fair lady 
 
 Ink. A spinster ? 
 
 Tra. Miss Lilac! 
 
 Lik. The Blue! 
 
 The heiress ? 
 
 Tra. The angel! 
 
 Ink. The devil ! why, man ! 
 
 Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
 You wed with Miss Lilac! 't would be your perdition: 
 She's a poet, a chymist, a mathematician. 
 
 Tra. 1 say she's an angel. 
 
 Ink. Say rather an angle. 
 
 If you and she marry, you'll certainly wrangle *). 
 I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 
 
 Tra, And is that any cause for not coming together? 
 
 Ink. Humph ! I can't say I know any happy alliance 
 Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with science. 
 She's so learned in all things, and fond of concerning 
 Herself in all matters connected with learning, 
 That 
 
 Tra. What? 
 
 Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my tongue ; 
 
 But there's five hundred people can tell you you're 
 wrong. 
 
 Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a Jew. 
 
 Ink. Is it Miss, or the cash of mamma you pursue? 
 
 Tra. Why, Jack, I '11 be frank with you — something 
 The girl's a fine girl. [of both. 
 
 Ink. And you feel nothing loth 
 
 To her good lady-mother's reversion ; and yet 
 Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 
 
 Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes; I demand 
 Nothing more than the heart of lier daughter and hand. 
 
 *) Her favonrite science was the mathematical 
 — Ill short, she was a walking calculation. 
 Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers. 
 Morality's prim personification — 
 But — oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual. 
 Inform us truly, have they not heu-peck'd you all? 
 
 Ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand — that hand 
 on the pen. [then ? 
 
 Tra- Apropos — Will you write me a song now and 
 
 Ink. To what purpose ? 
 
 Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in prose 
 My talent is decent, as far as it goes ; 
 But in rhyme 
 
 Ink. You're a terrible stick, to be sure. 
 
 Tra. I own it; and yet, in these times, there 's no lure 
 For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two; 
 And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few ? 
 
 Ink. In your name ? 
 
 Tra. In my name. I will copy them out. 
 
 To slip into her hand at tlie very next rout. 
 
 Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this? 
 
 Tra. Why, 
 
 Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye. 
 So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 
 What I've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime? 
 
 Ink. As sublime ! If it be so, no need of my Muse. 
 
 Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of the"Blues, 
 
 Ink. As sublime!— Mr. Tracy — I've nothing to say. 
 Stick to prose — As sublime!!— but I wish you good day. 
 
 Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow — consider — I'm wrong; 
 I own it; but, prithee, compose me the song. 
 
 Ink. As sublime!! 
 
 Tra. I but used the expression in haste 
 
 Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd bad 
 taste. 
 
 Tra. I own it— I know it — acknowledge it — what 
 Can I say to you more? 
 
 Ink. I see what you'd be at ; 
 
 You disparage my parts with insidious abuse. 
 Till you think you can turn them best to your own use, 
 
 Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them ? 
 
 Ink. Why, that 
 
 To be sure makes a difference. 
 
 Tra. I know what is what; 
 
 And you, who 're a man of the gay world, no less 
 Than a poet oft' other, may easily guess 
 That I never could mean, by a word, to offend 
 A genius like you, and moreover my friend. fis doe 
 
 Ink. No doubt; you by this time should know what 
 To a man of — but come — let us shake hands. 
 
 Tra. 
 
 You knew 
 
 And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
 Whatever you publish, am ready to buy. [sale; 
 
 Ink. That's my bookseller's business; I care not for 
 Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. 
 There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays, 
 And my own grand romance 
 
 Tra. Had its full share of praise^ 
 
 I myself saw it puff'd in the "Old Girl's Review *)." 
 
 Ink. What Review? [Trevoux;" 
 
 Tra. 'T is the English "Journal de 
 
 A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
 Have you never yet seen it? 
 
 Ink. That pleasure's to come. 
 
 1 
 
 •) "My Grandmother's Review, the British"— This heavy journal j 
 has since been gathered to its grandmothers. | 
 
 > 
 
THE BLUES. 
 
 661 
 
 TVa. Make haste then. 
 Ink. Why so? 
 
 Tra. I have heard people say 
 
 That it thrcaten'd to give up the ghost t' other day. 
 Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit. 
 Tra. No doubt. 
 
 5hall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout? 
 
 Ink. I 've a card, and shall go : but at present, as soon 
 ks friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from the 
 
 moon 
 Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits), 
 ind an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
 *m engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, 
 'o partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation: 
 r is a sort of re-union for Scamp, on the days 
 )f liis lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise; 
 .nd I own, for my own part, that 't is not unpleasant. 
 V^ill you go? There 's Miss Lilac will also be present. 
 7Va. That "metal's attractive." 
 
 Ink. No doubt — to the pocket. 
 
 Tra. You should rather encourage my passion than 
 shock it. 
 
 ut let us proceed ; for I think, by the hum 
 
 Ink. Very true J let us go, then, before they can come, 
 If else we '11 be kept here an hour at their levy, 
 'a the rack of cross questions, by all the blue bevy, 
 [ark! Zounds, they '11 be on us ; I know by the drone 
 fold Botherby's spouting ex-cathedra, tone, 
 y! there he is at it. Poor Scamp! better join 
 our friends, or he 'II pay you back in your own coin. 
 Tra. All fair; 't is but lecture for lecture. 
 Inli. That's clear, 
 
 [ut for God's sake let 's go, or the Bore will be here, 
 ome, come : nay, I 'm off. [Exit Inkel. 
 
 Tra. You are right, and I '11 follow ; 
 
 ' is high time for a "Sic me servavit Apollo *)." 
 nd yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, 
 lues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribes, 
 11 flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
 iTith a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 
 
 [Exit Tbacy. 
 
 ECLOGUE SECOND. 
 
 ti Apartment in the House of Lady BtUEBOTTtE. — A 
 Table prepared. 
 
 Sir RicHARU Bi,ubbottlk solus. 
 
 I^as there ever a man who was married so sorry? 
 
 Hce a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. 
 
 *) Sotlieby is a good man — rhymes well (if not wisely) ; but is a 
 tie. He seizes you by the button. One night of a rout at Mrs. Hope's, 
 itiad fastened upon me — (something about Agamemnon, or Orestes, 
 eofhls plays) notwithstanding ray symptoms of manifest distress — 
 iWas in love, and just nicked a minute when neither mothers, nor 
 3, nor rivals, nor gossips were near my then idol, who was beau- 
 the statues of the gallery where we stood at the time. Sotheby, I 
 ;d seized upon me by the button and the heart-strings, and spared 
 William Spencer, who likes fun, and don't dislike mischief, 
 w my case, and coming up to us both, took me by the hand, and pa- 
 etically bade me farewell; "for," said he, I see it is all over with 
 u." Sotheby then went away: sic me servavit Apollo. Byron's 
 ary, 1821. 
 
 My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd; 
 My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void. 
 Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd: 
 The twelve, do I say? — of the whole twenty-four, 
 Is there one whicli I dare call my own any more? 
 Wliat with driving and visiting, dancing and dining. 
 What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling, and 
 
 shining, 
 In science and art, I '11 be cursed if I know 
 Myself from my wife; for although we are two, 
 Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall be done 
 In a style which proclaims us eternally one. 
 But the thing of all things which distresses me more 
 Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me sore) 
 Is the numerous, liumorous, backbiting crew 
 Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue, 
 Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost 
 — For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the host — 
 No pleasure! no leisure! no thought for my pains, 
 But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains; 
 A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews, 
 By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call "Blues:" 
 
 A rabble who know not But soft, here they come ! 
 
 Would to God I were deaf! as I 'm not, I '11 be dumb. 
 
 Enter Lady Blcbbottle, Miss Lilac, Lauy Bluemount, Mr. Botherby, 
 Inkel, Tracy, Miss Mazarine, and others, with Scamp the Lectu- 
 rer, etc 
 
 Lady Blueb. Ah! Sir Richard, good morning; I 've 
 
 brought you some friends. 
 Sir Rich, (bows, and afterwards aside.) If friends, they 're 
 
 the first. 
 Lady Blueb. But the luncheon attends. 
 
 I pray ye be seated, ^'sans ceremonie." 
 Mr. Scamp, you' re fatigued; take your chair there, 
 
 next me. [They all sit. 
 
 Sir Rich, (aside.) If he does, his fatigue is to come. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Mr. Tracy — 
 
 Lady Bluemount — Miss Lilac — be pleased, pray, to 
 And you, Mr. Botherby — [place ye ; 
 
 Both. Oh, my dear Lady, 
 
 I obey. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Mr. Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye: 
 You were not at the lecture. 
 
 Ink. Excuse me, I was ; 
 
 But the heat forced me out in the best part — alas ! 
 And when 
 
 Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling; but then 
 You have lost sucli a lecture ! 
 
 Both. The best of the ten. 
 
 IVa. How can you know that? there are two more. 
 
 Both. Because 
 
 I defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 
 The very walls shook. 
 
 Ink. Oh, if that be the test, 
 
 I allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best. 
 Miss Lilac, permit me to help you; — a wing? 
 
 Miss Lil. No more, sir, I thank you. Who lectures 
 
 Both. DickDunder. [next spring? 
 
 Ink. That is, if he lives, 
 
662 
 
 THE BLUES. 
 
 Miss Lil. And wJiy not? 
 
 Ink. No reason whatever, save that lie 's a sot. 
 Lady Bhiemounl! a glass of Madeira? 
 
 Ladi/ Bluem. With pleasure. 
 
 Ink. How does your friend Wordswords, that Win- 
 dermere treasure? 
 Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he sings, 
 And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors and kings? 
 
 Lady Blueb. He has just got a place. 
 
 Ink. As a footman? 
 
 Ladtf Bluem. For shame ! 
 
 Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 
 
 Ink, Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his master ; 
 For the poet of pedlers 't were, sure, no disaster 
 To wear a new livery; the more, as 't is not 
 The first time he has turn'd both his creed and his coat. 
 
 Lady Bhicm. For sliame! I repeat. If Sir George 
 could but hear 
 
 Lady Blueb. Nevermind our friend Inkel; weall know, 
 my dear, 
 'Tis his way. 
 
 Sir Rich. But this place 
 
 Ink. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 
 
 A lecturer's. 
 
 Lady Blueh. Excuse me — 'tis one in "the Stamps :" 
 He is made a collector. 
 
 Tra. Collector ! 
 
 Sir Rich. How? 
 
 Miss Lil. What? 
 
 Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat: 
 There his works will appear 
 
 Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 
 
 Ink. I sha'n't go so far — I can have them at Grange's. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Oh fie! 
 
 Miss Lil. And for shame ! 
 
 Lady Bluem, You're too bad. 
 
 Both. Very good ! 
 
 Lady Bluem. How good? 
 
 Lady Blueb, He means nought — 'tis his phrase. 
 
 Lady Bluem, He grows rude. 
 
 Lady Blueb. He means nothing; nay, ask him. 
 
 Lady Bluem, Pray, sir ! did you mean 
 
 What you say? 
 
 Ink, Never mind if he did ; 'twill be seen 
 
 That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. 
 
 Both. Sir! 
 
 Ink. Pray be content with j'our portion of praise; 
 'Twas in your defence. 
 
 Both. If you please, with submission, 
 
 I can make out my own. 
 
 Lik. It would be your perdition. 
 
 While you live, my dear Bothcrby, never defend 
 Yourself or your works; but leave both to a friend. 
 A propos — Is your play then accepted at last? 
 
 Both. At last? 
 
 Ink. Why I thought — that 's to say — there had pass'd 
 A few green-room whispers, which hinted — you know, 
 That the taste of the actors at best is so so. 
 
 Both. Sir, the green-room's in rapture, and so 's the 
 committee. 
 
 Ink, Ay — yours are the plays for exciting our "pity 
 
 And fear," as the Greek says: for "purging the mind," 
 I doubt if you '11 leave us an equal behind. 
 
 Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to have 
 For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. [pray'd 
 
 Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the play's to be play *d 
 Is it cast yet ? 
 
 Both. The actors are fighting for parts. 
 
 As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 
 
 Lady Blueh. We'll all make a party, and go ihc first 
 
 Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. [night 
 
 Ink. Not quite. 
 
 However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
 I'll do what I can, tliough my pains must be double, 
 
 Tra. Why so? 
 
 Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 
 
 Both. Sir, I'm happy to say, I have no fears on thai 
 Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are [score, 
 
 Ink. Never mind m/nc, 
 
 Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own line, 
 
 Lady Bluem. You're a fugitive writer, I think, sir, ol 
 rhymes ? 
 
 Ink. Yes, ma'am ; and a fugitive reader sometimes. 
 On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom aliglit. 
 Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight. 
 
 Lady Bluem. Sir , your taste is too common ; but tim« 
 and posterity 
 Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
 Become its reproach. 
 
 Ink. I've no sort of objection, 
 
 So I'm not of the party to take the infection, [will take 
 
 Lady Blueb, Perhaps you have doubts that they evei 
 
 Ink. Not at all; on the contrary, those of the lake 
 Have taken already, and still will continue 
 To take — what they can, from a groat to a guinea, 
 Of pension or place; — but the subject 's a bore. 
 
 Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time 's coming. 
 
 Ink. Scamp ! don't you feel sore 
 
 What say you to this ? 
 
 Scamp. They have merit, I own ; 
 
 Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown. 
 
 Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your lectures 
 
 Scamp. It is only time past which comes under IB] 
 strictures. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness; — tb( 
 joy of my heart 
 Is too see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. 
 Wild Nature! — Grand Shakspeare! 
 
 Both, And down Aristotle 
 
 Lady Bluem. Sir George thinks exactly with Ladjj 
 Bluebottle; 
 And my Lord Seventy-four, who protects our dear Bard 
 And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard 
 For the poet, who, singing of pedlers and asses, 
 Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 
 
 Tra. And you, Scamp ! — 
 
 Scamp. I needs must confess I'm cmbarrass'd 
 
 Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already so liarass'c 
 With old schools, and new schools, and no schools, and al 
 schools, 
 
 Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that *omc must be fools 
 I should like to know who. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 
 
 663 
 
 Ink. ^^■J^'^ tp^^T^.'^- And I should not be sorry 
 Po know who are not: — it would save us some worry. 
 , Lady Blueh. A truce with remark, and let nothing con- 
 rhis "feast of our reason, and flow of the soul." [trol 
 )h! my dear Mr. Botherby ! sympathise! — I 
 ifow feel such a rapture, I'm ready to fly, 
 feel so elastic — "jo buoyant — so buoyant!" 
 
 Ink. Tracy! open the window. 
 
 Tra. I wish her much joy on't. 
 
 Both, For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check not 
 'his gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
 Jpon earth. Give it way; 'tis an impulse which lifts 
 )ur spirits from earth ; the sublimcst of gifts ; 
 'or which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his mountain. 
 [Tis the source of all sentiment — feeling's true fountain: 
 ris the Vision of Heaven upon Eartli: 'tis the gas 
 )f the soul: 'tis the seizing of shades as they pass, 
 ind making them substance: 'tis something divine: — 
 
 Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more wine? 
 
 Both. I thank you ; not any more, sir, till I dine. 
 
 Ink. Apropos — Do you dine with Sir Humpliry to- 
 day? [your way. 
 
 Tra. I should tliink with Duke Humphry was more in 
 
 Ink. It might be of yore; but we authors now l<jok 
 to the knight, as a landlord, mucli mure than the Duke. 
 
 j The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is, 
 And (except with his publislier) dines where he pleases. 
 But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the Park. 
 
 Tra. And I'll take a turn witli you there till 'tis dark. 
 And you. Scamp — 
 
 Scamp. Excuse me ; I must to my notes. 
 
 For my lecture next week. 
 
 Ink. He must mind whom he quotes 
 
 Out of "Elegant Extracts." 
 
 Lady Blueb. Well, now we break up ; 
 
 But remember Miss Diddle invites us to sup. 
 
 Ink. Thcnat two hours pastmidnightweallmeetagain, 
 For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and ihampaigne! 
 
 Tra. And the sweet lobster salad! 
 
 Both. I honour that meal ; 
 
 For 'tis then that our feelings most genuinely — feel. 
 
 Ink. True; feeling is truest then, far beyond question : 
 I wish to the gods 'twas the same with digestion! 
 
 Lady Blueb. Pshaw ! — never mind tlmt ; for one mo- 
 Is worth — God knows what. [ment of feeling 
 
 Ink. 'Tis at least worth concealing 
 For itself, or what follows But here comes your car- 
 riage. 
 
 Sir Rich, (aside.) I wish all these people were d d 
 
 with my marriage! [Exeunt. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 June, 17, 1816. 
 
 In the year 17 — , having for some time determined on 
 journey through countries not hitherto much frequcnt- 
 fby travellers, Iset out, accompanied by a friend, whom 
 shall designate by the name of Augustus Darvell. He 
 as a few years my elder, and a man of considerable for- 
 me and ancient family — advantages which an extensive 
 ipacity prevented him alike from undervaluing or over- 
 ttiiig. Some peculiar circumstances in his private history 
 ul rendered him to me an object of attention, of interest, 
 1(1 even of regard, which neither the reserve of his man- 
 ors, nor occasional indications of an inquietude at times 
 a rly approaching to alienation of mind,could extinguish . 
 I was yet young in life, which I had begun early; but 
 y intimacy with him was of a recent date: we had been 
 jlucated at the same schools and university; but his pro- 
 fess through these had preceded mine, and he had been 
 lieply initiated into what is called the world, while I was 
 it in my noviciate. While thus engaged, I had heard 
 ucli both of his past and present life ; and, although in 
 ese accounts there were many and irreconcilable con- 
 adictions, I could still gather from the whole tliathe was 
 being of no common order, and one who, whatever pains 
 ; might take to avoid remark, would still be remarkable. 
 
 I had cultivated his acquaintance subsequently, and en- 
 deavoured to obtain his friendship, but this last appeared 
 to be unattainable; whatever aflections he might liave 
 possessed seemed now, some to have been extinguished, 
 and others to be concentred: that his feelings were acute 
 I had sufficient opportunities of observing ; for, although 
 he could control, he could not altogether disguise them : 
 still he had a power of giving to one passion the appear- 
 ance of another in such a manner that it was difficult to 
 define the nature of what was working within liim; and 
 the expressions of his features would vary so rapidly, 
 though slightly, that it was useless to trace them to tlieir 
 sources. It was evident that he was a prey to some cure- 
 less disquiet; but whether it arose from ambition, love, 
 remorse, grief, from one or all of these, or merely from a 
 morbid temperament akin to disease, I could not discover: 
 there were circumstances alleged which might have justi- 
 fied the application to each of tliese causes; but, as I have 
 before said, these were so contradictory and contradicted, 
 that none could be fixed upon with accuracy. Where there 
 is mystery, it is generally supposed that there must also 
 be evil: I know not how tliis may be, but in him there cer- 
 tainly was the one, though I could not ascertain the extent 
 of the other — and f^t loth, as far as regarded himself, to 
 
A FRAGMENT. 
 
 believe in its existence. My advances were received with 
 sufficient coldness; but I was young, and not easily dis- 
 couraged, and at length succeeded in obtaining, to a cer- 
 tain degree, that common-place intercourse and moderate 
 confidence of common and every-day concerns, created 
 and cemented by similarity of pursuit and frequency of 
 meeting, which is called intimacy, or friendship, according 
 to the ideas of him who uses those words to express them. 
 
 Darvell had already travelled extensively, and to him 
 I had applied for information with regard to the conduct 
 of my intended journey. It was my secret wish that he 
 might be prevailed on to accompany me: it was also a 
 probable hope, founded upon the shadowy restlessness 
 which I had observed in him, and to which the animation 
 which he appeared to feel on such subjects, and his appa- 
 rent indiflerence to all by which he was more immediately 
 surrounded, gave fresh strength. This wish I first hinted, 
 and then expressed : his answer, though I had partly ex- 
 pected it, gave me all the pleasure of surprise — he con- 
 sented ; and, after tlie requisite arrangements, we com- 
 menced our voyages. After journeying through various 
 countries of the south of Europe, our attention was turned 
 towards the East, according to our original destina- 
 tion ; and it was in my progress through those regions 
 that the incident occurred upon which will turn what Imay 
 have to relate. 
 
 The constitution of Darvell, which must, from his ap- 
 pearance, have been in early life more than usually robust, 
 had been for some time gradually giving way, without the 
 intervention of any apparent disease : he had neither cough 
 nor hectic, yet he became daily more enfeebled : his habits 
 were temperate, and he neither declined nor complained 
 of fatigue, yet he was evidently wasting away : he became 
 more and more silent and sleepless, and at length so 
 altered, that my alarm grew proportionate to what I con- 
 ceived to be his danger. 
 
 We had determined, on our arrival at Smyrna, on an 
 excursion to the ruins ofEphesus andSardis, from which 
 I endeavoured to dissuade him, in his present state of in- 
 disposition — but in vain: there appeared to be an oppres- 
 sion on his mind, and a solemnity in his manner, which 
 ill corresponded with his eagerness to proceed on what 
 I regarded as a mere party of pleasure, little suited to a 
 valetudinarian J but I opposed him no longer — and in a 
 few days we set off together, accompanied only by a ser- 
 rugee and a single janizary. 
 
 We had passed half-way towards the remains of Ephe- 
 sus, leaving behind us the more fertile environs of Smyrna, 
 and were entering upon that wild and tenantless track 
 through the marches and defiles which lead to the few 
 huts yet lingering over the broken columns of Diana — 
 the roofless walls of expelled Christianity, and the still 
 more recent but complete desolation of abandoned mos- 
 ques — when the sudden and rapid illness of my com- 
 panion obliged us to halt at a Turkish cemetery, the tur- 
 bancd tombstones of which were the sole indication that 
 human life had ever been a sojourner in this wilderness. 
 The only caravanserai we had seen was left some hours 
 behind us; not a vestige of a town, or even cottage, was 
 within sight or hope, and this "city of the dead"appeared 
 to be the sole refuge for my unfortunate friend, who 
 
 seemed on the verge of becoming the last of its in- 
 habitants. 
 
 In this situation, I looked round for a place where l:t 
 might most conveniently repose: — contrary to the usual 
 aspect of Mahometan burial-grounds, the cypresses wi rt 
 in this few in number, and these thinly scattered over its 
 extent: the tombstones were mostly fallen, and worn \n itl; 
 age! — upon one of the most considerable of these, aii'l 
 beneath one of the most spreading trees,Darvell supportL(: 
 himself, in a half-reclining posture, with great difficulty, 
 He asked for water. I had some doubts of our being abk 
 to find any, and prepared to go in search of it with hesiJ 
 fating despondency — but he desired me to remain; and 
 turning toSuleiman,our janizary, who stood by us smok- 
 ing with great tranquillity, he said, "Suleiman, verbana 
 su" (i. e. bring some water), and went on describing tlu 
 spot where it was to be found with great minuteness, a 
 a small well for camels, a few hundred yards to the right 
 the janizary obeyed. I said to Darvell, "How did yoi 
 know this?" — He replied, "From our situation; yoi 
 must perceive that this place was once inhabited, an( 
 could not have been so without springs: I have also beei 
 here before." 
 
 "You have been here before ! — How came you nevei ' 
 to mention this to me? and what could you be doing in i 
 place where no one would remain a moment longer thai 
 they could help it?" 
 
 To this question I received no answer. In the meais 
 time, Suleiman returned with the water, leaving the ser 
 rugee and the horses at the fountain. The quenching oi 
 his thirst had the appearance of reviving him for a mO; 
 ment; I conceived hopes of his being able to proceed, oi 
 at least to return, and I urged the attempt. He was silent-! 
 and appeared to be collecting his spirits for an elfort t 
 speak. He began. 
 
 "This is the end of my journey, and of my life— Icamj 
 here to die: but I have a request to make, a command -j 
 for such my last words must be. — You will observe it?j 
 
 "Most certainly ; but have better hopes." 
 
 "I have no hopes, nor wishes, but this — conceal mj) 
 death from every human being." 
 
 ■ "I hope there will benooccasion; tliat you will recover 
 and—" 
 
 "Peace ! it must be so : promise this." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Swear it by all that" — He here dictated an oath ( 
 great solemnity. 
 
 "There is no occasion for this — I will observe you 
 request; — and to doubt me is — " i 
 
 "It cannot be helped, — you must swear." 
 
 I took the oath: it appeared to relieve him. He remove 
 {* seal -ring from his finger, on which were some Arabi 
 characters, and presented it to me. He proceeded — t 
 
 "On the ninth day of the month, at noon preciselj 
 (what montli you please, but this must be the day), yoj , 
 must fling tliis ring into the salt springs which run intj , 
 the Bay of Eleusis: the day after, at the same hour, yoj , 
 must repair to the ruins of the temple of Ceres, and wa! 
 one hour." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "You will see." 
 
LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 665 
 
 "The ninth day of the month, you say ?" 
 
 "The ninth." 
 
 As I observed tliat the present was the ninth day of the 
 m inth, his countenance changed, and he paused. As he 
 sate, evidently becoming- more feeble, a stork, with a 
 snake in her beak, perched upon a tombstone near us, 
 and,without devouring her prey,appeared to be steadfastly 
 regarding us. I know not what impelled me to drive it 
 away, but the attempt was useless ; she made a few circles 
 in the air, and returned exactly to the same spot Darvell 
 pointed to it, and smiled: he spoke — I know not whe- 
 ther to himself or to me — but the words were only, 
 "'Tiswell!" 
 
 "What is well? what do you mean ?" 
 
 "No matter: you must bury me here this evening, and 
 exactly where that bird is now perched. You know the 
 rest of my injunctions." 
 
 He then proceeded to give me several directions as to 
 the mauner in which bis death might be best concealed. 
 After these were finished, he exclaimed, "You perceive 
 that bird?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "And the serpent writliiiig in her beak?" 
 
 "Doubtless: there is nothing uncommon in it; it is 
 her natural prey. But it is odd that she does not devour it." 
 
 He smiled in a ghastly manner, and said, faintly, "It 
 is not yet time ! " As he spoke, the stork flew away. My 
 eyes followed it for a moment, it could hardly be longer 
 than ten might be counted- I felt DarvcU's weight, as it 
 were, increase upon, my shoulder, and, turning to look 
 upon his face, perceived that he was dead! 
 
 I was shocked with the sudden certainty which could 
 not be mistaken — bis countenance in a few minutes 
 became nearly black. I should have attributed so rapid 
 a change to poison, had I not been aware that he had no 
 opportunity of receiving it unperceived. The day was 
 declining, the body was rapidly altering, and nothing re- 
 mained but to fulfil his request. With the aid of Sulei- 
 man's ataghan and my own sabre, we scooped a sliallow 
 grave upon the spot which Darvell had indicated : the 
 earth easily gave way, having already received some 
 Mahometan tenant We dug as deeply as the time per- 
 mitted us, and throwing the dry earth upon all that re- 
 mained of the singular being so lately departed, we cut 
 a few sods of greener turf from tlie less withered soil 
 around us, and laid them upon his sepuldire. 
 
 Between astonishment and grief, I was tearless 
 
 LETTER 
 
 TO 
 
 J. MURKAY, ESQ. on the KEV. W. L. BOWLES' STRICTURES 
 
 ON THE 
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF POPE. 
 
 "I 'U play at Bowls with the sun and moon." 
 
 Olu Song. 
 
 "My mitlier'a auld, Sir, and she has rather forgotten 
 heisel ill speaking to my Leddy, that canna weel bide 
 to be coutradickit (as I ken naebody likes it if they could 
 help therosels)." 
 
 Talks of my Lanulord, vol. 11. p. 163, 
 
 Ravenna, February 7th, 1821. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 In the difterent pamphlets which you have had the 
 goodness to send me, on the Pope and Bowles contro- 
 versy, I perceive that my name is occasionally introduced 
 by both parties. Mr. Bowles refers more than once to 
 what he is pleased to consider "a remarkable circum- 
 stance," not only in his letter to Mr. Campbell, but in his 
 reply to the Quarterly. The Quarterly also and Mr. Gil- 
 christ have conferred on me the dangerous honour of a 
 
 quotation ; and Mr. Bowles indirectly makes a kind of ap- 
 peal to me personally, by saying, "Lord Byron, if he 
 remembers the circumstance, will witness — (witness in 
 ITALIC, an ominous character for a testimony at present.) 
 I shall not avail myself of a "non mi ricordo" even 
 after so long a residence in Italy ;— Ido "remember the 
 circumstance," — and have no reluctance to relate it 
 (since called upon so to do) as correctly as the distance 
 of time and the impression of intervening events will 
 permit me. In the year 1812, more than three years after 
 42* 
 
666 
 
 LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 the publication of "English Bards and ScotcliRevicwers," 
 I had the honour of meeting Mr. Bowles in the house 
 of our venerable host the author of "Human Life," the 
 last Argonaut of classic English poetry, and the Nestor 
 of our inferior race of living poets. Mr. Bowles calls this 
 "soon after" the publication; but to me three years 
 appear a considerable segment of the immortality of 
 a modern poem. I recollect nothing of "the rest of the 
 company going into another room" — nor, though I well 
 remember the topography of our host's elegant and clas- 
 sically furnished mansion, could I swear to the very room 
 where the conversation occurred, though the "taking 
 c/ott^n the poem," seems to fix it in the library. Had it been 
 "taken up" it would probably have been in the drawing- 
 room. I presume also that the "remarkable circumstance" 
 took place after dinner, as I conceive that neither Mr. 
 Bowles' politeness nor appetite would have allowed him 
 to detain "the rest of the company" standing round their 
 chairs in the "other room" while we were discussing "the 
 Woods of Madeira" instead of circulating its vintage. 
 Of Mr. Bowles' "good humour" I have a full and not un- 
 grateful recollection ; as also of his gentlemanly manners 
 and agreeable conversation. I speak of the whole, and 
 not of particulars; for whether he did or did not use the 
 precise words printed in the pamphlet, I cannot say, nor 
 could he with accuracy. Of "the tone of seriousness" I 
 certainly recollect nothing: on the contrary, I thought 
 Mr. Bowles rather disposed to treat the subject lightly: 
 for he said (I have no objection to be contradicted if in- 
 correct), that some of his good-natured friends had come 
 to him and exclaimed, "Eh ! Bowles! how came you to 
 make the Woods of Madeira tremble?" and that he had 
 been at some pains and pulling down of the poem to con- 
 Tince them that he had never made "the Woods" do any 
 thing of the kind. He was right, and / was wrong, and 
 have been wrong still up to this acknowledgment ; for I 
 ought to have looked twice before I wrote that which in- 
 volved an inaccuracy capable of giving pain. The fact 
 was, that although I had certainly before read "the Spirit 
 of Discovery," I took the quotation from the Review. But 
 the mistake was mine, and not the Review's, which quo- 
 ted the passage correctly enough, I believe. I blundered — 
 God knows how — into attributing the tremors of the lo- 
 vers to the "Woods of Madeira," by which they were 
 surrounded. And I hereby do fully and freely declare and 
 asseverate, that the Woods did not tremble to a kiss, and 
 that the lovers did. I quote from memory — 
 
 A kiss 
 Stole on the list'ning silence, — 
 They (the lovers) trembled, — 
 
 And if I had been aware that this declaration would have 
 been in the smallest degree satisfactory to Mr. Bowles, 
 I should not have waited nine years to make it, notwith- 
 standing that "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" had 
 been suppressed some time previously to my meeting him 
 at Mr. Rogers'. Our worthy host might indeed have told 
 him as much, as it was at his representation that I sup- 
 pressed it. A new edition of that lampoon was preparing 
 for the press, when Mr. Rogers represented to me, that 
 "I was now acquainted with many of the persons mention- 
 ed in it, and with some on terms of intimacy;" and that 
 
 he knew "one family in particular to whom its suppres- 
 sion would give pleasure." I did not hesitate one moment, 
 it was cancelled instantly; and it is no fault of mine that 
 it has ever been republished. When I left England, in 
 April, 1816, with no very violent intentions of troubling 
 that country again, and amidst scenes of various kind» 
 to distract my atttention — almost my last act, I believe, 
 was to sign a power of attorney, to yourself, to prevent 
 or suppress anyattempts (of which several had been made 
 in Ireland) at a republication. It is proper that I should 
 state, that the persons with whom I was subsequently ac- 
 quainted, whose names had occurred in that publication, 
 were made my acquaintances at their own desire, or 
 through the unsought intervention of others. I never, to 
 the best of my knowledge, sought a personal introduc- 
 tion to any. Some of them to this day I know only by 
 correspondence; and with one of those it was begun by 
 myself, in consequence, however, of a polite verbal com- 
 munication from a third person. 
 
 I have dwelt for an instant on these circumstances, 
 because it has sometimes been made a subject of bitter 
 reproach to me to have endeavoured to suppress that sa- 
 tire. I never shrunk, as those who know me know, from 
 any personal consequences which could be attached to 
 its publi(;ation. Of its subsequent suppression, as I pos- 
 sessed the copyright, I was the best judge and the sole 
 master. The circumstances which occasioned the suppres- 
 sion I have now stated; of the motives, each must judge 
 according to his candour or malignity. Mr. Bowles does 
 me the honour to talk of "noble mind," and "generous 
 magnanimity ;" and all this because "the circumstance j 
 would have been explained had not the book been sup- i 
 pressed." I see no "nobility of mind" in an act of simple I 
 justice; and I hate the word '^magnanimity," because 1 
 have sometimes seen it applied to the grossest of impos- 
 tors by the greatest of fools ; but I would have "explained j 
 the circumstance," notwithstanding "the suppression oft I 
 the book," if Mr. Bowles had expressed any desire that I 
 I should. As the "gallant Galbraith" says to "Baillie Jar- i 
 vie," "Well, the devil take the mistake and all tiiat occa- j 
 sioned it." I liave had as great and greater mistakes made I 
 about me personally and poetically, once a month for 
 these last ten years, and never cared very much about 
 correcting one or the other, at least after the first eight and 
 forty hours had gone over them. 
 
 I must now, however, say a word or two about Pope, 
 of whom you have my opinion more at large in the unpub- 
 lished letter on or to (for I forget which) the editor of 
 "Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine;" — and here I doubt 
 that Mr. Bowles will not approve of my sentiments. 
 
 Although I regret having published "English Bards 
 and Scotch Reviewers," the part which I regret the least 
 is that which regards Mr. Bowles with reference to Pope. 
 Whilst I was writing that publication, in 1807 and 1808, 
 Mr. Hobhouse was desirous that I should express our 
 mutual opinion of Pope, and of Mr. Bowles' edition of 
 his works. As I had completed my outline, and felt lazy, 
 I requested that he would do so. He did it. His fourteen 
 lines on Bowles' Pope are in the first edition of "English 
 Bards and Scotch Reviewers;" and are quite as severe 
 and much more poetical than my ow n in the second. On i 
 
LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 667 
 
 rinting tlie work, as I put my name to it, I omitted 
 . Hobhouse's lines, and replaced them with my own, 
 •y which the work gained less than Mr. Bowles. I have 
 hptated this in tlie preface to the second edition. It is many 
 years since I have read that poem; but the Quarterly Re- 
 view, Mr. Octavius GilcJirist, and Mr. Bowles himself, 
 have been so obliging as to refresh my memory, and that 
 of the public. I am grieved to say, that in reading over 
 t^ose lines, I repent of their having so far fallen short of 
 what I meant to express upon the subject of Bowles' edi- 
 tion of Pope's Works. Mr. Bowles says, that "Lord By- 
 En knows he does not deserve this character." I know no 
 ch thing. I have met Mr. Bowles occasionally, in the 
 St society in London; he appeared to me an amiable, 
 Irell informed, and extremely able man. I desire nothing 
 lietter than to dine in company with such a mannered man 
 ivery day in the week : but of "his character" I know no- 
 l^ng personally; I can only speak to his manners, and 
 ese have my warmest approbation. But I never judge 
 [Prom manners, for I once had my pocket picked by the 
 invilest gentleman I ever met with ; and one of the mildest 
 persons I ever saw was Ali Pacha. Of Mr. Bowles' "cha- 
 racter" Ivi'iW not do him the injustice to judge from the 
 edition of Pope, if he prepared it heedlessly ; nor the 
 justice, should it be otherwise, because I would neither 
 me a literary executioner, nor a personal one. Mr. 
 wles the individual, and Mr. Bowles theeditor, appear 
 two most opposite things imaginable. 
 
 "And he himself one antithesis." 
 
 ijl won't say "vile," because it is harsh; nor "mistaken," 
 because it has two syllables too many: but every one must 
 fill up the blank as he pleases. 
 
 What I saw of Mr. Bowles increased my surprise and 
 regret that he should ever have lent his talents to such a 
 task. It he had been a fool, there would have been some 
 excuse for him; if he had been a needy or a bad man, his 
 conduct would have been intelligible: but he is the oppo- 
 Isite of all these; and thinking and feeling as I do ofPopc, 
 Ito me the whole thing is unaccountable. However, I must 
 Icall things by their right names. I cannot call his edition 
 |of Pope a "candid" work ; and I still think that there is 
 an affectation of that quality not only in those volumes, 
 but in the pamphlets lately published. 
 
 "Why yet he doth deny his prisoners." 
 
 IVfr. Bowles says: "I have seen passages in Pope's letters 
 Ito Martha Blount which were never published by me, and 
 jl hope never will be by others ; which are so gross as to 
 limply the grossest licentiousness." Is this fair play ? It 
 may, or it may not be that such passages exist ; and that 
 [Pope, who was notamonk, although a catholic, may have 
 occasionally sinned in word and in deed with woman in 
 his youth ; but is this a sufficient ground for such a sweep- 
 ing denunciation.'' Where is the unmarried Englishman 
 of a certain rank of life, who (provided he has not taken 
 orders) has not to reproach himself between the ages of 
 sixteen and thirty with far more licentiousness than has 
 ever yet been traced to Pope? Pope lived in thepubliceye 
 from his youth upwards; he had all the dunces of his own 
 time for his enemies, and, I am sorry to say, some, who 
 have not the apology of dulness for detraction, since his 
 death; and yet to wliat do all their accumulated hints and 
 
 charges amount.' — to an equivocal liaison with Martha 
 Blount, which might arise as much from his infirmities as 
 from his passions; to a hopeless flirtation with Lady Mary 
 W. Montagu; to a story of Gibber's; and to two or three 
 coarse passages in his works. IF/iocould come forth clear- 
 er from an invidious inquest on a life of fifty-six years ? 
 Why are we to be officiously reminded of such passages 
 in his letters, provided that they exist. Is Mr. Bowles 
 aware to what such rummaging among "letters" and 
 "stories" might lead? I have myself seen a collection of 
 letters of another eminent, nay, pre-eminent, deceased 
 poet, so abominably gross, and elaborately coarse, that I 
 do not believe that they could be paralleled in our lan- 
 guage. What is more strange, is, that some of these are 
 couched as postscripts to his serious and sentimental let- 
 ters, to which are tacked either a piece of prose, or some 
 verses, of the most hyperbolical indecency. He himself 
 says, that if "obscenity (using a much coarser word) be 
 the sin against the Holy Ghost, he most certainly cannot 
 be saved." These letters are in existence, and have been 
 seen by many besides myself; but would his editor have 
 been "candid" in even alluding to them ? Nothing would 
 have even provoked me, an indiBerent spectator, to al- 
 lude to them, but this further attempt at the depreciation 
 of Pope. 
 
 What should we say to an editor of Addison, who cited 
 the following passage from Walpole's letters to George 
 Montagu? "Dr. Young has published a new book. Mr. 
 Addison sent for the young Earl of Warwick, as he was 
 dying, to show him in what peace a Christian could die; 
 unluckily he died of iranrf^; nothing makes a Christian 
 die in peace* like being maudlin! but don't say this in 
 Gath where you are." Suppose the editor introduced it 
 with this preface: "One circumstance is mentioned by 
 Horace Walpole, which if true was indeed flagitious, 
 Walpole informs Montagu that Addison sent for the 
 young Earl of Warwick, when dying, to show him in 
 what peace a Christian could die; but unluckily he died 
 drunk." Now, although there might occur on the subse- 
 quent, or on the same page, a faint show of disbelief, 
 seasoned with the expression of "the same candour" 
 (the same exactly as throughout the book), I should say 
 that this editor was either foolish or false to his trust; 
 such a story ought not to have been admitted, except for 
 one brief mark of crushing indignation, unless it were 
 completely proved. Why the words "if true?" that ^if" 
 is not a peace-maker. Why talk of "Gibber's testimony" 
 to liis licentiousness; to what does this amount? that 
 Pope when very young was once decoyed by some noble- 
 man and the player to a house of carnal recreation. Mr. 
 Bowles was not always a clergyman ; and when he was 
 a very young man, was he never seduced into as much ? 
 If I were in the humour for storytelling, and relating little 
 anecdotes, I could tell a much better story of Mr.Bowles, 
 than Gibber's, upon much better authority, viz. that of 
 Mr. Bowles himself. It was not related by him in my 
 presence, but in that of a third person, whom Mr. Bowles 
 names oftener than once in the course of his replies. This 
 gentleman related it to me as a humourous and witty- 
 anecdote; and so it was, whatever its other characteristics 
 might be. But should I, for a youthful frolic, brand Mr. 
 
668 
 
 LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 Bowles witha "libertine sort of love," orwitli "licentious- 
 ness?" Is he tlie less now a pious or a good man, for not 
 having always been a priest? No such thing; I am willing 
 to believe him a good man, almost as good a man as Pope, 
 but no better. 
 
 The truth is, that in these days the grand "primum 
 mobile" of England is cant; cant political, cant poetical, 
 cant religious, cant moral ; but always cant, multiplied 
 through all the varieties of life. It is the fashion, and 
 while it lasts will be too powerful for those who can only 
 exist by taking the tone of the time. I say cant, because 
 it is a thing of words, without the smallest influence upon 
 human actions; the English being no wiser, no better, 
 and much poorer, and more divided amongst themselves, 
 as well as far less moral, than they were before the pre- 
 valence of this verbal decorum. This hysterical horror of 
 poor Pope's not very well ascertained, and never fully 
 proved amours (for even Gibber owns that he prevented 
 the somewhat perilous adventure in which Pope was em- 
 barking) sounds very virtuous in a controversial pamph- 
 let; but all men of the world -who know what life is, or 
 at least what it was to them in their youth, must laugh at 
 such a ludicrous foundation of the charge of "a libertine 
 sort of love ;" while the more serious will look upon those 
 who bring forward such charges upon an insulated fact, 
 as fanatics or hypocrites, perhaps both. The two are 
 sometimes compounded in a happy mixture. 
 
 Mr. Octavius Gilchrist speaks rather irreverently of a 
 "second tumbler of Aof white-wine-negus." What does 
 he mean? Is there any harm in negus? or is it the worse 
 for being hot? or does Mr. Bowles drink negus? I had a 
 better opinion of him. I hoped that whatever wine he 
 drank was neat ; or, at least, that,like the ordinary in Jo- 
 nathan Wild, "hepreferred/*Mnc7t, the rather as there was 
 nothing against it in Scripture." I should be sorry to 
 believe that Mr. Bowles was fond of negus; it is such a 
 "candid" liquor, so like a wishy-washy compromise be- 
 tween the passion for wine and the propriety of water. 
 But difierent writers have divers tastes. Judge Black- 
 stone composed his "Commentaries" (he was a poet too 
 in liis youth) with a bottle of port before him. Addison's 
 conversation was not good for much till he had taken a 
 similar dose. Perhaps the prescription of these two great 
 men was not inferior to the very diflerent one of a soi- 
 disant poet of this day, who after wandering amongst the 
 hills, returns, goes to bed, and dictates his verses, being 
 fed by a bystander with bread and butter during the 
 operation. 
 
 I now come to Mr. Bowles' "invariable principles of 
 poetry." These Mr. Bowies and some of his correspond- 
 ents pronounce "unanswerable;" and they are "unan- 
 swered," at least by Campbell, who seems to have been 
 astounded by tlie title. The sultan of the time being oflered 
 to ally himself to a king of France, because "he hated the 
 Avord league;" which proves that tlie Padisha under- 
 stood French. Mr. Campbell has no need of my alliance, 
 nor shall I presume to offer it ; but I do hate that word 
 "invariable." What is there of human, be it poetry, philo- 
 sophy, wit, wisdom, science, power, glory, mind, matter, 
 life, or death, which is "mt)«nai/e?" Of oourselput things 
 divine out of the question. Of all arrogant baptisms of a 
 
 book, this title to a pamphlet appears the most compla- 
 cently conceited. It is Mr. Campbell's part to answer the 
 contents of this performance, aud especially to vindicate 
 his own "Ship," which Mr, Bowles most triumphantly 
 proclaims to have struck to his very first fire. 
 
 "Qnoth he, there was a Ship; 
 
 Now let ine go, thou giay-hair'd loon, '"^ 
 
 Or my staff shall make thee skip." 
 
 It is no affair of mine, but having once begun (certainly 
 not by my own wish, but called upon by the frequent 
 recurrence to my name in the pamphlets), I am like an 
 Irishman in a "row," "any body's customer." 1 shall 
 therefore say a word or two on the "Ship." 
 
 Mr.Bowles asserts thatCampbell's "Ship of the Line" 
 derives all its poetry not from "art" but from "nature" 
 "Takeaway the waves,the winds,the sun,one will become 
 a stripe of blue bunting; and the othor a piece of coarse 
 canvass on three tall poles." Very true; take away the 
 "waves," "the winds," and there will be no ship at all, 
 not only for poetical, but for any other purpose; and take 
 away "the sun," and we must read Mr. Bowies' pamph- 
 let by candlelight. But the "poetry" of the "Ship" 
 does not depend on "the waves ;" on the contrary, the 
 "Ship of the Line" confers its own poetry upon the wa- 
 ters, and heightens theirs. I do not deny, that the "waves 
 and winds," and above all "the sun," are highly poetical; 
 we know it to our cost, by the many descriptions of them 
 in verse: but if the waves bore only the foam upon their 
 bosoms, ifthe winds wafted only the seaweed to the shore, 
 if the sun shone neither upon pyramids, nor fleets, nor 
 fortresses, would its beams be equally poetical? I think 
 not: the poetry is at least reciprocal. Take away "the 
 Ship of the Line" "swinging round" the "calm water," 
 and the calm water becomes a somewhat monotonous 
 thing to look at, particularly if not transparently clear; 
 witness the thousands who pass by without looking on it 
 at all. What w as it attracted the thousands to the launch? 
 tliey might have seen the poetical "calm water" at Wapp- 
 ing or in the "London Dock," or in the Paddington Canal, 
 or in a horse-pond, or in a slopbasin, or in any other vase» 
 T hey might have heard the poetical winds ho w ling througb 
 the chinks of a pigstye, or the garret-window; they 
 might have seen the sun shining on a footman's livery, 
 or on a brass warming-pan; but could the "calm water," 
 or the "wind," or the "sun," make all, or any of these 
 "poetical?" I think not. Mr. Bowles admits the "Ship" 
 to be poetical, but only from those accessaries : now if 
 tliey confer poetry so as to make one thing poetical, they 
 would make other things poetical ; the more so, as Mr. 
 Bowles calls a "ship of the line" without them, that is to 
 say, its "masts and sails and streamers," 'blue bunting," 
 and "coarse canvass," and "tall poles." So they are; and 
 porcelain is clay, and man is dust, and flesh is grass, and 
 yet the two latter at least are the subjects of much poesy. 
 
 Did Mr. Bowies ever gaze upon the sea? I presume 
 that he has, at least upon a sea-piece. Did any painter 
 ever paint the sea only, without the addition of a ship, 
 boat, wreck, or some sm'\\ adjunct? Is the sea itself a 
 more attractive, a more moral, a more poetical object w ith 
 or without a vessel, breaking its vast but fatiguing mo- 
 notony? Is a Sturm more poetical without a ship; or, ia 
 
LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 669 
 
 the poem of the Shipwreck, is it the storm or the ship 
 which most interests? both mnch undoubtedly ; but with- 
 out the vessel, what should we care for the tempest? It 
 would sink, into mere descriptive poetry, which in itself 
 was never esteemed a high order of that art. 
 
 I look upon myself as entitled to talk of naval matters, 
 at least to poets : — with the exception of Walter Scott, 
 Moore, and Southey, perhaps (who have been voyag-ers), 
 I have swam more miles than all the rest of them together 
 now living ever sailed, and have lived for months and 
 months on shipboard; and during the whole period of 
 my life abroad have scarcely ever passed a month out of 
 sight of the ocean : besides being brought up from two 
 years till tenon the brink of it. I recollect, when anchored 
 oflCape Sigeum, in 1810, in an English frigate, a violent 
 squall coming on at sunset, so violent as to make us ima- 
 gine that the ship would part cable, or drive from her 
 anchorage. Mr. Hobhouse and myself, and some officers 
 had been up the Dardanelles to Abydos, and were just 
 ^returned in time. The aspect of a storm in the Archipe- 
 lago is as poetical as need be, the sea being particularly 
 lliprt, dashing, and dangerous, and the navigation intri- 
 ;ate and broken by the isles and currents. Cape Sigeum, 
 the tumuli of the Troad, Lemnos, Tenedos, all added to 
 pie associations of the time. But what seemed the most 
 'poetical" of all at the moment, were the numbers (about 
 ;wo hundred) of Greek and Turkish craft, which were 
 )bliged to "cut and run" before the wind, from their un- 
 lafe anchorage, some for Tenedos, some for other isles, 
 some for the main, and some itmiglitbe for eternity. The 
 light of these little scudding vessels, darting over the foam 
 n the twilight, now appearing and now disappearing 
 between the waves in the cloud of night, with their pecu- 
 liarly white sails (the Levant sails not being of "coarse 
 pamra««,"but of white cotton),skimming along as quickly, 
 put less safely than the sea-mews which hovered over 
 hem; their evident distress, their reduction to fluttering 
 jipecks in the distance, their crowded succession, their 
 ittleness, as contending with tiie giant element, which 
 lade our stout forty -four's teak timbers (she was built 
 India) creak again; their aspect and their motion, all 
 truck me as something far more "poetical" than the mere 
 liroad, brawling, shipless sea, and the sullen winds, could 
 (ossibly have been without them. 
 
 The Euxiue is a noble sea to look upon, and the port of 
 Constantinople the most beautiful ofiiarbours, and yet I 
 laonot but think that the twenty sail of the line, some of 
 »ae hundred and forty guns, rendered it more "poetical' 
 ly day in the sun, and by niglit perhaps still more, for the 
 Turks illuminate their vessels of war in a manner themost 
 (icturesque, and yet aWth'xsis artificial. Asfor theEuxine, 
 stood upon the Symplegades — I stood by the broken 
 iltar still exposed to the winds upon one of them — I felt 
 ill the ^'poetry' of the situation, as I repeated the first 
 iocs of Medea ; but would not that "poetry" have been 
 leightened by the Argo ? It was so even by the appearance 
 |»f any merchant-vessel arriving from Odessa. But Mr. 
 iwles says, "why bring your ship ofl' the stocks?" For 
 lift reason that I know, except that ships are built to be 
 ched. The water undoubtedly iiiiiGiixiiNs the poetical 
 ciatiations, thus it does not make them; and the ship 
 
 amply repays the obligation: they aid each other; the wa- 
 ter is more poetical with the ship — the ship less so 
 without the water. But even a ship, laid up in dock, is a 
 grand and a poetical sight. Even an old boat, keel up- 
 wards, wrecked upon the barren sand, is a "poetical" ob- 
 ject (and Wordsworth, who made a poem about a wash- 
 ing-tub and a blind boy, may tell you so as well as 1) ; 
 whilst a long extent of sand and unbroken water, without 
 the boat, would be as like dull prose as any pamphlet 
 lately published. 
 
 What makes the poetry in the image of the "marble 
 waste of Tadmor," in Grainger's "Ode to Solitude," so 
 much admired by Johnson ? Is it the "marble," or the 
 "waste," the artificial or thenaiwra/object? The "waste" 
 is like all other wastes; but the "marble" of Palmyra 
 makes the poetry of the passage as of the place. 
 
 The beautiful but barren Hymettus, the whole coast of 
 Attica, her hills and mountains, Pentelicus,Anchesmus, 
 Philopappus, are in themselves poetical, and would be 
 so if the name of Athens, of Athenians, and her very ruins, 
 were swept from the earth. But am I to be told that the 
 "nature" of Attica would be more poetical without the 
 "art" of the Acropolis? of the Temple of Theseus? and 
 of the still all Greek and glorious monuments of her ex- 
 quisitely artificial genius? Ask the traveller what strikes 
 him as most poetical, the Parthenon, or the rock on which 
 it stands? The columns of Cape Colonna, or the Cape 
 itself? The rocks at the foot of it, or the recollection that 
 Falconer's ship was bulged upon them? There are a thou- 
 sand rocks and capes, far more picturesque than those of 
 the Acropolis and Cape Sunium in themselves ; what are 
 they to a thousand scenes in the wilder parts of Greece, 
 of Asia Minor, Switzerland, or even of Cintra in Portu- 
 gal, or to many scenes of Italy, and the Sierras of Spain? 
 But it is the "art," the columns, the temples, the w recked 
 vessel, which give them their antique and their modern 
 poetry, and not the spots themselves. Without them, the 
 spots of earth would be unnoticed and unknown; buried, 
 like Babylon and Nineveh, in indistinct confusion, with- 
 out poetry, as without existence; but to whatever spot of 
 earth these ruins were transported, if they were capable 
 of transportation, like the obelisk, and the sphinx, and 
 tlie Memnon's head, there they would still exist in the 
 perfection of their beauty and in the pride of their poetry. 
 I opposed, and will ever oppose, the robbery of ruins from 
 Athens, to instruct the English in sculpture ; but why did 
 I do so? The ruins are as poetical in Piccadilly as they 
 were in the Partlienon; but the Parthenon and its rock 
 are less so without them. Such is the poetry of art, 
 
 Mr. Bowles contends, again, thatthepyramidsofEgypt 
 are poetical, because of "the association with I oundlcss 
 deserts," and that a "pyramid of the same dimensions" 
 would not be sublime in "Lincoln's Inn Fields:" not *« 
 poetical certainly; but take away the "pyramids," and 
 what is the "desert?" Take away Stone-henge from Salis- 
 bury-plain, and it is nothing more than Hounslow-Heath, 
 or any other uninolosed down. It appears to me that St. 
 Peter's, the Coliseum, the Pantheon, the Palatine, tlie 
 Apollo, theLaocoon, the Venus di Medicis, the Hercules, 
 the dying Gladiator, the Moses of Michel Angelo, and all 
 the higher works of Canova (I have already spoken of 
 
670 
 
 LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 those of ancient Greece, still extant in that country, or 
 transported to England), are as poetical as Mont Blanc 
 or Mount ^tna, perhaps still more so, as they are direct 
 manifestations of mind, and presuppose poetry in their 
 very conception ; and have, moreover, as being such, a 
 something of actual life, which cannot belong to any part 
 of inanimate nature, unless we adopt the system of Spi- 
 noza, that tiie world is the Deity. There can be nothing 
 more poetical in its aspect than the city of Venice : does 
 this depend upon the sea, or the canals? — 
 
 "The dirt and sea-weed whence proud Venice rose?" 
 
 Is itthe canal which runs between thepalace and theprison, 
 or the "Bridge of Sighs" which connects them, that renders 
 it poetical ? Is it the "Canal Grande" or the Rialto wiiich 
 arches it, the churches which tower over it, the palaces 
 which line, and the gondolas which glide over the waters, 
 that render this city more poetical than Rome itself? Mr. 
 Bowles will say, perhaps, that the Rialto is but marble, 
 the palaces and churches only stone, and the gondolas a 
 ''coarse" black cloth, thrown over some 'planks of carved 
 wQod, with a shining bitoffantastically-formedironatthe 
 prow,"M;jMoM<"the water. And I tell him that without these 
 the water would be nothing but a clay-coloured ditch, and 
 whoever says the contrary, deserves to be at the bottom 
 of that where Pope's heroes are embraced by the mud 
 nymphs. There would be nothing to make the canal of 
 Venice more poetical than that of Paddington, were it not 
 for the artificial adjuncts above mentioned, although it is 
 a perfectly natural canal, formed by the sea, and the in- 
 numerable islands which constitute the site of this extra- 
 ordinary city. 
 
 The very Cloaca of Tarquin at Rome are as poetical as 
 Richmond -Hill; many will think more so. Take away 
 Rome, and leave the Tiber and the seven hills in the na- 
 ture of Evander's time: let Mr. Bowles, or Mr. Words- 
 worth, or Mr. Southey, or any of the other "naturals," 
 make a poem upon them, andthen see which is most poet- 
 ical, their production, or the commonest guide-book 
 which tells you the road from St. Peter's to the Coliseum, 
 and informs you what you will see by the way. Theground 
 interests in Virgil, because it will be Rome, and not be- 
 cause it is Evander's rural domain. 
 
 Mr. Bowles then proceeds to press Homer into his ser- 
 vice, in answer to a remark of Mr. Campbell's, that "Ho- 
 mer was a great describer of works of art." Mr. Bowles 
 contends that all his great power, even in this, depends 
 upon their connexion with nature. "The shield of Achil- 
 les derives its poetical interest from the subjects described 
 on it" And from what does the spear of Achilles derive 
 its interest? and the helmet and the mail worn by Patroc- 
 lus, and the celestial armour, and the very brazen greaves 
 of thewell-bootedGreeks? Is it solely from the legs, and 
 theback, and the breast, and the human body, which they 
 inclose? In that ease, it would have been more poetical to 
 have made them fight naked; and Gulley and Gregson, as 
 being nearer to a state of nature, are more poetical, boxing 
 in a pair of drawers, than Hector and Achilles in radiant 
 armour, and with heroic weapons. 
 
 Instead of the clash of helmets, and the rushing of cha- 
 riots, and the whizzing of spears, and the glancing of 
 swords, and the cleaving of shields, and the piercing of 
 
 breast-plates, why not represent the Greeks and Trojans 
 like two savage tribes, tugging and tearing, and kickinji 
 and biting, and gnashing, foaming, grinning, and goug 
 ing, in all the poetry of martial nature, unincumbered with 
 gross, prosaic artificial arms, an equal superfluity to the 
 natural warrior, and his natural poet? Is there any thing 
 unpoetical in Ulysses striking the horses of Rhesus with 
 his bow (having forgotten his thong), or would Mr. Bow- 
 les have had him kick them with Ihs foot, or smack them 
 with his hand, as being more unsophisticated? 
 
 In Gray's Elegy, is there an image more striking than 
 his "shapeless sculpture?" Of sculpturein general, itmay 
 be observed, that it is more poetical than nature itself, in^ 
 asmuch as it represents and bodies forth that ideal beautj 
 and sublimity which is never to be found in actual nature, 
 This atleast is the general opinion ; but, always excepting 
 the Venus di Medicis, I differ from that opinion, at leas< 
 as far as regards female beauty; for the head of Ladj 
 Charlemont (wheni first saw her, nine years ago) seemed 
 to possess all that sculpture could require for its ideal. ] 
 recollect seeing something of the same kind in theheac 
 of an Albaniangirl, who was actually employed in mend- 
 ing a road in the mountains, and in some Greek, and on« 
 or two Italian faces. But of svilimiti/, I have never seei 
 any thing in human nature at all to approach the expres- 
 sion of sculpture, either in the Apollo, the Moses, orothei 
 of the sterner works of ancient or modern art. 
 
 Let us examine a little further this "babble of greei 
 fields," and of bare nature in general, as superior to arti 
 ficial imagery, for the poetical purposes of the fine arta 
 In landscape -painting, the great artist does not give yoi 
 a literal copy of a country, but he invents and compose 
 one. Nature, in her actual aspect, does not furnish hin 
 with such existing scenes as he requires. Even where b 
 presents you with some famous city, or celebrated seen 
 from mountain or other nature, it must be taken from sort 
 particular point of view, and with such light, and shad( 
 and distance, as serve not only to heighten its beautiei 
 but to shadow its deformities. The poetry of Natuf 
 alone, exactly as she appears, is not sufficient tobearhil 
 out. The very sky of his painting is not i\\e portraiti 
 the sky of Nature; it is a composition of different skU. 
 observed at different times, and not the whole copied frOI 
 any particular day. And why? Because Nature is m 
 lavish of her beauties ; they are widely scattered, a|i 
 occasionally displayed, to be selected with care, ai 
 gathered with difficulty. »♦■ 
 
 Of sculpture I have just spoken. It is the great scflf 
 of the sculptor to heighten Nature into heroic beauty, «Ji 
 in plain English, to surpass his model. When Cano\p 
 forms a statue, he takes a limb from one, a hand froil 
 another, a feature from a third, and a shape, it may b 
 from a fourth, probably at the same time improving upo' 
 all, as the Greek of old did in embodying his Venus. 
 
 Ask a portrait-painter to describe his agonies in a<i 
 commodating the faces with which Nature and his sitteil 
 have crowded his painting-room to the principles of h 
 art : with the exception of perhaps ten faces in as man 
 millions, there is not one which he can venture to gi^ 
 without shading much and adding more. Nature, exact! 
 simply, barely Nature, will make no great artist of ar 
 
LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 671 
 
 kind, and least of all a poet — the most artificial, perhaps, 
 of all artists in his very essence. With regard to natural 
 imagery, the poets are obliged to take some of their best 
 illustrations from art. You say that a "fountain is as 
 clear or clearer than glass," to express its beauty — 
 
 " O fons Bandusiae, jplendidior vitro ! " 
 
 \ In the speech of Mark Antony, the body of Ccesar is dis- 
 played, but so also is his mantle : 
 ^ "You all do know tLis mantle," 
 
 "Look! in this place ran Cassias' dagger through." 
 
 If the poet had said that Cassius had run h\sjist through 
 
 tlie rent of the mantle, it would have had more of Mr. 
 
 1 Bowles' "nature" to help it; but the artificial da^^er is 
 
 ;; more poetical than any natural hand without it In the 
 
 sij sublime of sacred poetry, "Who is this thatcometh from 
 
 sifEdom? W\i\i dyed c/arments irom^ozrd\\V' Would "the 
 
 comer" be poetical without his ^^ dyed garments?" which 
 
 strike and startle the spectator, and identify the ap- 
 
 lli preaching object. 
 
 Tlie mother of Sisera is represented listening for the 
 &\"wheels of his chariot." Solomon, in his Song, compares 
 jthe nose of his beloved to "a tower," which to us appears 
 an eastern exaggeration. Ifhe had said, that her stature 
 (Was like that of a "tower," it would have been as poetical 
 las if he had compared her to a tree. 
 
 I "The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex," 
 
 ^S an instance of an artificial image to express a moral 
 
 iljsuperiority. But Solomon, it is probable, did not com- 
 
 re his beloved's nose to a "tower" on account of its 
 
 t^llength, but of its symmetry ; and, making allowance for 
 
 eastern hyperbole and the difficulty of finding a discreet 
 
 I image for a female nose in nature, it is perhaps as good 
 
 a figure as any other. 
 
 Art is not inferior to nature for poetical purposes. 
 
 What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object 
 
 of view than the same mass of mob? Their arms, their 
 
 dresses, their banners, and the ar^and artificial symmetry 
 
 if their position and movements. A Highlander's plaid, 
 
 1 Mussulman's turban, and a Roman toga, are more 
 
 Doetical than the tattooed or untattooed buttocks of a 
 
 Vew-Sandwich savage, although they were described by 
 
 William Words wortli himself like the "idiot in his glory." 
 
 I have seen as many mountains as most men, and more 
 
 leets than the generality of landsmen: and, to my mind, 
 
 I large convoy, with a few sail of the line to conduct them, 
 
 sas noble and as poetical a prospect as all that inanimate 
 
 lature can produce. I prefer the "mast of some great am- 
 
 niral," with all its tackle, to the Scotch fir or the Alpine 
 
 aiinen; and think that more poetry has been made out 
 
 )f it. In what does the infinite superiority of "Falconer's 
 
 shipwreck," over all other shipwrecks, consist? In his 
 
 idmirable application of the terms of his art; in a poet- 
 
 ailor's description of the sailor's fate. These very terms, 
 
 >y his application, make the strength and reality of his 
 
 )oem. Why? because he was a poet, and in the hands 
 
 'f a poet art will not be found less ornamental than nature. 
 
 t is precisely in general nature, and in stepping out of 
 
 is element, that Falconer fails; where he digresses to 
 
 peak of ancient Greece, and "such branches of learning." 
 
 Ill Dyer's Grongar Hill, upon which his fame rests, the ! 
 
 very appearance of Nature herself is moralized into an 
 artificial image : 
 
 Thus is Nature's vesture wrought. 
 To instruct our wandering thought; 
 Thus she dresses green and gay, 
 To disperse our cares away. 
 
 And here also we have the telescope, the mis-use of 
 which, from Milton, has rendered Mr. Bowles so triumph- 
 ant over Mr. Campbell. 
 
 So we mistake th« future's face. 
 Eyed through Hope's deluding glass. 
 
 And here a word, en passant, to Mr. Campbell 
 
 As yon summits, soft and fair. 
 Clad in colours of the air. 
 Which, to those who journey near. 
 Barren, brown, and rough appear, 
 Still we tread the same coarse way — 
 The present's still a cloudy day. 
 
 Is not this the original of the far-famed 
 
 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
 And robes the mountain in its azure hue? 
 
 To return once more to the sea. Let any one look on 
 the long wall of Malamocco, which curbs the Adriatic, 
 and pronounce between the sea and its master. Surely 
 that Roman work (I mean Roman in conception and per- 
 formance), which says to the ocean, "thus far shalt thou 
 come, and no further," and is obeyed, is not les sublime 
 and poetical than the angry waves which vainly break 
 beneath it. 
 
 Mr. Bowles makes the chief part of a ship's poesy de- 
 pend on the "wind:" then why is a ship under sail more 
 poetical than a hog in a high wind? The hog is all nature, 
 the ship is all art, "coarse canvass," "blue bunting," and 
 "tall poles;" both are violently acted upon by the wind, 
 tossed here and there, to and fro; and yet nothing but 
 excess of hunger could make me look upon the pig as the 
 more poetical of the two, and then only in the shape of a 
 griskin. 
 
 Will Mr. Bowles tell us that the poetry of an aqueduct 
 consists in the water which it conveys ? Let him look on 
 that of Justinian, on those of Rome, Constantinople, 
 Lisbon, and Elvas, or even at the remains of that in 
 Attica. 
 
 We are asked "what makes the venerable towers of 
 Westminster Abbey more poetical, as objects, than the 
 tower for the manufactory of pat<?nt-shot, surrounded by 
 the same scenery?" I will answer — the architecture. 
 Turn Westminster Abbey, or Saint Paul's, into a powder- 
 magazine, their poetry, as objects, remains the same; the 
 Parthenon was actually converted into one by the Turks, 
 during Morosini's Venetian siege, and part of it destroyed 
 in consequence. Cromwell's dragoons stalled their steeds 
 in Worcester t;athedral; was it less poetical, as an object, 
 than before? Ask a foreigner on his approach to London, 
 what strikes him as the most poetical of the towers be- 
 fore him: he will point out St. Paul's and Westminster 
 Abbey, without, perhaps, knowing the names or asso- 
 ciations of either, and pass over the "tower for patent- 
 shot," not that, for any thing he knows to the contrary, it 
 might not be the mausoleum of a monarch, or a Water- 
 loo-column, or a Trafalgar -monument, but because its 
 architecture is obviously inferior. 
 
672 
 
 LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 To tlie question, "whetlier tlie description of a game 
 of cards be as poetical, supposing- the execution of the 
 artists equal, as a description of a walk in a forest?" it 
 may be answered, tliat the materials are certainly not 
 equal; but that "tlie artist," who has rendered the "game 
 of cards poetical," is hy far the greater o{ \S\e,\viO. But 
 all this "ordering" of poets is purely arbitrary on the part 
 of Mr. Bowles. There may or may not be, in fact, different 
 orders of poetry, but the poet is always ranked according 
 to his execution, and not according to his branch of 
 the art. 
 
 Tragedy is one of the highest presumed orders. Hughes 
 has written a tragedy, and a very successful one ; Fenton 
 another; and Pope none. Did any man, however, — will 
 even Mr. Bowles himself rank Hughes and Fenton as 
 poets above Pope? Was even Addison (the author of 
 Cato), or Rowe (one of the higher order of dramatists, 
 as far as .success goes), or Young, or even Otway and 
 Southerne, ever raised for a moment to the same rank 
 with Pope in the estimation of the reader or the critic, 
 before his death or since? If Mr. Bowles will contend for 
 classifications of this kind, let him recollect that descrip- 
 tive poetry has been ranked as among the lowest branches 
 of the art, and description as a mere ornament, but whicii 
 should never form "the subject" of a poem. The Italians, 
 with the most poetical language, and the most fastidious 
 taste in Europe, possess now five yreat poets, they say, 
 Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Tasso, and lastly Alfieri; and 
 whom do they esteem one of the highest of these, and some 
 of them the very highest? Petrarch, the sonneteer : it is 
 true that some of his Canzoni are not less esteemed, but 
 not more; who ever dreams of his Latin Africa? 
 
 Were Petrarch to be ranked according to the "order" 
 of his compositions, where would the best of sonnets 
 place him? With Dante and the others? No; but, as I 
 have before said, the poet who executes best is the highest, 
 whatever his department, and will ever be so rated in the 
 world's esteem. 
 
 Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as he 
 stands, I am not sure that he would not stand higher ; it 
 is the corner-stone of his glory : without it, his odes would 
 be insufficient for his fame. The depreciation of Pope is 
 partly founded upon a false idea of the dignity of his or- 
 der of poetry, to which be has partly contributed by the 
 ingenuous boast, 
 
 That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long, 
 But stoop'd to Truth, and moralized bis song. 
 
 He should have written "rose to truth." In my mind the 
 highest of all poetry is ethical poetry, as the highest of all 
 earthly objects must be moral truth. Religion does not 
 make a part of my subject; it is something beyond hu- 
 man powers, and has failed in all human hands except 
 Milton's and Dante's, and even Dante's powers are in- 
 volved in his delineation of human passions, though in 
 supernatural circumstances. What made Socrates the 
 greatest of men? His moral truth — his ethics. What 
 proved Jesus Christ the Son of God hardly less than his 
 miracles ? His moral precepts. And if ethics have made 
 a philosopher the first of men, and have not been dis- 
 dained as an adjunct to his Gospel by the Deity himself, are 
 we to be told that etliical poetry, or by whatever name 
 
 you term it, whose object is to make men better and, wiser, 
 is not the very first order of poetry; and are we to be 
 told this too by one of the priesthood? It requires more 
 mind, more wisdom, more power, than all the "forests" 
 that ever were "walked" for their "description," and all 
 the epics that ever were founded upon fields of battle. 
 The Georgies are indisputably, and, I believe, undisfnt- 
 tedly, even a finer poem than the JEneid. Yirgil knew 
 this ; he did not order them to be burnt. 
 
 "The proper study of mankind is man." 
 
 It is the fashion of the day to lay great stress upon what 
 they call "imagination" and "invention," the two com- 
 monest of qualities : an Irish peasant, with a little whiskey 
 in his head, will imagine and invent more than would 
 furnish forth a modern poem. If Lucretius had not been 
 spoiled by the Epicurean system, we should have had a 
 far superior poem to any now in existence. As mere 
 poetry, it is the first ofLatin poems. Whatthenhas ruined 
 it? His ethics. Pope has not this defect; his moral is as 
 pure as his poetry is glorious. In speaking of artificial ob- 
 jects, I have omitted to touch upon one which I will now 
 mention. Cannon may be presumed to be as highly poet- 
 ical as art can makeher objects. Mr. Bowles will, perhaps 
 tell me that this is because they resemble that grand na- 
 tural article of sound in heaven, and simile upon earth — 
 thunder. I shall be told triumphantly, that Milton mad« 
 sad work with his artillery, when he armed his devili 
 therewithal. He did so; and this artificial object mus 
 have had much of the sublime to attract his attention fo! 
 such a conflict. He has made an absurd use of it; but th( 
 absurdity consists not in using cannon against the angel 
 of God, but any material weapon. The thunder of thi 
 clouds would have been as ridiculous and vain in th 
 hands of the devils, as the "villanous saltpetre:" the angel 
 were as impervious to the one as to the other. The thuH 
 derbolts became sublime in the hands of the Almightj 
 not as such but because he deigns to use them as a mean 
 ofrepelling the rebel spirits; but no one can attribute thai 
 defeat to this grand piece of natural electricity : the Al 
 mighty willed, and they fell; his word would have bee 
 enough; and Milton is as absurd (and in fact, blaspheme 
 ous") in putting material lightnings into the hands of th! 
 Godhead as in giving him hands at all. 
 
 The artillery of the demons was but the first step of h 
 mistake, the thunder the next, and it is a step lower. ! 
 would have been fit for Jove, but not for Jehovah. 1\ 
 subject altogether was essentially unpoetical ; hehas mac 
 more ofit than another could, but it is beyond him au 
 all men. 
 
 In a portion of his reply, Mr. Bowles asserts that Pof! 
 "envied Philips," because he quizzed his pastorals in tli 
 Guardian, in that most admirable model of irony, his pi) 
 per on the subject. If there was any thing enviable aboif 
 Philips, it could hardly be his pastorals. They were d 
 spicable, and Pope expressed his contempt. If Mr. Fit;i 
 gerald published a volume of sonnets, or a "Spirit of Di 
 covery," or a "Missionary,"and Mr. Bowles wrote inar 
 periodical journal an ironical paper upon them, wou 
 this be "envy?" Theauthors of the "Rejected Addressef 
 have ridiculed the sixteen or twenty "first living poet; 
 of the day; but do they "envy" them? "Envy" writhe > 
 
LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 673 
 
 it don't laugh. The authors of the Rejected Addresses 
 may despise some, but they can hardly "envy" any of tlie 
 persons whom tliey have parodied; and Pope could have 
 no more envied Phillips than he did Welsted, or Theo- 
 balds, orSmedley, or any other given hero of the Dunciad. 
 He could not have envied him, even had he himself not 
 been the greatest poet of his age. Did Mr. Ings "envy" 
 Mr.Phillips whenhe asked him, "how came your Pyrrlius 
 to drive oxen, and say, I B.m goaded on. by love?" This 
 question silenced poorPhillips; but it no more proceeded 
 from "envy" than did Pope's ridicule. Did he envy Swift? 
 Did he envy Bolingbroke? Did he envy Gay the unparal- 
 leled success of his "Beggar's Opera?" We may be an- 
 swered that these were his friends — true; but does/riend- 
 thip prevent cnny? Study the first woman you meet with, 
 or tlie first scribbler; let Mr. Bowles himself (whom I ac- 
 quit fully of such an odious quality) study some of his 
 Qwn poetical intimates : the most envious man I ever 
 heard of is a poet, and a high one; besides it is aauniver- 
 sal passion. Goldsmith envied not only the puppets for 
 their dancing, and broke his shins in the attempt at rivalry, 
 but was seriously angry because two pretty women re- 
 ceived more attention than he did. T/tisisenvi/ ; but where 
 does Pope show a sign of the passion? In that case Dry- 
 ien envied the hero of his Mac Flecknoe. Mr. Bowles 
 ,>pmpares, when and where he can, Pope with Covvper 
 [the same Cowper whom in his edition of Pope he laugiis 
 It for his attacliment to an old woman, Mrs. Unvvin : search 
 uid you will find it; I remember the passage, though not 
 thepage) ; in particular lie requotesCowper's Dutch deli- 
 iieation of a wood, drawn up like a seedsman's catalogue, 
 Lvitli an afl'ected imitation of Milton's style, as burlesque 
 as the "Splendid shilling." These two writers (for Cow- 
 per is no poet) come into comparison in one great work— 
 the translation of Homer. Now, with all the great, and 
 manifest, andmanifold, andreproved, andacknowlcdged, 
 and uncontroverted faults of Pope's translation, and all 
 jthe scholarship, and pains, and time, and trouble, and 
 plank verse of the other, who can ever read Cowper? and 
 vho will ever lay down Pope, unless for the original? 
 dope's was "not Homer, it was Spondanus;" but Cow- 
 wr's is not Homer, eitiier, it is not even Cowper. As a 
 Aild I first read Pope's Homer with a rapture which no 
 absequent work could ever afford, and children are not 
 he worst judges of their own language. As a boy I read 
 Jomer in the original, as we have all done, some of us by 
 orce, and a few by favour; under which description I 
 iOme is nothing to the purpose, it is enough that I read 
 lim. As a man I have tried to read Cowper's version, and 
 found it impossible. Has any human reader ever suc- 
 leeded? 
 
 And now that we have heard the Catholic reproached 
 »ith envy, duplicity, licentiousness, avarice — what was 
 hie Calvinist? He attempted the most atrocious of crimes 
 tt the Christian code, viz. suicide— and why? because he 
 Wks to be examined whether he was fit for an office which 
 i& seems to wish to have made a sinecure. His connexion 
 »ith Mrs. Unwin was pure enough, for the old lady Avas 
 tevout, and he was deranged; but why then is the infirm 
 Id then elderly Pope to be reproved for his connexion 
 i||h Martha Blount? Cowper was the almoner of Mrs. 
 
 Throgmorton; but Pope's charities were his own, and 
 they were noble and extensive, far beyond his fortune's 
 warrant. Pope was the tolerant yet steady adherent of the 
 most bigoted of sects; and Covvper the most bigoted and 
 despondent sectary that ever anticipated damnation to 
 himself or others. Is this harsh ? I know it is, and I do 
 not assert it as my opinion o( Cowper personalli/, but to 
 show what might be said, with just as great an appearance 
 of truth and candour, as all the odium which has been ac- 
 cumulated upon Pope in similar speculations. Cowper 
 was a good man, and lived at a fortunate time for his works 
 Mr. Bowles, apparently not relying entirely upon his 
 own arguments, has, in person or by proxy, brought for- 
 ward the names of Southey and Moore. Mr. Southey 
 "agrees entirely with Mr. Bowles in his invariable prin- 
 ciples of poetry." The least that Mr. Bowles can do in 
 return is to approve the "invariable principles of Mr. 
 Southey." I should have thought that the word"mi>ar/rti/f?" 
 might have stuck in Southey's throat, like Macbeth's 
 "Amen !" I am sure it did in mine, and I am not the least 
 consistent of the two, at least as a voter. Moore (et tu 
 Brute!) also approves, and a Mr. J. Scott. There is a 
 letter also of two lines from a gentleman in asterisks, who, 
 it seems, is a poet of "the highest rank" — who can this 
 be? not my friend. Sir Walter, surely. Campbell it can't 
 be; Rogers it won't be. 
 
 "You have Iiit the nail iu tlie head, and * • » » 
 [Pope, I preiunie] on the head also." 
 
 1 remain yours, alfectloiiately, 
 (Four Asterisks.) 
 
 And in asterisks let him remain. Whoever tliis person 
 may be, he deserves, for such a judgment of Midas, that 
 "the nail" which Mr. Bowles has "hit in the head" should 
 be driven through his own ears ; I am sure that they are 
 long enough. 
 
 The attempt of the poetical populace of the present day 
 to obtain an ostracism againstPope is as easily accounted 
 for as the Athenian's shell against Aristides; they are 
 tired of hearing him always called "the Just." They are 
 also fighting for life; for if he maintains his station, they 
 will reach their own by falling. They have raised a mos- 
 que by the side of a Grecian temple of the purest architec- 
 ture ; and, more barbarous than the barbarians from w hose 
 practiccl have borrowed the figure, theyarenotcontented 
 with tlieir own grotesque edifice, unless they destroy the 
 prior and purely beautiful fabric which preceded, and 
 w hich shames them and theirs for ever and ever. I shall 
 be told that amongst those I have been (or it may be, still 
 awj) conspicuous — true, and I am ashamed of it. I have 
 been amongst the builders of this Babel, attended by a 
 confusion of tongues, but never amongst the envious des- 
 troyers of the classic temple of our predecessor. I have 
 loved and honoured the fame and name of that illustrious 
 and unrivalledman, far more thanmy own paltry renown, 
 and the trashy jingle of the crowd of "Schools" and up- 
 starts, who pretend to rival, or even surpass him. Sooner 
 than a single leaf should be torn from his laurel, it were 
 better that all which these men, and that I, as one of theii 
 set, have ever written, should 
 
 Line trunks, clolhe spice, or, fluttering in a row, 
 Befringe the rails of Bedlain or Solio! 
 
 43 
 
674 
 
 LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 There are those who will believe this, and tliose who will 
 not. You, Sir, know how farlam sincere, and whethermy 
 opinion, not only in the short work intended for publica- 
 tion, and in private letters which can never be published, 
 has or has not been the same. I look upon this as the de- 
 clining age of English poetry; no regard for others, no 
 selfish feeling, can prevent me from seeing this, and ex- 
 pressing the truth. There can be no worse sign for the 
 taste of the times than the depreciation of Pope. It would 
 be better to receive for proof Mr. Cobbett's rough but 
 strong attack upon Shakspeare and Milton, than to allow 
 this smooth and "candid" undermining of tlie reputation 
 of the most perfect of our poets and the purest of our 
 moralists. Of his power in the passions, in description, 
 in the mock heroic, I leave others to descant. I take him 
 on his strong ground, as an ethical poet : in the former 
 none excel, in the mock-heroic and the ethical none 
 equal him; and in my mind, the latter is the highest 
 of all poetry, because it does tiiat in verse, which the 
 greatest of men have wished to accomplish in prose. If 
 the essence of poetry must be a lie, throw it to the dogs, 
 or banish it from your republic, as Plato would have 
 done. He who can reconcile poetry with truth and wisdom, 
 is the only true "poet" in its real sense: "■themaker," 
 "the creator" — why must this mean the ^'liar," the 
 "feigner," "the tale-teller ?" A man may make and create 
 better things than these. 
 
 I shall not presume to say that Pope is as high a poet 
 as Shakspeare and Milton, though his enemy, Warton, 
 places him immediately under them. I would no more 
 say this than I would assert in the mosque (once Saint 
 Sophia's), that Socrates was a greater man than Maho- 
 met. But if I say that he is very near them, it is no more 
 than has been asserted of Burns, who is supposed 
 
 "To rival all but Sfaakspeare's name below." 
 
 I say nothing against this opinion. But of what "order," 
 according to the poetical aristocracy, are Burns' poems ? 
 There are his opus magnum, "Tam O'Shanter," a tale; 
 the "Cotter's Saturday Night," a descriptive sketch; some, 
 others in the same style; the rest are songs. So much 
 for the rank of his productions ; the rank oi Burns is the 
 very first of his art. Of Pope I have expressed my opi- 
 nion elsewhere, as also of the efl'ect which the present at- 
 tempts at poetry have had upon our literature. If any 
 great national or natural convulsion could or should 
 overwhelm your country, in such sort as to sweep Great 
 Britain from the kingdoms of the earth, and leave only 
 tliat, after all, the most living of human things, a dead 
 language, to be studied, and read, and imitated by the 
 wise of future and far generations upon foreign shores ; 
 if your literature should become the learning of mankind, 
 divested of party-cabals, temporary fashions, and national 
 pride and prejudice; an Englishman, anxious that the 
 posterity of strangers should know that there had been 
 such a thing as a British Epic and Tragedy, might wish 
 for the preservation of Shakspeare and Milton; but the 
 surviving world would snatch Pope from the wreck, and 
 let the rest sink with tiie people. He is the moral poet of 
 all civilization ; and, as such, let us hope that he will one 
 day be the national poc^tof mankind. He is the only poet 
 that never shocks ; the only poet whose faultlessness has 
 
 been made his reproach. Cast your eye over his pro- 
 ductions; consider their extent, and contemplate their 
 variety : — pastoral, passion, mock heroic^ translation, 
 satire, ethics, — all excellent, and often perfect. If his 
 great charm be his melody, how comes it that foreigners 
 adore him even in their diluted translations? But I have 
 made this letter too long. Give my compliments to Mr. 
 Bowles. 
 
 Yours ever, very truly, 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 Postscriptum. — Long as this letter has grown, I find ii 
 necessary to append a postscript, — if possible, a short 
 one. Mr. Bowles denies that he has accused Pope of "a 
 sordid money -getting passion;" but he adds, "if I had 
 ever done so, I should be glad to find any testimony that 
 might show he was not so." This testimony he may find 
 to his heart's content in Spence and elsewhere. First, 
 there is Martha Blount, who, Mr. Bowles charitably says,! 
 "probably thought he did not save enough for her as le- 
 gatee." Whatever she thought upon this point, her words 
 are in Pope's favour. Then there is Alderman Barber;! 
 see Spence's Anecdotes. There is Pope's cold answer to 
 Halifax when he proposed a pension; his behaviour to 
 Craggs and to Addison upon like occasions ; and his owa 
 two lines — 
 
 And, thanks to Homer, since I live and thrive, f 
 
 Indebted to no prince or peer alive — 
 
 written when princes would have been proud to pension, 
 and peers to promote him, and when the whole army oi 
 dunces were in array against him, and would have been 
 but too happy to deprive him of this boast of independ- 
 ence. But there is something a little more serious in Mr. 
 Bowles' declaration, that he "would have spoken" of his 
 "noble generosity to the outcast, Richard Savage," and 
 other instances of a compassionate and generous heart, 
 "had they occurred to his recollection when he wrote." 
 What! is it come to this? Does Mr. Bowles sit down to 
 write a minute and laboured life and edition of a great 
 poet? Does he anatomize his character, moral and poet- 
 ical? Does he present us with his faults and with lii^ 
 foibles? Does he sneer at his feelings, and doubt of iii> 
 sincerity? Does he unfold his vanity and duplicity? and 
 then omit the good qualities which might, in part, have 
 "covered this multitude of sins?" and then plead thalj 
 "they did not occur to his recollection?" Is this the framci 
 of mind and of memory with which the illustrious deac 
 are to be approached? If Mr. Bowles, who must havt| 
 had access to all the means of refreshing his memor)', dicj 
 not recollect these facts, he is unfit for his task ; but if htl 
 did recollect, and omit them, I know not what he is fit fori 
 but I know what would be fit for him. Is the plea of "noil 
 recollecting" such prominent facts to be admitted? Mr; 
 Bowles has been at a public school, and, as I have beer; 
 publicly educated also, I can sympathize w ifh his predi-i 
 lection. When we were in the third form even, had wti 
 pleaded on theMonday morning, that we had notbroughi 
 up the Saturday's exercise, because "we had forgottei. 
 it," what would have been the reply ? And is an excuse.} 
 which would not be pardoned to a schoolboy, to pasij 
 current in a matter which so nearly concerns the fame o , 
 ! the first poet of his age, if not of his country? If Mr I 
 
A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 675 
 
 Bowles so readily forgets the virtues of others, why com- 
 plain so grievously that others have a better memory for 
 his own faults? They are but the faults of an author; 
 while the virtues he omitted from his catalogue are es- 
 sential to the justice due to a man. 
 
 Mr. Bowles appears, indeed, to be susceptible beyond 
 the privilege of authorship. There is a plaintive dedi- 
 cation to Mr. Gifl'ord, in which he is made responsible 
 for all the articles of the Quarterly. Mr. Southey, it seems, 
 "the most able and eloquent writer in that Review," ap- 
 proves of Mr. Bowles' publication. Now, it seems to me 
 the more impartial, that, notwithstanding that the great 
 writer of the Quarterly entertains opinions opposite to 
 the able article on Spcnce, nevertheless that essay was 
 permitted to appear. Is a Review to be devoted to the 
 opinions of any one man? Must it not vary according to 
 circumstances, and according to the subjects to be criti- 
 cised ? I fear that writers must take the sweets and bitters 
 of the public journals as they occur, and an author of so 
 longa standing as Mr. Bowles might have become accus- 
 tomed to such incidents; he might be angry, but not 
 astonished. I have been reviewed in the Quarterly al- 
 most as often as Mr. Bowles, and have had as pleasant 
 things said, and some as unpleasant, as coujd well be pro- 
 nounced. In the review of "The Fall of Jerusalem," it is 
 stated that I have devoted "my powers to the worst parts 
 of Manicheism," which, being interpreted, means that I 
 worship the devil. Now I have neither written a reply, 
 nor complained to Gilford. I believe that I observed in 
 a letter to you, that I thought "that the critic might have 
 praised Milman without finding it necessary to abuse 
 me ;" but did I not add at the same time, or soon after 
 (apropos of the note in the book of Travels), that I would 
 
 not, if it were even in my power, have a single line can- 
 celled on my account in that nor in any other publi- 
 cation? — Of course, I reserve to myself the privilege of 
 response when necessary. Mr. Bowles seems in a whim- 
 sical state about the author of the article on Spence. You 
 know very well that I am not in your confidence, nor in that 
 of the conductor of the journal. The moment I saw that 
 article, I was morally certain that I knew the author "by 
 his style." You will tell me that I do not know him : that 
 is all as it should be; keep the secret, so shall I, though 
 no one has ever intrusted it to me. He is not the person 
 whom Mr. Bowles denounces. Mr. Bowles' extreme 
 sensibility reminds me of a circumstance which occurred 
 on board of a frigate, in which I was a passenger and 
 guest of thecaptain's for a considerable time. Thesurgeon 
 on board, a very gentlemanly young man, and remarkably 
 able in his profession, wore a wiy. Upon this ornament 
 he was extremely tenacious. As naval jests are sometimes 
 a little rough, his brother-officers made occasional allu- 
 sions to this delicate appendage to the doctor's person. 
 One day a young lieutenant, in the course of a facetious 
 discussion, said : "Suppose now, doctor, I should take off 
 your hat." "Sir," replied the doctor, "I shall talk no longer 
 with you; you grow scurrilotu." He would not even 
 admit so near an approach as to the hat which protected 
 it. In like manner, if any body approaches Mr. Bowles' 
 laurels, even in his outside capacity of an editor, "they 
 grow scurrilous." You say that you are about to prepare 
 an edition of Pope; you cannot do better for your own 
 credit as a publisher, nor for the redemption of Pope 
 from Mr. Bowles, and of the public taste from rapid 
 degeneracy. 
 
 A SECOND LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY, ESQ. 
 
 ON THE REV. W. L. BOWLES' STRICTURES ON THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 OF POPE. 
 
 Ravenna, Maicli a5, 18'21. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 '■ In thefurther"Observations"ofMr.Bowles,in rejoinder 
 to the charges brought against his edition ofPope, it is to 
 be regretted that he has lost his temper. Whatever the 
 language of his antagonists may have been, I fear that his 
 replies have afforded more pleasure to them than to the 
 public. That Mr. Bowles should not be pleased is natural, 
 whether right or wrong; but a temperate defence would 
 have answered his purpose in the former case — and, in 
 the latter, no defence, however violent, can tend to any 
 
 thing but his discomfiture. I have read over this third 
 pamphlet, which you have been so obliging as to sendmc, 
 and shall venture a few observations, in addition to those 
 upon the previous controversy. 
 
 Mr. Bowles sets out with repeating hWeonfirmed con- 
 viction," that "what he said of the moral part of Pope's 
 character was, generally speaking, true; and that the prin- 
 ciples o^ poetical criticism which he has laid down are in- 
 variable and invulnerable;" and that he is the more 
 persuaded of this by the "exaggerations of his opponents.' ' 
 This is all very well, and highlj' natural and sincere. No- 
 
676 
 
 A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 body ever expected that either Mr. Bowles, or any otlier 
 author, would be convinced of human fallibility in their 
 own persons. But it is nothing to the purpose — for it is 
 not what Mr. Bowles thinks, but what is to be thought 
 of Pope, that is the question. It is what he has asserted 
 or insinuated against a name which is the patrimony of 
 posterity, that is to be tried ; and Mr. Bowles, as a party, 
 can be no judge. The more he is persuaded, the better for 
 himself, if it give him any pleasure: but he can only per- 
 suade otliers by the proofs brought out in his defence. 
 
 After these prefatory remarks of "conviction ," Mr. 
 Bowles proceeds to Mr. Gilchrist; whom he charges 
 with "slang" and "slander," besides a small subsidiary 
 indictment of "abuse, ignorance, malice," and so forth. 
 Mr. Gilchrist has, indeed, shown some anger; but it is an 
 honest indignation, which rises up in defence of the illus- 
 trious dead. It is a generous rage which interposes be- 
 tween our ashes and their disturbers. There appears also 
 to have been some slight persmal provocation. Mr. Gil- 
 christ, with a chivalrous disdain of the fury of an incensed 
 poet, put his name to a letter avowing the production of 
 a former essay in defence of Pope, and consequently of an 
 attack upon Mr. Bowles, Mr. Bowles appears to be angry 
 w itii Mr. Gilchrist for four reasons : — firstly, because he 
 wrote an article in "The London Magazine;" secondly, 
 because he afterwards avowed it; thirdly, because he was 
 the author of a still more extended article in"The Quarterly 
 Review;" and, fourthly, because he was not the author of 
 the said Quarterly article, and had the audacity to disown 
 it ^for no earthly reasonbut because he had NOT writtenit. 
 
 Mr. Bowles declares, that "he will not enter into a par- 
 ticular examination of the pamplilet," which by a misno- 
 mer is called "Gilchrist's Answer to Bowles," when it 
 should have been called "Gilchrist's Abuse of Bowles." 
 On this error in the baptism of Mr. Gilchrist's pamphlet, 
 it may be observed, that an answer may be abusive and 
 yet no less an answer, though indisputably a temperate 
 one might be the better of the two: but li abuse is to cancel 
 all pretensions to reply, what becomes of Mr. Bowles' 
 answers to Mr. Gilchrist? 
 
 M. Bowles continues : — "But as Mr. Gilchrist derides 
 my peculiar sensitiveness to criticism, before I show how 
 destitute of truth is this representation, I will here expli- 
 citly declare the only grounds." — Mr. Bowles' sensibi- 
 lity in denying his "sensitiveness to criticism" proves, 
 perhaps, too much. But if he has been so charged, and 
 truly — what then? There is no moral turpitude in such 
 acuteness of feeling: it has been, and may be, combined 
 with many good and great qualities. Is Mr. Bowles a poet, 
 or is he not? If he be, he must, from his very essence, be 
 sensitive to criticism; and even if he be not, he need not 
 be ashamed of the common repugnance to being attacked. 
 All that is to be wished is, that he had considered how 
 disagreeable a thing it is, before he assailed the greatest 
 moral poet of any age, or in any language. 
 
 Pope himself "sleeps w ell," — nothing can touch him 
 further ; but those who love the honour of their country, 
 the perfection of her literature, theglory of her language — 
 are not to be expected to permit an atom of his dust to be 
 stirred in his tomb, or a leaf to be stripped from the laurel 
 ■which grows over it. 
 
 Mr.Bowles assigns several reasons why and when "an 
 author is justified in appealing to every upright and ho- 
 nourable mind in the kingdom." If Mr. Bowles limits the 
 perusal of his defence to the "upright and honourable" 
 only, I greatly fear that it will not be extensively circulated. 
 I should rather hope that some of the downright and dis- 
 honest will read and be converted, or convicted. But the 
 whole of his reasoning is here superfluous — "«« author 
 isjustijied in appealinr/," when and w hj^ he pleases. Let 
 him make out a tolerable case, and few of his readers will 
 quarrel with his motives. 
 
 Mr. Bowles "will now plainly set before the literary 
 public all the circumstances which have led to his name 
 and Mr. Gilchrist's being brought together." Cour- 
 tesy requires, in speaking of others and ourselves, that 
 we should place the name of the former first — and not 
 "E(/o et Rex mens." Mr.Bowles should have written"Mr. 
 Gilchrist's name and his." 
 
 This point he wishes "particularly to address to those 
 most respectable characters who have the direction and ma- 
 nagement of the periodical critical press." That the press 
 may be, in some instances, conducted by respectable 
 characters is probable enough ; but if they are so, there is 
 no occasion to tell them of it; and if they are not, it is a 
 base adulation. In cither case, it looks like akind of flattery, 
 by whicJi those gentry are not very likely to be softened : 
 since it would be difficult to find two passages in fifteen 
 pages more at variance, than Mr. Bowles' prose at the 
 beginning of this pamphlet, and his verse at the end of it. 
 In page 4 he speaks of "those most respectable characters 
 who have the direction of the periodical press," and in 
 page 10, we find — 
 
 "Ye dark inquisitors, a monk-like band. 
 Who o'er some shrinking victim author stand, 
 A solemn, secret, and vindictive brood. 
 Only terrific in your cowl and hood." 
 
 And so on — to "bloody law" and "red scourges," with 
 other similar phrases, which may not be altogether 
 agreeable to the above-mentioned "most respectable cha- 
 racters." Mr. Bowles goes on, "I concluded my observa- 
 tions on the last Pamphleteer with leelings not unkind 
 towards Mr. Gilchrist, or" [it should be nor] to the author 
 of the review of Spence, be he Avho he miglit." — "1 was 
 in hopes, as I have alwaijs been ready to admit any errors 
 I might have been led into, or prejudice I might have en- 
 tertained, that even Mr. Gilchrist might be disposed to a 
 more amicable mode of discussing what I had advanced 
 in regard to Pope's moral character." As Major Sturgeon 
 observes, "There never wasasetofmorea»i/t«i/s officers 
 with the exception of a boxing- bout between Captain 
 Shears and the Colonel." 
 
 A page and a half — nay only a page before — Mr. 
 Bowles re-affirms his conviction, that "what he has said 
 of Pope's moral character is (generally speaking) true, and 
 that his "poetical principles are invariable and invulner- 
 able." He has also published three pamphlets, — ay, four 
 of tiie same tenour, — and yet, with this declaration and 
 these declamations staring him and his adversaries in the 
 face, he speaks of his "readiness to admit errors or to 
 abandon prejudices ! ! !" His use of the word "amicable" 
 reminds me of the Irish Institution (which I have some- 
 
A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 677 
 
 where heard or read of) called flie "Friendly Society," 
 where the president always carried pistols in his pocket, 
 so that wlien one amicable gentleman knocked down ano- 
 ther, the dill'erence might be adjusted on tlie spot, at the 
 harmonious distance of twelve paces. 
 
 But Mr. Bowles "has since read a publication by him 
 (Mr. Gilchrist), containing such vulgar slander, affect- 
 ing private life and character;" and Mr. Gilchrist 
 has also had the advantage of reading a publication by 
 Mr. Bowles sufficiently imbued with personality; for one 
 of the first and principal topics of reproach is that he is a 
 grocer, that he has a "pipe in his mouth, ledger -book, 
 green canisters, dingy shopboy, half a hogshead of brown 
 treacle." Nay, the same delicate raillery is upon the very 
 title-page. When controversy has once commenced 
 upon this footing, as Dr. Johnson said to Dr. Percy, "Sir, 
 there is an end of politeness — we are to be as rude as we 
 please — Sir, you said that I was short-sighted." As a 
 man's profession is generally no more in his own power 
 than his person — botli having been made out for him — 
 it is hard that he should be reproached with either, and 
 stil I more that an honest calling should be made a reproach. 
 If there is any thing more honourable to Mr. Gilchrist than 
 another, it is, that being engaged in commerce he has had 
 the taste, and found the leisure, to become so able a pro- 
 ficient in the higher literature of his own and other coun- 
 tries. Mr. Bowies, who will beproudto own Glover, Chat- 
 terton, Burns, and Bloomfield for his peers, should hardly 
 have quarrelled with Mr. Gilchrist for his critic. Mr. Gil- 
 christ's station, however, which might conduct him to the 
 highest civic honours, and to boundless wealth, has no- 
 thing to require apology.; but even ifithad, sucharcproach 
 was not very gracious on the part of a clergyman, nor 
 graceful on that ofagentleman. The allusion to" CAm^/aw 
 ctiticism" is not particularly happy, especially where Mr. 
 Gilchrist is accused of having "set the first example of this 
 inode in Europe." What Pagan criticism may have been. 
 We know but little ;the names of Zoilus and Aristarchus sur- 
 five ; and the works of Aristotle,Longinus,and Quintilian : 
 but of "Christian criticism" wehave already hadsomespe- 
 feimcns in the works of Philelphus, Poggius, Scaliger, 
 Milton, Salmasius, the Cruscauti (versus Tasso) , the 
 French Academy (against the Cid), and the antagonists 
 0f Voltaire and of Pope — to say nothing of some articles 
 fa) most of the reviews, since their earliest institution in 
 Ac person of their respectable and still prolific parent, 
 ^The Monthly." Why, then, is Mr. Gilchrist to be singled 
 0lDt "as having set the first example?" A sole pageofMil- 
 <feii or Salmasius contains more abuse — rank, rancorous, 
 unleavened abuse — than all that can be raked forth from 
 the whole works of many recent critics. There are some, 
 indeed, who still keep up the good old custom, but fewer 
 English than foreign. It is a pity that Mr. Bowles cannot 
 witness some of the Italian controversies, or become the 
 subject of one. He would then look upon Mr. Gilchrist 
 las a panegyrist. 
 
 In the long sentence quoted from the article in "The 
 London Magazine,"there is one coarse image, the justice 
 of whose application I shall not pretend to determine: — 
 "The pruriency with which his nose is laid to the ground" 
 is an expression which, whether founded or not, might 
 
 have been omitted. But the "anatomical minuteness" ap- 
 pears to me justified even by Mr. Bow les' own subse- 
 quent quotation. To the point: "Many facts tend to prove 
 the peculiar susceptibility of his passions ; nor can we im- 
 plicitly believe that the connexion between him andMar- 
 tha Blount was of a nature so pure and innocent as his 
 panegyrist Ruft'head Avould have us believe." — "At 
 no time could she have regarded Pope personally with 
 attachment." — "But the most extraordinary circum- 
 stance in regard to his connexion with female society, 
 was the strange mixture o{ indecent and e\enprofane le- 
 vity which his conduct and language often exhibited. The 
 cause of this particularity may be sought, perhaps, in his 
 consciousness of physical defect, which made him afl'ecta 
 character uncongenial, and a language opposite to the 
 truth." — If this is not "minute moral anatomy," I should 
 be glad to know what is! It is dissection in all its branches. 
 I shall, however, hazard a remark or two upon this quo- 
 tation. 
 
 To me it appears of no very great consequence whether 
 Martha Blount was or was not Pope's mistress, though I 
 could have wished him a better. She appears to have 
 been a cold-hearted, interested, ignorant, disagreeable 
 woman, upon whom the tenderness of Pope's heart in the 
 desolation of his latter days was cast away, not knowing 
 whither to turn, as he drew towards his premature old 
 age,childless and lonely,— like the needle which approach- 
 ing within a certain distance of the pole, becomes help- 
 less and useless, and, ceasingto tremble, rusts. She seems 
 to have been so totally unworthy of tenderness, that it is 
 an additional proof of the kindness of Pope's heart to 
 have been able to love such a being. But we must love 
 something. I agree with Mr.B. that she "could at no time 
 have regarded Pope personally with attachment," because 
 she was incapable of attachment; but I deny that Pope 
 could not be regarded with personal attachment by a 
 worthier woman. It is not probable, indeed, that a woman 
 would have fallen in love with him as he walked along the 
 Mall, or in a box at the opera, nor from a balcony, norin 
 a ball-room ; but in society he seems to have been as 
 amiable as unassuming, and, with the greatest disadvan- 
 tages of figure, his head and face were remarkably hand- 
 some, especially his eyes. He was adored by his friends — 
 friends of the most opposite dispositions, ages, and 
 talents — by the old and wayward Wycherley, by the 
 cynical Swift, the rough Atterbury, the gentle Spence,the 
 stern attorney-bishop Warburton, the virtuous Berkeley, 
 and the "cankered Bolingbroke." Bolingbroke wept 
 over him like a child; and Spence's description of his 
 last moments is at least as edifying as the more ostenta- 
 tious account of the deathbed of Addison. The soldier 
 Peterborough and the poet Gay, the witty Congreve and 
 thelaughingRowe,the eccentric Cromwell and the steady 
 Bathurst, were all his intimates. The man who couldcon- 
 ciliate so many men of the most opposite description, not 
 one of whom but was a remarkable or a celebrated cha- 
 racter, might well have pretended to all the attachment 
 which a reasonable man would desire of an amiable 
 woman. 
 
 Pope, in fact, w hcrever he got it, appears to have un- 
 derstood the sex well. Bolingbroke, "a judge of the sub- 
 
678 
 
 A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES* STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 ject," says Warton , thought his "Epistle on the Cha- 
 racters of Women" his "masterpiece." And even with 
 respect to the grosser passion, which takes occasionally 
 the name of ''romantic," accordingly as the degree of 
 sentiment elevates it above the definition of love by 
 Bufton, it may be remarked, that it does not always de- 
 pend upon personal appearance, even in a woman. Ma- 
 dame Cottin was a plain woman, and might have been 
 virtuous, it may be presumed, without much interruption. 
 Virtuous she was, and the consequences of this inveterate 
 virtue were that two different admirers (one an elderly 
 gentleman) killed themselves in despair (see Lady Mor- 
 gan's "France"). I would not, however, recommend this 
 rigour to plain women in general, in the hope of securing 
 the glory of two suicides apiece. I believe that there are 
 few men who, in the course of their observations on life, 
 may not have perceived that it is not the greatest female 
 beauty who forms the longest and the strongest passions. 
 But, apropos of Pope. — Voltaire tells us that the 
 Marechal Luxembourg(who had precisely Pope's figure) 
 was not only somewhat too amatory for a great man, but 
 fortunate in his attachments. La Vali^re, the passion of 
 Louis XIV. , had an unsightly defect. The Princess of 
 Eboli, the mistress of Philip II. of Spain, and Maugiron, 
 the minion of Henri III. of France, had each of thera lost 
 an eye J and the famous Latin epigram was written upon 
 them, which has, I believe, been either translated or imi- 
 tated by Goldsmith : 
 
 "Lumine J^con dextro, capCa est Leonilla siiiistro, 
 Et potis est forma viiiccre uterque Deos; 
 
 Blande puer, lumen quod habes concede sorori. 
 Sic to caecus Amor, sic erit ilia Venus," 
 
 Wilkes, with his ugliness , used to say that "he was 
 but a quarter of an hour behind the handsomest man in 
 England;" and this vaunt of his is said not to have been 
 disproved by circumstances. Swift, when neither young, 
 nor handsome, nor rich, nor even amiable, inspired Ihe 
 two most extraordinary passions upon record, Vanessa's 
 and Stella's. 
 
 Vanessa, aged scarce a score, 
 Sighs for a gown of forty-four." 
 
 He requited them bitterly; for he seems to have broken 
 the heart of the one, and worn out that of the other ; and 
 he had his reward, for he died a solitary idiot in the hands 
 of servants. 
 
 For my own part, I am of the opinion of Pausanias, 
 that success in love depends upon Fortune. "They par- 
 ticularly renounce Celestial Venus, into whose temple, 
 etc. I remember, too, to have seen a building in jJigina 
 in which there is a statue of Fortune, holding a horn 
 of Amalthea ; and near her there is a winged Love. 
 The meaning of this is, that the success of men in love- 
 aflairs depends more on the assistance of Fortune than 
 the charms of beauty. I am persuaded, too, w ith Pindar 
 (to whose opinion I submit in otiier particulars) , that 
 Fortune is one of the Fates, and that in a certain respect 
 she is more powerful than her sisters." — See Pau- 
 sanias, Achaics, book vii. chap. 26, p. 246, Taylor's 
 "Translation." 
 
 Grimm has a remark of the same kind on the different 
 destinies of the younger Crebillon and Rousseau. The 
 
 former writes a licentious novel, and a young Engllvh 
 girl of some fortune and family (a Miss Strafford) runs 
 away, and crosses the sea to marry him; while Rousseau, 
 the most tender and passionate of lovers, is obliged to 
 espouse his chambermaid. If I recollect rightly, this re- 
 mark was also repeated in the Edinburgh Review of 
 Grimm's correspondence, seven or eight years ago. 
 
 In regard "to the strange mixture of indecent, and 
 sometimes/>rq/*anc levity,which his conduct and language 
 often exhibited," and which so much shocks Mr. Bowles, 
 I object to the indefinite word"o/i!cn;"and in extenuation 
 of the occasional occurrence of such language it is to be 
 recollected, that it was less the tone of Pope, than tiic 
 tone of the time. With the exception of the correspond- 
 ence of Pope and his friends , not many private letters of 
 the period have come down to us; but those, such as they 
 are — a few scattered scraps from Farquhar and others — 
 are more indecent and coarse than any thing in Pope's 
 letters. The comedies of Congreve, Vanbrugh, Farquhar, 
 Cibber , which naturall}' attempted to represent the 
 manners and conversation of private life, are decisive, 
 upon this point; as are also some of Steele's papers, and 
 even Addison's. We all know what the conversation of 
 Sir R. Walpole, for seventeen years the prime minister 
 of the country, was at his own table, and his excuse for 
 his licentious language, viz. "that every body understood 
 that, but few could talk rationally upon less common to- 
 pics." The refinement of latter days, — which is perhaps 
 the consequence of vice, which wishes to mask and soften 
 itself, as much as of virtuous civilisation, — had not yet 
 made sufficient progress. Even Johnson, in his "London," 
 has two or three passages which cannot be read aloud, 
 and Addison's "Drummer" some indelicate allusions. 
 
 The expression of Mr. Bowles, "his consciousness of 
 physical defect," is not very clear. It may mean deform- 
 ity or debility. If it alludes to Pope's deformity, it ha.< 
 been attempted to be shown that this was no insuperable 
 objection to his being beloved. If it alludes to debility, 
 as"^ a consequence of Pope's peculiar conformation, I be- 
 lieve that it is a physical and known fact that hump- 
 backed persons are of strong and vigorous passions* 
 Several years ago, at Mr. Angelo's fencing rooms, wheil 
 I was a pupil of him and of Mr. Jackson, who had tli« 
 use of his rooms in Albany on the alternate days, I recol- 
 lect a gentleman named B — 11 — gh — t , remarkable fof 
 his strength, and the fineness of his figure. His skill wai 
 not inferior, for he could stand up to the great Captain 
 Barclay himself, with the muffles on, — a task neithei 
 easy nor agreeable to a pugilistic aspirant. As the by- 
 standers were one day admiring his athletic proportions, 
 he remarked to us , that he had five brothers as tall and 
 strong as himself, and that i\\e\r father and mother were 
 both crooked, and of very small stature ; — I think he said, 
 neither of them five feet high. It would not be difficult 
 to adduce similar instances; but I abstain, because tlie 
 subject is hardly refined enough for this immaculate 
 period, tliis moral millennium of expurgated editions in 
 books, manners, and royal trials of divorce. 
 
 This laudable delicacy — this cryitig-out elegance of 
 the day — reminds me of a little circumstance which oc- 
 curred when I was about eighteen years of age. There 
 
A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 679 
 
 was then (and there may be still) a famous French "entre- 
 metteuse," who assisted young gentlemen in their 
 youthful pastimes. We had been acquainted for some 
 time, when something occurred in her line of business 
 more than ordinary, and the refusal was offered to me 
 (and doubtless to many others), probably because I was 
 in casli at the moment, having taken up a decent sum 
 from the Jews, and not having spent much above half of 
 it. The adventure on the tapis, it seems, required some 
 caution and circumspection. Whether my venerable 
 friend doubted my politeness I cannot tell, but she sent 
 me a letter couched in such English as a short residence 
 of sixteen years in England had enabled her to acquire. 
 After several precepts and instructions, the letter closed. 
 3ut there was a postscript. It contained these words: — 
 "Remember, Milor, that delicaci ensure everi succes." 
 The delicacy of the day is exactly, in all its circumstances, 
 like that of this respectable foreigner. "It ensures every 
 succes," and is not a whit more moral than, and not half 
 so houourable as, the coarser candour of our less po- 
 lished ancestors. 
 
 To return to Mr. Bowles. "If what is here extracted 
 can excite in the mind (I will not say of any 'layman,' of 
 pny 'Christian,' but) of any human being," etc. Is not 
 Mr. Gilchrist a "human being?" Mr. Bowles asks "whe- 
 ther in attributing an article," etc. "to the critic, he had 
 any reason for distinguishing him with that courtesy," 
 etc. But Mr. Bowles was wrong in "attributing the 
 article" to Mr. Gilchrist at all; and would not have been 
 right in calling him a dunce and a grocer, if he had writ- 
 ten it. 
 
 Mr. Bowles is here "peremptorily called upon to speak 
 of a circumstance which gives him the greatest pain, — 
 the mention of a letter he received from the editor of 'The 
 London Magazine.'" Mr. Bowles seems to have em- 
 broiled himself on all sides, whether by editing, or 
 replying, or attributing, or quoting, — it has been an 
 awkward affair for liim. 
 
 .. Poor Scott is now no more. In the exercise of his 
 
 vocation, he contrived at last to make himself the subject 
 
 pf a coroner's inquest. But he died like a brave man, and 
 
 •fee lived an able one. I knew him personally, though 
 
 •lightly. Although several years my senior, we had been 
 
 fchoolfellows together at the 'grammar-schule" (or, as 
 
 ^e Aberdonians pronounce it, "squeel"^ of New Aber- 
 
 fjfleeu. He did not behave to me quite handsomely in his 
 
 capacity of editor a few years ago, but he was under no 
 
 f»bligation to behave otherwise. The moment was too 
 
 tempting for many friends and for all enemies. At a time 
 
 when all my relations (save one) fell from me like leaves 
 
 ^om the tree in autumn winds, and my few friends be- 
 
 ipame still fewer, — when the whole periodical press (I 
 
 Ulteanthe daily and weekly, not the literary press) was 
 
 ^ loose against me in every shape of reproach, with the 
 
 ij|lvo strange exceptions (from their usual opposition) of 
 
 ^he Courier" and "The Examiner," — the paper of 
 
 which Scott had the direction was neither the last nor the 
 
 least vituperative. Two years ago I met him at Venice, 
 
 wiien he was bowed in griefs by the loss of his son, and 
 
 had known, by experience, the bitterness of domestic 
 
 privation. He was then earnest with me to return to 
 
 England; and on my telling him, with a smile, that he was 
 once of a different opinion, he replied to me, 'that he and 
 others had been greatly misled; and that some pains, 
 and rather extraordinary means, had been taken to excite 
 them.' Scott is no more, but there are more than one 
 living who were present at this dialogue. He was a 
 man of very considerable talents, and of great ac- 
 quirements. He had made his way, as a literary character, 
 with high success, and in a few years. Poor fellow ! I re- 
 collect his joy at some appointment which he had ob- 
 tained, or was to obtain, through Sir James Mackintosh, 
 and which prevented the further extension (unless by a 
 rapid run to Rome) of his travels in Italy. I little thought 
 to what it would conduct him. Peace be with him! — and 
 may all such other faults as are inevitable to humanity be 
 as readily forgiven him, as the little injury which he had 
 done to one who respected his talents, and regrets his loss. 
 
 I pass over Mr. Bowles' page of explanation, upon the 
 
 correspondence between him and Mr. S . It is of 
 
 little importance in regard to Pope, and contains merely a 
 re-contradiction of a coutradaction of Mr. Gilchrist's. We 
 now come to a point where Mr. Gilchrist has, certainly, 
 rather exaggerated matters; and, of course, Mr. Bowles 
 makes the most of it. Capital letters, like Keau's name, 
 "large upon (lie bills," are made use of six or seven times 
 to express his sense of the outrage. The charge is, indeed, 
 very boldly made; but, like "Ranold of the Mist's" 
 practical joke of putting the bread and cheese into a dead 
 man's mouth, is, as Dugald Dalgetty says, "somewhat too 
 wild and salvage, besides wasting the good victuals." 
 
 Mr. Gilchrist charges Mr. Bowles with "suggesting" 
 that Pope "attempted" to commit "a rape" upon Lady 
 M. Wortley Montague. There are two reasons why this 
 could notbe true. The first is, that likethechasteLetitia's 
 prevention of the intended ravishment by Fireblood (in 
 Jonathan Wild), it might have been impeded by a timely 
 compliance. The second is, that however this might be. 
 Pope was probably the less robust of the two; and (if tlie 
 Lines on Sappho were really intended for this lady) the 
 asserted consequence of her acquiescence in his wishes 
 would have been a sufficient punishment. The passage 
 which Mr. Bowles quotes, however, insinuates notiiing 
 of the kind : it merely charges her with en(^ouragement,and 
 him with wishing to profit by it, — a slight attempt at se- 
 duction, and no more. The phrase is, "a step beyond de- 
 corum." Any physical violence is so abhorrent to human 
 nature, that it recoils in cold blood from the very idea. 
 But, the seduction of a woman's mind as well as person 
 is not, perhaps, the least heinous sin of the two in mora- 
 lity. Dr. Johnson commends a gentleman who, having 
 seduced agirl who said, "lam afraid we have done wrong," 
 replied, "Yes, we have done wrong," — "for 1 would not 
 pervert her mind also." Othello would not "kill Desde- 
 mona's soul." Mr. Bowles exculpates himself from Mr. 
 Gilchrist's charge; but it is by substituting another charge 
 against Pope. "A step beyond decorum," has a soft sound, 
 but what does it express? In all these cases, "ce n'est que 
 le premier pas qui coiite." Has not the Scripture some- 
 thing upon "the lusting after a woman' ' being no less crimi- 
 nal than the crime? "A step beyond decorum," in short, 
 any step beyond the instep, is a step from a precipice to 
 
680 
 
 A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 tlie lady wiio permits it. For the gentleman who makes 
 it, it is also ratlier hazardous if he does not succeed, and 
 still more so if he does. 
 
 Mr. Bowles appeals to the "Christian reader!" upon 
 this "GZ/c/imimn criticism." Is not this play upon such 
 words "a step beyond decorum" io a clergyman? But I 
 admit the temptation of a pun to be irresistible. 
 
 But "a hasty pamphlet was published, in which some 
 personalities respecting Mr. Gilchrist were suft'ercd to 
 appear." If Mr. Bowles will write "hasty pamphlets," 
 why is he so surprised on receiving short answers? The 
 grand grievance to which he perpetually returns is a 
 cliarge of "hj/pochondnacist7t," asserted or insinuated in 
 the Quarterly. I cannot conceive a man in perfect Iiealth 
 being much affected by such a charge, because his com- 
 plexion and conduct must amply refute it. But were it 
 true, to what docs it amount? — to an impeachment of a 
 liver complaint. "I will tell it to tlie world," exclaimed the 
 learned Smelfungus. — "You had better," said I, "tell it 
 to your physician." There is nothing dishonourable in 
 such a disorder, which is more peculiarly the malady of 
 students. It has been the complaint of the good, and the 
 wise, and the witty, and even of the gay. Regnard, the 
 author of the last French comedy after Moli^re, was atra- 
 bilious ; and Moliere himself, saturnine. Dr. Johnson, 
 Gray and Burns, were all more or less affected by it occa- 
 sionally. It was the prelude to the more awful malady of 
 Collins, Cowper, Swift, and Smart; but it by no means 
 follows that a partial affliction of this disorder is to ter- 
 minate like theirs. But even were it so, — 
 
 "Nor best, nor wisest, are exempt from thee ; 
 Folly — folly's only free." Penrose. 
 
 If this be the criterion of exemption, Mr. Bowles' last 
 two pamphlets form a better certificate of sanity than a 
 physician's. Mendehlson and Bayle were at times so 
 overcome with tliis depression, as to be obliged to recur 
 to seeing "puppet-shows, and counting tiles upon the op- 
 posite houses," to divert themselves. Dr. Johnson at ti- 
 mes "would have given a limb to recover his spirits." 
 Mr. Bowles, who is (strange to say) fond of quoting Pope, 
 may perhaps answer, — 
 
 "Go on, obliging creatures, let me see 
 
 All whicb disgraced my betters met in me." 
 
 But the charge, such as it is, neither disgraces them nor 
 him. It is easily disproved if false ; and even if proved 
 true, has nothing in it to make a man so very indignant. 
 Mr. Bowles himself appears to be a little ashamed of his 
 "hasty pamphlet ;"for he attempts to excuse it by the"great 
 provocation;" that is to say, by Mr. Bowles' supposing 
 that Mr. Gilchrist was the writer ofthe article in the Quar- 
 terly, which he was not. 
 
 "But, in extenuation, not only the great provocation 
 should be remembered, butit ought to be said, that orders 
 Avere sent to tlie London booksellers , that the most 
 direct personal passages should be omitted entirely." 
 This is what the proverb calls "breaking a head and 
 giving a plaster; but, in this instance, the plaster was not 
 spread in time, and Mr. Gilchrist does not seem at present 
 disposed to regard Mr. Bowles' courtesies like the rust 
 ofthe spear of Achilles, which hadsuch"skillin surgery." 
 
 But "Mr. Gilchrist has no riyht to object, as the reader 
 will see." I am a reader, a "gentle reader," and I see no- 
 thing of the kind. Werelin Mr. Gilchrist's place, I should 
 object exceedingly to being abused; firstly, for what I did 
 write, and, secondly, for whatldid not write; merely be- 
 cause it is Mr. Bowles' will and pleasure to be as angry 
 with me for having written in the London Magazine, as 
 for not having written in tiie Quarterly Review. 
 
 "Mr. Gilchrist has had ample revenge; for he has, in his 
 answer, said so and so," etc. There is no great revenge 
 in all this; and I presume that nobody either seeks or 
 wishes it. What revenge? Mr. Bowles calls names, and 
 he is answered. But Mr. Gihhrist and the Quarterly Re- 
 viewer are not poets, nor pretenders to poetry ; therefore 
 they can have no envy nor malice against Mr. Bowles: 
 they have no acquaintance with Mr. Bowles, and can 
 have no personal pique; they do not cross his path of life, 
 nor he theirs. Tliere is no political feud between them. 
 What, then, can be the motive of their discussion of his 
 deserts as an editor ? — veneration for the genius of Pope, 
 love for his memory, and regard for the classic glory of 
 their country. Why would Mr. Bowles editc? Had he li- 
 mited his honest endeavours to poetry, very little would 
 have been said upon the subject, and nothing at all by his 
 present antagonists. 
 
 Mr. Bowles calls the pamphlet a "mud-cart," and the 
 writer a "scavenger." Afterwards he asks, "Shall he fling 
 dirt and receive rose-water?" This metaphor, by the way, 
 is taken from Marmontel's Memoirs; who, lamenting to 
 Champfortthc shedding of blood during the French re- 
 volution, was answered, "Do you think that revolutions 
 are to be made with rose-water?" 
 
 For my own part, I presume that "rose-water" would 
 be infinitely more graceful in the hands of Mr. Bowles than 
 the substance which he has substituted for that delicate 
 liquid. It would also more confound iiis adversary, sup- 
 posing him a "scavenger." I remember, (and do yoa 
 remember, reader, that it was in my earliest youtli,"Con- 
 sule Planco,") — on the morning ofthe great battle (the 
 second) — between Gulley and Grcgson, — Cribb, who 
 was matched against Horton for the second fight, on tlie 
 same memorable day; awaking me (a lodger at the inri 
 in the next room) by a loud remonstrance to the w aiter 
 against the abomination of his towels, which had been 
 laid in lavender. Cribb was a coal-heaver — and was 
 much more discomfited by this odoriferous effeminacy of 
 finelinen,than by his adversary Horton,whom he"finished 
 in style," though with some reluctance; for I recollect that 
 he said, "he disliked hurtinghim, he looked so pretty,"— 1 
 Horton being a very fine fresh-coloured young man. 
 
 To return to "rose-water"— that is, to gentle means of 
 rebuke. Docs Mr. Bowles know how to revenge himself 
 upon a hackney -coachman when he has overcharged his 
 fare? In case he should not, I will tell him. It is of little 
 use to call him "a rascal, a scoundrel, a thief, animpostor, 
 a blackguard, a villain, a ragamuffin, a— whatyou please;" 
 all that he is used to — it is his mother-tongue, and pro- 
 bably his mother's. But look him steadily and quietly in 
 the face, and say - "Upon my word, I think you are the 
 vfflicst fellow I ever saw in my life," and he will instantly 
 roll forth the brazen thunders ofthe charioteer Salmoneus 
 
A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 681 
 
 as follows: — "Hugly! what the h — II are you? You a 
 
 gentleman! Why !" So much easier it is to provoke — 
 
 and therefore to vindicate — (for passion punishes him 
 who ffipls it more than those whom the passionate would 
 excruciate) — by a few quiet words the aggressor, than by 
 retorting violently. The "coals of lire" of the Scripture 
 are benejits ; — but they arc not the less "coals ofjire." 
 
 I pass over a page of quotation and reprobation— "Sin 
 up to my song" — "Oh let my little bark" — "Arcades 
 ambo" — "Writer in the Quarterly Review and himself — 
 "In-door avocations, indeed" — "Kings of Brentford" — 
 'One nosegay" — "Perennial nosegay" — "Oh Juve- 
 nes," — and the like. 
 
 Page 12 produces "more reasons," — (the task ought 
 not to have been difficult, for as yet there were none) — 
 "to show why Mr. Bowles attributed the critique in the 
 Quarterly to Octavius Gilchrist." All these "reasons" 
 consist of surmises of Mr. Bowles, upon the presumed 
 character of his opponent. "He did not suppose there 
 could exist a man in the kingdom so impudent, except 
 Octavius Gilchrist." — "He did not think there was a man 
 in the kingdom who would pretend ignorance, except Oc- 
 tavius Gilchrist." — "He did not conceive that one man 
 in the kingdom would utter such stupid flippancy, except 
 Octavius Gilchrist."— "He did not think there was one man 
 in the kingdom who could so utterly show his ignorance, 
 combined with conceit, as Octavius Gilchrist," — "He did 
 aot believe there was a man in the kingdom so perfect in 
 Mr. Gilchrist's 'old lunes'." — "He did not think tlie 
 mean mind o{ any one in the kingdom, "and soon; always 
 beginning with "any one in the kingdom," and ending 
 with "Octavius Gilchrist," like the word in a catch. I am 
 not "in the kingdom," and have not been much in the 
 kingdom since I was one and twenty (about five years 
 In the whole, since I was of ape), and have no desire to 
 be in the kingdom again, whilst I breathe, nor to sleep 
 tiiere afterwards; and I regret nothing more than having 
 ever been "in the kingdom" at all. But though no longer 
 • man "in the kingdom," let meliope when I have ceased 
 to exist, it may be said, as was answcrd by the master 
 of Clanronald's henchman, tlie day after the battle of 
 Iftierifl'-Muir, when he was found watching his chiers 
 libdy. He was asked, "who that was?" he replied — "it 
 |<ias a man yesterday." And in this capacity, "in or out 
 'the kingdom," I must own that 1 participate in many 
 
 the objections urged by Mr. Gilchrist. I participate 
 I his love of Pope, and in his not understanding, and oc- 
 isionally finding fault with, the last editor of our last 
 
 ily great poet. 
 
 One of the reproaches against Mr. Gilchrist is, that he 
 is (it is sneeringly said) an F. S. A. If it will give Mr. 
 Bowles any pleasure, I am not an F. S. A. but a Fellow 
 of the Royal Society at his service, incase there should 
 be any thing in that association also which may point a 
 paragrapli. 
 
 "There are some other reasons," but" the author is now 
 lot unknown." Mr. Bowles has so totally exhausted 
 nmself upon Octavius Gilchrist, that he has not a word 
 eft for the real quarterer of his edition, although now 
 'dcterre." 
 
 The following page refers to a mysterious charge 'of 
 
 "duplicity, in regard to the publication of Pope's letters." 
 Till this charge is made in proper form, we have nothing 
 to do with it; Mr. Gilchrist hints it — Mr. Bowles denies 
 it; there it rests for the present. Mr. Bowles professes 
 his dislike to "Pope's duplicity, not to Pope" — a distinc- 
 tion apparently withoj^t a difference. However, I believe 
 that I understand him. We have a great dislike to Mr. 
 Bowles' edition of Pope, but not to Mr. Bowles. Never- 
 theless, he takes up the subject as warmly as if it was 
 personal. With regard to the fact of "Pope's duplicity," 
 it remains to be proved — like Mr. Bowles' benevolence 
 towards his memory. 
 
 In page 14, we have a large assertion, that "the 'Eloisa' 
 alone is sufficient to convict him of gross licentiousness." 
 Thus, out it comes at last. Mr. Bowles does accuse Pope 
 of ''gross licentiousness," and grounds the charge upon 
 a poem. The licentiousness is a "grand peut-etre," accord- 
 ing to the turn of the times being. The grossness I deny. 
 On the contrary, I do believe that such a subject never 
 was, nor ever could be, treated by any poet with so much 
 delicacy, mingled with, at the same time, such true and 
 'intense passion. Is the "Atys" of Catullus licentious? No, 
 nor even gross ; and yet Catullus is often a coarse writer. 
 The subject is nearly the same, except that Atys was the 
 suicide of his manhood, and Abelard the victim. 
 
 The "licentiousness" of the story was not Pope's. — 
 it was a fact All that it had of gross, he has softened ; — 
 all that it had of indelicate, he has purified; — all that 
 it had of passionate, he has beautified ; — all that it had 
 of holy, he has hallowed. Mr. Campbell has admirably 
 marked this in a few words (I quote from memory), in 
 drawing the distinction between Pope and Dryden, and 
 pointing out where Dryden was wanting. "I fear," says 
 he, "that had the subject of 'Eloisa' fallen into his (Dry- 
 den's) hands, that he would have given us but a coarse 
 draft of her passion." Never was the delicacy of Pope so 
 much shown as in this poem. With the facts and the let- 
 ters of "Eloisa" he has done what no other mind but that 
 of the best and purest of poets could have accomplished 
 with such materials. Ovid, Sappho (in the Ode called 
 hers) — all that we have of ancient, all that we have of 
 njodern poetry, sinks into nothing compared with him 
 in this production. 
 
 Let us hear no more of this trash about "licentious- 
 ness." Is not "Anacreon" taughtinourschools? — trans- 
 lated, praised, and edited i* Are not his Odes the amatory 
 praises of a boy? Is not Sappho's Ode on a girl? Is not 
 this sublime and (according to Longinus) fierce love for 
 one of her own sex? And is not Phillips' translation of 
 it in the mouths of all your women? And are the English 
 schools or the English women the more corrupt for all 
 this ? When you have thrown the ancients into the fire, 
 it will be time to denounce the moderns."Liccntiousness !" 
 — there is more real mischief and sapping licentiousness 
 in a single French prose novel, in a Moravian hymn, or 
 a German comedy, than in all the actual poetry that ever 
 was penned, or poured forth, since the rhapsodies of 
 Orpheus. The sentimental anatomy of Rousseau and 
 Madame de Stael are far more formidable than any quan- 
 tity of verse. They are so, because they sap the principles, 
 hy reasoning upon the j9a««jon*, whereas poetry is in it 
 43* 
 
682 
 
 A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 self passion, and docs not systematise. It assails, but does 
 not argue; it may be wrong, but it does not assume pre- 
 tensions to Optimism. 
 
 Mr. Bowles now has the goodness "to point out the 
 difference between a traducer and him who sincerely states 
 ■what he sincerely believes." He njjglit have spared him- 
 self the trouble. The one is a liar, who lies knowingly; 
 the other (I speak of a scandal-monger of course) lies, 
 charitably believing that he speaks truth, and very sorry 
 to find himself in falsehood; — because he 
 
 "Would rather that the ilean »hould die. 
 Than his prediction prove a lie." 
 
 After a definition of a "traducer," which was quite 
 superfluous (though it is agreeable to learn that Mr. 
 Bowles so well understands the character) , we are 
 assured, that "he feels equally indifferent, Mr, Gilchrist, 
 for what your malice can invent, or your impudence utter." 
 This is indubitable; for it rests not only on Mr. Bowles' 
 assurance, but on that of Sir Fretful Plagiary, and nearly 
 in the same words — "and I shall treat it with exactly the 
 same calm indifference and philosophical contempt, and 
 so your servant." 
 
 "One thing has given Mr. Bowles concern." It is "a 
 passage which might seem to reflect on the patronage a 
 young man has received !" Might seem!! The passage 
 alluded to expresses, that if Mr. Gilchrist be the reviewer 
 of "a certain poet of nature," his praise and blame are 
 equally contemptible. — Mr. Bowles, who has a pecu- 
 liarly ambiguous style, where it suits him, comes off" with 
 a "not to the poet, but the critic," etc. In my humble opi- 
 nion, the passage referred to both. Had Mr. Bowles 
 really meant fairly, he would have said so from the first — 
 he would have been eagerly transparent. — "A certain 
 poet of nature" is not the style of commendation. It is 
 the very prologue to the most scandalous paragraphs of 
 the newspapers, when 
 
 "Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike." 
 
 "A certain high personage," — "a certain peeress," — 
 "a certain illustrious foreigner," — what do these words 
 ever precede, but defamation? Had he felt a spark of 
 kindling kindness for John Clare, he would have named 
 him. There is a sneer in the sentence as it stands. How 
 a favourable review of a deserving poet can "rather injure 
 than promote his cause" is difficult to comprehend. The 
 article denounced is able and amiable, and it has "served" 
 the poet, as far as poetry can be served by judicious and 
 honest criticism. 
 
 "With the two next paragraphs of Mr. Bowles' pam- 
 phlet it is pleasing to concur. His mention of "Pennie," 
 and his former patronage of "Shoel," do him honour. I 
 am not of those wlio may deny Mr. Bowles to be a bene- 
 volent man, I merely assert, that he is not a candid editor. 
 
 Mr. Bowles has been "a writer occasionally upwards 
 of thirty years," and never wrote one word in reply in 
 his life "to criticisms, merely as criticisms." This is Mr. 
 Lofty in Goldsmith's Good-natured Man; "and I vow 
 by all that's honourable, my resentment has never done 
 the men, as mere men, any manner of harm, — that is, 
 as mere men. 
 
 "The letter to the editor of the newspaper" is owned ; 
 
 but "it was not on account of the criticism. It was be- 
 cause the criticism came dow n in a frank directed to Mrs. 
 Bowles!!! " — (the italics and three notes of admiration 
 appended to Mrs. Bowles are copied verbatim from the 
 quotation), and Mr. Bowles was not displeased with the 
 criticism , but with the frank and the address. I agree 
 with Mr. Bowles that the intention was to annoy him; but 
 I fear that this was answered by his notice of the reception 
 of the criticism. An anonymous letter-writer has but one 
 means of knowing the effect of his attack. In this he has 
 the superiority over the viper ; he knows that his poison 
 has taken effect, when he hears the victim cry; — the 
 adder is dea/". The best reply to an anonymous intimation 
 is to take no notice directly nor indirectly. I wish Mr. 
 Bowles could see only one or two of the thousand which 
 I have received in the course of a literary life , which, 
 though begun early, has not yet extended to a third part 
 of his existence as an author. I speak of literary life 
 only. Were I to add personal, I might double the amount 
 of anonymous letters. If he could but see the violence, the 
 threats, the absurdity of the whole thing, he would laugh, 
 and so should I, and thus be both gainers. 
 
 To keep up the farce, — within the last month of this 
 present writing (1821), I have had my life threatened in 
 the same way which menaced Mr. Bowles' fame, — ex- 
 cepting that the anonymous denunciation was addressed 
 to the Cardinal Legate of Romagna, instead of to Mrs. 
 Bowles. The Cardinal is, 1 believe, the elder lady of the 
 two. I append the menace in all its barbaric but literal 
 Italian, that Mr. Bowles may be convinced; and as this 
 is the only "promise to pay," which theltaliaus ever keep, 
 so my person has been at least as much exposed to a "shot 
 in the gloaming," from "John Heatherblutter" (see Wa- 
 verley), as ever Mr Bowles' glory was from an editor. 
 I am, nevertheless, on horseback and lonely for some hours 
 (one of them twiiiglit) in the forest daily; and this, be- 
 cause it was my "custom in the afternoon," and that I be- 
 lieve if the tyrant cannot escape amidst his guards (should 
 it be so written), so the humbler individual would find 
 precautions useless. 
 
 Mr. Bowles has here the humility to say, that "he must 
 succumb ; for with Lord Byron turned against him, he 
 has no chance," — a declaration of self-denial not much 
 in unison with his "promise," five lines afterwards, that 
 "for every twenty-four lines quoted by Mr. Gilchrist, or 
 his friend, to greet him with as many from the 'Gilchri*- 
 tiad';" but so much the better. Mr. Bowles has no reason 
 to "succumb" but to Mr. Bowles. As a poet, the author 
 of"TheMissionary"may compete with the foremost of hi* 
 cotemporaries. Let it be recollected, that all my previous 
 opinions of Mr. Bowles' poetry were written long before 
 the publication of his last and best poem; and that & 
 poet's last poem should be his best, is his highest praise, j 
 But, however, he may duly and honourably rank with! 
 his living rivals. There never was so complete a proof of 
 the superiority of Pope, as in the lines with which Mr. 
 Bowles closes his "to be concluded in our next." 
 
 Mr. Bowles is avowedly the champion and the poet of j 
 nature. Art and the arts are dragged, some before, and [ 
 others behind his chariot. Pope, where he deals with pas- 
 
A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 683 
 
 sioii, and with the nature of the naturals of the day, is 
 allowed even by themselves to be sublime; but they 
 complain that too soon — 
 
 "He stoop'd to truth and moralised his song," 
 
 and there even they allow him to be unrivalled. He has 
 succeeded, and even surpassed them, when he chose, in 
 their own 7>re^ewrfed province. Let us see what their Co- 
 ryphaeus effects in Pope's. But it is too pitiable, it is too 
 melancholy, to see Mr. Bowles "sinning" not "«/>" but 
 "down" as a poet to his lowest depth as an editor. By the 
 way,Mr. Bowles is always quotingPope. I grant that there 
 is no poet — not Shakspeare himself — who can be sooften 
 quoted, with reference to life; — but his editor is so like 
 the devil quoting Scripture, that I could wish Mr. Bowles 
 in his proper place, quoting in the pulpit. 
 
 And now for his lines. But it is painful — painful — 
 to see such a suicide, though at the shrine of Pope. I can't 
 copy them all: — 
 
 "Shall the rank, loathsome miscreant of the age 
 Sit, liice a night-mare grinning o'er a page 1" 
 
 "Whose pye-bald character so aptly suit 
 The two extremes of Bantam and ofBrule, 
 Compound grotesque of sullenness and show. 
 The chattering magpie, and the croaking trow." 
 
 "Whose heart contends with thy Saturuian head, 
 A root of hemlock, and a lump of lead. 
 Gilchrist, proceed," etc., etc. 
 
 "And thus stand forth, spite of thy venoni'd foam. 
 To give thee bite for bite, or lash thee limping home." 
 
 With regard to the last line, the only one upon which I 
 shall venture, for fear of infection, I would advise ^Ir. 
 Gilchrist to keep out of the way of such reciprocal mor- 
 sure — unless he has more faith in the "Ormskirk medi- 
 cine" than most people, or may wish to anticipate the 
 pension of the recent German professor (I forget his name, 
 but it is advertised and full of consonants), who presented 
 his memoir of an infallible remedy for the hydrophobia 
 to the German Diet last month, coupled with the philan- 
 tliropic condition of a large annuity, provided that his 
 cure cured. Let him begin with the editor of Pope, and 
 double his demand. 
 
 Tour's ever, 
 
 BYRON, 
 ^o John Murray, Esq. 
 
 P.S. Amongst the above-mentioned lines there occurs 
 jibe following, applied to Pope — 
 
 "The assassin's vengeance, and the coward's lie." 
 
 ibid Mr. Bowles persists that he is a well-wisher to Pope !! ! 
 He has, then, edited an "assassin" and a "coward" wit- 
 tingly, as well as lovingly. In my former letter I have re- 
 marked upon the editor's forgctfulness of Pope's bene- 
 volence. But where he mentions his faults it is "with sor- 
 row" — his tears drop, but they do not blot them out. The 
 ■'recording angel" differs from the recording clergyman. 
 \. fulsome editor is pardonable though tiresome, like a pa- 
 negyrical son whose pious sincerity would demi-deify his 
 athcr. But a detracting editor is a parricide. He sins 
 igainst the nature of his office, and connexion - he mur- 
 lers the life to come of his victim. If his author is not i 
 
 worthy to be mentioned, do not edit at all: if he be, edit 
 honestly, and even flatteringly. The reader will forgive 
 the weakness in favour of mortality, and correct your 
 adulation with a smile. But to sit down "mingere in pa- 
 trios cineres," as Mr. Bowles has done, merits a reproba- 
 tion so strong, that I am as incapable of expressing as 
 of ceasing to feel it. 
 
 FURTHER ADDENDA. 
 
 it is worthy of remark that, after all this outcry about 
 ^'in-door nature" and "artificial images," Pope was the 
 principal inventor of that boast of the English, Modern 
 Gardening. He divides this honour with Milton. Hear 
 Warton : — "It hence appears, that this enchanting art of 
 modern gardening, in which this kingdom claims a pre- 
 ference over every nation inEurope, chieflyowes itsorigin 
 and its improvements to two great poets, Milton and 
 Pope." 
 
 Walpole (no friend to Pope) asserts that Pope formed 
 Kent's taste, and that Kent was the artist to whom the 
 English are chiefly indebted for diffusing "a taste in laying 
 outgrounds." Thedesign of thePrinceof Wales' garden 
 was copied from Po/>e'* at Twickenham. Warton applauds 
 "his singular effort of art and taste, in impressing so much 
 variety and scenery on a spot of five acres." Pope was 
 the first who ridiculed the "formal, French, Dutch, false 
 and unnatural taste in gardening," both in />ro*e and verse. 
 (See, for the former, "The Guardian.") 
 
 "Pope has given not only some of our first but best ru- 
 les and observations on Architecture and Gardening," 
 (See Warton's Essay, vol. ii. p. 237, etc.) 
 
 Now, is it not a shame, after this, to hear our Lakers 
 in "Kendal Green," and our Bucolical Cockneys, crying 
 out (the latter in a wilderness of bricks and mortar) about 
 "Nature," and Pope's "artificial in-door habits?" Pope 
 had seen all of nature that England alone can supply. He 
 was bred in Windsor Forest, and amidst the beautiful 
 scenery of Eton; he lived familiarly and frequently at the 
 country-seats of Bathurst, Cobham, Burlington, Peter- 
 borough, Digby, and Bolingbroke; amongst whose seats 
 was to be numbered Stowe. He made his own little "five 
 acres" a model to princes, and to the first of our artists 
 who imitated nature. Warton thinks "that the most en- 
 gaging of Kent's works was also planned on the model of 
 Pope's, — at least in the opening and retiring shades of 
 Venus' Vale." 
 
 It is true that Pope was infirm and deformed; but he 
 could walk, and he could ride (he rode to Oxford from 
 London at a stretch), and he was famous for an exqui- 
 site eye. On a tree at Lord Bathurst's is carved "Here 
 Pope sang," — he composed beneath it. Bolingbroke, in 
 one of his letters, represents them both writing in the hay- 
 field. No poet ever admired Nature more, or used her 
 better, than Pope has done, as I will undertake to prove 
 from his works, prose and verse, if not anticipated in so 
 easy and agreeable a labour. I remember a passage in Wal- 
 pole, somewhere, of a gentleman who wished to give direc- 
 tions about some willows to^a man who had long served 
 Pope in his grounds: "I understand, sir,"he replied: "you 
 w ould have them hang down, sir, somewhat poetical." Now, 
 if nothing existed but this little anecdote, it would suffice 
 
684 
 
 A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE, 
 
 to prove Pope's tastefor Nature, and the impression which 
 he had made on a common- minded man. But I have al- 
 ready quoted Warton and Walpole (both his enemies), 
 and, were it necessary, I could amply quote Pope him- 
 self for such tributes to Nature as no poet of the present 
 day has even approached. 
 
 His various excellence is really wonderful : architecture, 
 painting, gardening, all are alike subject to his genius. Be 
 it remembered, that English gardening is the purposed 
 perfectioning of niggard Nature, and that without itEng- 
 land is but a hedge - and - ditch, double- post -and-rail, 
 Hounslow Heath andClapham Common sort of country, 
 since the principal forests have been felled. It is, in gene- 
 ral, far from a picturesque country. The case is difterent 
 with Scotland, Wales, and Ireland; and I except also the 
 lake counties and Derbyshire, together with Eton, Wind- 
 sor, and my own dear Harrow on the Hill, and some spots 
 near thecoast. In the present rank fertility of "great poets 
 of the age," and "schools of poetry" — a word which, like 
 "schools of eloquence" and of "philosophy," is never in- 
 troduced till the decay of the art has increased with the 
 number of its professors — in the present day, then, there 
 have sprung up two sorts of Naturals; — the Lakers, who 
 whine about Nature because they live in Cumberland; 
 and their under-sect, — (which some one has maliciously 
 called the"CockneySchool")whoareenthusiasticalfor the 
 country because they live in London. It is to be observed, 
 thatthe rustical founders are rather anxious todisclaim any 
 connexion with their metropolitan followers, whom they 
 luigraciously review, and call cockneys, atheists, foolish 
 fellows, bad writers, and other hard names not less un- 
 grateful than unjust. I can understand the pretensions of 
 the aquatic gentlemen of Windermere to what Mr. Bra- 
 ham terms "entusumusy" for lakes, and mountains, and 
 daflodils, and buttercups; but I should be glad to be ap- 
 prised of the foundation of the London propensities of 
 their imitative brethren to the same "liigh argument." 
 Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge have rambled over 
 half Europe, and seen Nature in most of her varieties 
 (although I think that they have occasionally not used her 
 very well); but what on earth — of earth, and sea, and 
 Nature — have the others seen ? Not a half, nor a tenth 
 part so much as Pope. While they sneer at his Windsor 
 Forest, have they ever seen any thing of Windsor except 
 its brick? 
 
 The most rural of these gentlemen is my friend Leigh 
 Hunt, who lives at Hampstead. I believe that I need not 
 disclaim any personal or poetical hostility against that 
 gentleman. A more amiable man in society I know not; 
 nor (when he will allow his sense to prevail over his sec- 
 tarian principles) a better writer. When he was writing 
 his "Rimini," I was not the last to discover its beauties, 
 long before it was published. Even then I remonstrated 
 against its vulgarisms; which are the more extraordinary, 
 because the author is any thing but a vulgar man. Mr. 
 Hunt's answer was, that he wrote them upon principle; 
 they made part of his "system! !" I then said no more. 
 Whenaman talks of his system, it is like a woman's talk- 
 ing of her v/rfwe. llet them talk on. Whether there are 
 writers who could have written '-Rimini" as itmighthave 
 been written, I know not; but ■Sir. Hunt is, probably, the 
 
 only poet who could have had the heart to spoil his own 
 Capod'Opera. 
 
 With the rest of his young people I have no acquaintance, 
 except through some things of theirs (which have been sent 
 out without my desire), and I confess that till I had read 
 them I was not awarcofthefull extent of human absurdity. 
 Like Garrick's"Ode to Shakspeare," they "defy criticism." 
 Theseare of the personages who decry Pope. One of them, 
 a Mr. John Ketch, has written some lines against him, of 
 which it were better to be thesubject than the author. Mr. 
 Hunt redeems himself by occasional beauties; but the rest 
 of these poor creatures seem so far gone that I would not 
 "march through Coventry with them, that's flat!" were 
 I in Mr. Hunt's place. To be sure, he has "led his raga- 
 muffins where they will be well peppered ;" but a system- 
 maker must receive all sorts of proselytes. When they 
 have really seen life — when they have felt it — when they 
 have travelled beyond the far distant boundaries of the 
 wildsof Middlesex— when they have overpassed the Alps 
 of Highgate, and traced to its sources the Nile of the New 
 River — tlien, and not till then, can it properly be per- 
 mitted to them to despise Pope; who had, if not in Wales, 
 been near it, when he described so beautifully the "artifi- 
 cial" works of the Benefactor of Nature and mankind, the 
 "Man of Ross," whose picture, still suspended in the par- 
 lour of the inn, I have so often contemplated with reve- 
 rence for hismemory, and admiration of thepoet, without 
 whom even his own still existinggood works could hardly 
 have preserved his honest renown. 
 
 I would also observe to my friend Hunt, that I shall be 
 very glad to see him at Ravenna, not only for my sincere 
 pleasure m his company, and the advantage which a thou- 
 sand miles or so of travel might produce to a "natural" 
 poet, but also to point out one or two little things in "Ri- 
 mini," which he probably would not have placed in his 
 opening to tliat poem, if he had ever seen Ravenna; — un- 
 less, indeed, it made "part of his system!!" I must also 
 crave his indulgence for having spoken of his disciples — 
 by no means an agreeable or self-sought subject. If they 
 had said nothing of Po/>e, they might have remained "alone 
 with their glory," for aught I should have said or thought 
 about them or their nonsense. But if they interfere with 
 the "little Nightingale" of Twickenham, they may find 
 others who will bear it — /won't. Neither time, nor dis- 
 tance, nor grief, nor age, can ever diminish my veneration 
 for him, who is the great moral poet of all times, of all 
 climes, of all feelings, and of all stages of existence. The 
 delight of my boyhood, the study of my manhood, per- 
 haps (if allowed to me to attain it) he may be the conso- 
 lation of my. age. His poetry is the Book of Life. Without 
 canting, and yet without neglecting religion, he has as- 
 sembled all thatagood and grcatmancan gather together 
 of moral wisdom clothed in consummate beauty. Sir 
 William Temple observes, "that of all the members of 
 mankind that live within the compass ofa thousand years, 
 for one man that is born capable of making a great poet, 
 there may be a thousand born capable of making as great 
 generals and ministers of state as any in story." Here 
 is a statesman's opinion of poetry: itis honourable to him 
 and to the art. Such a "poet ofa thousand years" was 
 Pope. A thousand years will roll away before such an- 
 
A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 685 
 
 other can be hoped for in our literature. But it can want 
 them — lie himself is a literature. 
 
 One word upon his so brutally abused translation of 
 Homer. "Dr. Clarke, whose critical exactness is well 
 known, has not been able to point out above three or four 
 mistakes in the sense through the whole Iliad. The real 
 faults of the translation are of a different kind." So says 
 Warton, himself a scholar. It appears by this, then, that 
 he avoided the chief fault of a translator. As to its other 
 faults, they consist in his having made a beautiful English 
 poem of a sublime Greek one. It will always hold. Cow- 
 per and all the rest of the blank pretenders may do their 
 best and their worst : they will never wrench Pope from 
 the hands of a single reader of sense and feeling. 
 
 The grand distinction of the under forms of the new 
 school of poets is tlieir vulgarity. By this I do not mean 
 that they are coarse, but "shabby-genteel," as it is termed. 
 A man may be coarse and yet not vulgar, and the reverse. 
 Burns is often coarse, but never vulgar. Chatterton is 
 never vulgar, nor Wordsworth, nor the higher of the 
 Lake school, though they treat of low life in all its 
 branches. It is in i\\cit finery tliat the new under school 
 are most vulgar, and they may be known by this at once; 
 Eis what we called at Harrow "a Sunday blood" might 
 be easily distinguished from a gentleman, although his 
 lothes might be the better cut, and his boots the best 
 blackened, of the two; — probably because he made the 
 one, or cleaned the other, with his own hands. 
 
 In the present case, I speak of writing, not of persons. 
 Of the latter, I know nothing; of the former, I judge as 
 t is found. Of my friend Hunt, I have already said, that 
 lie is any tiling but vulgar in his manners ; and of his dis- 
 ciples, therefore, I will not judge of their manners from 
 their verses. They may be honourable and gentlemanly 
 men, for what I know ; but the latter quality is studiously 
 excluded from their publications. They remind me of 
 Mr. Smith and the Miss Broughtons at the Hampstead 
 Assembly, in "Evelina." In these things (in private life, 
 at least), I pretend to some small experience; because, 
 in the course of my youth, I have seen a little of all sorts 
 of society, from the Christian prince and tiie Mussulman 
 lultan and paclia,and the higher ranks of their countries, 
 down to the London boxer, the '^a«A and the swell," the 
 Spanish muleteer, the wandering Turkish dervise, the 
 
 Scotch Highlander, and the Albanian robber; — to say 
 nothing of the curious varieties of Italian social life. Far 
 be it from me to presume that there ever was, or can be, 
 such a thing as an aristocracy of poets; but there is a 
 nobility of thought and of style, open to all stations, and 
 derived partly from talent, and partly from education, — 
 which is to be found in Shakspeare, and Pope, and Burns, 
 no less than in Dante and Alfieri, but which is nowhere 
 to be perceived in the mock birds and bards of Mr. Hunt's 
 little chorus. If I were asked to define what this gentle- 
 manliness is, I should say that it is only to be defined by 
 examples — of those who have it, and those who have it 
 not. In life, I should say that most military men have it, 
 and few naval; — that several men of rank have it, and 
 few lawyers ; — that it is more frequent among authors 
 than divines (when they are not pedants) ; ihdAfencing- 
 masters have more ofit than dancing-masters, and singers 
 than players ; and that (if it be not an Irishism to say so) it 
 is far more generally diffused among women than among 
 men. In poetry, as well as writing in general, it will never 
 make entirely a poet or a poem; but neither poet nor 
 poem will ever be good for any thing without it. It is the 
 salt of society, and the seasoning of composition. Vul- 
 garity is far worse than downright blackguardism ; for 
 the latter comprehends wit, humour, and strong sense at 
 times; while the former is a sad abortive attempt at all 
 things, "signifying nothing." It docs not depend upon 
 low themes, or even low language, for Fielding revels in 
 both ; — but is he ever vulgar? No. You see the man of 
 education, the gentleman, and the scholar, sporting with 
 his subject, — its master, not its slave. Your vulgar 
 writer is always most vulgar, the higher his subject; as 
 the man who showed the menagerie at Pidcock's was 
 wont to say, — "This, gentlemen, is the eagle of the sun, 
 from Archangel , in Russia ; the otterer it is, the igherer 
 he flies." But to the proofs. It is a thing to be felt more 
 than explained. Let any man take up a volume of Mr. 
 Hunt's subordinate writers, read (if possible) a couple 
 of pages, and pronounce for himself, if they contain not 
 the kind of writing which may be likened to "shabby- 
 genteel" in actual life. When he has done this, let him 
 take up Pope; — and when he has laid him, down, take 
 up the cockney again — if he can. 
 
686 
 
 REVIEW OF WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. 
 
 REVIEW OF WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 
 
 2 vols. 1807. 
 (From "Moutlily Literary Recreations," for August, 1807.) 
 
 The volumes before us are by tlie author of Lyrical 
 Ballads, a collection which has not imdeservedly met 
 witli a considerable share of public applause. The cha- 
 racteristics of Mr. W.'s muse are simple and flowing, 
 though occasionally inharmonious verse; strong and 
 sometimes irresistible, appeals to the feelings, with un- 
 exceptionable sentiments. Though the present work may 
 not equal his former efforts, many of the poems possess a 
 native elegance, natural and uuaflected, totally devoid of 
 the tinsel embellishments and abstract hyperboles of 
 several cotcmporary sonneteers. The last sonnet in the 
 first volume, p. 152, is perhaps the best, without any 
 novelty in the sentiments, which we hope arc common to 
 every Briton at the present crisis ; the force and expres- 
 sion is that of a genuine poet, feeling as he writes : — 
 
 "Another year ! another deadly blow ! 
 Another mighty empire overthrown! 
 And we are left, or shall be left, alone — 
 The last that dares to struggle with the foe. 
 'Tis well ! — from this day forward we shall know 
 That in ourselves our safety must be sought. 
 That by our own right bands it must be wrought; 
 That we must stand unprop'd, or be laid low. 
 O dastard! whom such foretaste doth not cheer I 
 We shall exnlt, if they who rule the land 
 Be men who hold its many blessings dear. 
 Wise, upright, valiant, not a venal band. 
 Who are to judge of danger which they fear. 
 And honour which they do not understand." 
 
 The song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, the Seven 
 
 Sisters, the affliction of Margaret of , possess 
 
 all the beauties, and few of the defects, of this writer: the 
 following lines from the last are in his first style: — 
 
 "Ah! little doth the young one dream. 
 When full of play and childish cares. 
 What power hath e'en his wildest scream. 
 Heard by his mother unawares: 
 He knows it not, he cannot guess: 
 Years to a mother bring distress. 
 But do not make her love the less." 
 
 The pieces least worthy of the author are those entit- 
 led "Moods of my own Mind." We certainly wish these 
 
 "Moods" had been less frequent, or not permitted to oc- 
 cupy a place near works which only make their deformity 
 more obvious. When Mr. W. ceases to please, it is by 
 "abandoning" his mind to the most common-place ideas, 
 at the same time clothing them in language not simple, 
 but puerile. Wiiat will any reader or auditor, out of the 
 nursery, say to such namby-pamby as "Lines written at 
 the Foot of Brother's Bridge ?" 
 
 "The cock is crowing, 
 
 The stream is flowing, 
 
 The small birds twitter. 
 
 The lake doth glitter. 
 
 The green field sleeps in the snn ; 
 
 The oldest and youngest, 
 
 Are at work with the strongest; 
 
 The cattle are grazing, 
 
 Their heads never raising. 
 
 There are forty feeding like one. 
 
 Like an army defeated. 
 
 The snow hath retreated. 
 
 And now doth fare ill, 
 
 On the top of the bare hilL" 
 
 "Theplough-boyis whoopinganon, anon," etc. isin the 
 same exquisite measure. This appears to us neither morft 
 nor less than an imitation of such minstrelsy as soothed 
 our cries in tiie cradle, with the shrill ditty of 
 
 "Hey diddle, diddle. 
 
 The cat and the fiddle: 
 
 The cow jump'd over the moon. 
 
 The little dog laugh'd to see such sport. 
 
 And the dish ran away with the spoou." 
 
 On the whole, however, with theexception of thcabove, 
 and other innocent odes of the same cast, we think these 
 volumes display a genius worthy of higher pursuits, and 
 regret that Mr. W. confines his muse to such trifling sub- 
 jects. We trust his motto will be in future, "Paulo majora 
 canamus." Many, with inferior abilities, have acquired a 
 loftier seat on Parnassus, merely by attempting strains in 
 which Mr. Wordsworth is more qualified to excel. 
 
687 
 
 LETTER TO THE EDITOR 
 
 OF 
 
 "MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW." 
 
 MY DEAR ROBERTS, 
 
 As a believer in the church of England — to say nothing 
 of the State — I have been an occasional reader and great 
 admirer of, though not a subscriber to, your Review, 
 which is rather expensive. But I do not know that any 
 part of its contents ever gave me much surprise till the 
 eleventh article of your twenty-seventh number made its 
 appearance. You have there most vigorously refuted a 
 calumnious accusation of bribery and corruption, the cre- 
 dence of which in the public mind might not only have 
 damaged your reputation as a clergyman and an editor, 
 but, what would have been still worse, have injured the 
 circulation of your journal; which, I regret to hear, is not 
 MO extensiveas the "purity" (as you well observe)"of its," 
 etc. andthepresenttasteforpropriety, wouldinduce us to 
 expect. The charge itself is of a solemn nature, and, al- 
 though inverse, is couched in terms of such circumstan- 
 tial gravity, as to induce a belief little short of that gene- 
 rally accorded to the thirty-nine articles, to which you so 
 frankly subscribed on taking your degrees. It is a charge 
 the most revolting to the heart of man, from its frequent 
 occurrence; to the mind of a statesman, from its occasional 
 truth ; and to the soul of an editor, from its moral impos- 
 sibility. You are charged then in the last line of one octave 
 stanza, and the whole eiglit lines of the next, viz. 209th 
 and 210tli of the firstcanto of that "pestilent poem," Don 
 Juan, with receiving,and still morefoolishly acknowledg- 
 ing the receipt of, certainmonies, to eulogise the unknown 
 author, who by this account must be known to you, if to 
 nobody else. An impeachment of this nature, so seriously 
 jmade, there is but one way of refuting; and it is my firm 
 'persuasion, that whether j'ou did or did not (and /believe 
 that you did not) receive the said monies, of which 1 
 wish that he had specified the sum, you are quite right in 
 denying all knowledge of the transaction. If charges of 
 this nefarious description are to go forth, sanctioned by 
 all the solemnity of circumstance, and guaranteed by the 
 veracity, of verse (as Counsellor Phillips would say), 
 what is to become of readers hitherto implicitly confident 
 In the not less veracious prose of our critical journals? 
 what is to become of the reviews? And, if the reviews fail, 
 what is to become of the editors ? It is common cause, and 
 
 you have done well to sound the alarm. I myself, in my 
 humble sphere, will be one of your echoes. In the words 
 of the tragedian Liston, "I love a row," and you seem 
 justly determined to make one. 
 
 It is barely possible, certainly improbable, that the 
 writer might have been in jest; but this only aggravates 
 his crime. A joke, the proverb says, "breaks no bones;" 
 but it may break a bookseller, or it may be the cause of 
 bones being broken. The jest is but a bad one at the best 
 for the author, and might have been a still worse one for 
 you, if your copious contradiction did not certify to all 
 whom it may concern your own indignant innocence, and 
 the immaculate purity of the British Review. I do not doubt 
 your word, my dear Roberts, yet I cannot help wishing 
 that, in a case of such vital importance, it had assumed the 
 more substantial shape of an affidavit sworn before the 
 Lord Mayor Atkins, who readily receives any deposition ; 
 and doubtless would have brought it in some way as evi- 
 dence of the designs of the Reformers to set fire to London, 
 at the same time that he himself meditates the same good 
 office towards the river Thames. 
 
 I am sure, my dear Roberts, that you will take tliese 
 observations of mine in good part; they are written in a 
 spirit of friendship not less pure than your own editorial 
 integrity. I have always admired you; and, not knowing 
 any shape which friendship and admiration can assume 
 more agreeable and useful than that of good advice, I shall 
 continue my lucubrations, mixed with here and there a 
 monitory hint as to what Iconceiveto be the line youshould 
 pursue, in case you should ever again be assailed with 
 bribes, or accused of taking them. By the way, you don't 
 say much about the poem, except that it is "flagitious." 
 This is a pity — you should have cut it up; because, to 
 say the truth, in not doing so, you somewhat assist any 
 notions which the malignant might entertain on the score 
 of the anonymous asseveration which has made you so 
 angry. 
 
 You say no bookseller "was willing to take upon him- 
 self the publication, though most of them disgrace them- 
 selves by selling it." Now, my dear frieqd, though we all 
 know that those fellows will do any thing for money, me- 
 thinks the disgrace is more with the purchasers: and some 
 
688 
 
 LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF "MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW. 
 
 such, doubtless, there are; for there can be no very exten- 
 sive selling (as you will perceive by that of the British 
 Review) without buying. You tlien add, "What can the 
 critic say?" I am sure I don't know; at present he says 
 very little, and that notmuch to the purpose. Then comes, 
 "for praise, as far as regards the poetry, many passages 
 might be exhibited ; for condemnation, as far as regards 
 the morality, all." Now, my dear good Mr. Roberts, I 
 feel for you, and for yourreputation : my heart bleeds for 
 both; and I do ask you, whether or not such language does 
 not come positively under the description of "the pufl" col- 
 lusive," for which see Sheridan's farce of "The Critic," 
 (by the way, a little more facetious than your own farce 
 under the same title,) towards the close of scene second, 
 act the first. 
 
 The poem is, it seems, sold as the work of Lord Byron; 
 but you feel yourself "at liberty to suppose it not Lord 
 B.'s composition." Why did you ever suppose that it 
 was? I approve of yourindignation — lapplaudit — Ifeel 
 as angry as you can; but perhaps your virtuous wrath 
 carries you a little too far, when you say that "no misde- 
 meanour, not even that of sending into the world obscene 
 and blasphemous poetry, the product of studious lewdness 
 and laboured impiety, appears to you in so detestable a 
 light as the acceptance of a present by the editor of a re- 
 view, as the condition of praising an author." The devil 
 it does n't! — Think a little. This is being critical over- 
 much. In point of Gentile benevolence or Christian charity, 
 it were surely less criminal to praise for a bribe, than to 
 abuse a fellow-creature for nothing ; and as to the assertion 
 of the comparative innocence of blasphemy and ob- 
 scenity, confronted with an editor's "acceptance of a pre- 
 sent," I shallmerely observe, that as an Editor you say very 
 well, but, as a Christian divine, I would not recommend 
 you to transpose this sentence into a sermon. 
 
 And yet you say, "the miserable man (for miserablehe 
 is, as having a soul of which he cannot get rid)" — But 
 here I must pause again, and enquire what is the meaning 
 of this parenthesis? We have lieard of people of "little 
 soul," or of "no soul at all," but never till now of "the 
 misery of having a soul of which we cannot get rid;" a 
 misery under which you are possibly no great suflerer, 
 having got rid apparently of some of the intellectual part of 
 your own when you penned this pretty piece of eloquence. 
 
 But to continue. You call upon Lord Byron, always 
 supposing himno^the author, to disclaim "with all gentle- 
 manly haste," etc, I am told that Lord B. is in a foreign 
 country, some thousand miles otiit may be; so that it will 
 be difficult for him to hurry to your wishes. In the mean 
 time, perhaps you yourself have set an example of more 
 haste than gentility ; but "the more haste the worse speed." 
 
 Let us now look at the charge itself, my dear Roberts, 
 which appears to me to be in some degree not quite ex- 
 plicitly worded : 
 
 "l bribed my Grandmother's Review, the British." 
 
 I recollect hearing, soon after the publication, this sub- 
 ject discussed at the tea-table of Mr. Sotheby the poet, 
 who expressed himself, I remember, a good deal surprised 
 that you had never reviewed his epic poem of "Saul," nor 
 ^ny of his six tragedies; of which, in one instance, the bad 
 '«iste of the pit, and, in all the rest, the barbarous repug- 
 
 nance of the principal actors, prevented the performance. 
 Mrs. and the Misses S. being in a cornerofthe room, per- 
 using the proof sheets of Mr. S.'s poems in Italy, or on 
 Italy, as he says, (I wish, by the by, Mrs. S. would makt 
 the tea a little stronger,) the male part of the conversaziom: 
 were at liberty to make a few observations on the poem 
 and passage in question ; and there was a difterence of 
 opinion. Some thought the allusion was to the "British 
 Critic;" others, that by the expression, "My Grandmo- 
 ther's Review," it was intimated that "my grandmother" 
 was not the reader of the review, but actually the writer; 
 thereby insinuating, my dear Roberts, that you were an 
 old woman; because, as people often say, "Jeffrey's Re- 
 view," "Gilford's Review," in lieu of Edinburgh and 
 Quarterly ; so "my Grandmother's Review" and Roberts' 
 might be also synonymous. Now, whatever colour this 
 insinuation might derive from the circumstance of your 
 wearing a gown, as well as from your time of life, your 
 general style, and various passages of your writings, - 
 will take upon myself to exculpate you from all suspicion 
 of the kind, and assert, without calling Mrs. Roberts in 
 testimony, that if ever you should be chosen Pope, you' 
 will pass through all the previous ceremonies with as 
 much credit as any pontiff' since the parturition of Joan, 
 It is very unfair to judge of sex from Avritings, particu- 
 larly from those of the British Review. We are all liable 
 to be deceived ; and it is an indisputable fact, that many 
 of the best articles in your journal, which were attributed 
 to a veteran female, were actually written by you your- 
 self; and yet to this day there are people who could never 
 find out the difference. But let us return to the more im- 
 mediate question. 
 
 I agree with you, that it is impossible Lord Byron 
 should be the author, not only because, as a British peer 
 and a British poet, it would be impracticable for him to 
 have recourse to such facetious fiction, but for some other 
 reasons which you have omitted to state. In the first place, 
 his Lordsliip has no grandmother. Now, the author — 
 and we may believe him in this — doth expressly state 
 that the "British" is his "Grandmother's Review ;" and 
 if, as I think I have distinctly proved, this was not a mere 
 figurative allusion to your supposed intellectual age and 
 sex, my dear friend, it follows, whether you be she or noj 
 that there is such an elderly lady still extant. And I caff 
 the more readily credit this, having a sexagenary aunt (rf 
 my own, who perused you constantly, till unfortunately 
 falling asleep over the leading article of your last number; 
 her spectacles fell off' and were broken against the fender, 
 after a faithful service of fifteen years, and she has never 
 been able to fit her eyes since ; so that I have been forced 
 to read you aloud to her ; and this is in fact the way in 
 which I became acquainted with the subject of my pre- 
 sent letter, and thus determined to become your publie 
 correspondent. 
 
 In the next place. Lord Byron's destiny seems in some 
 sort like that of Hercules of old, who became the author 
 of all unappropriated prodigies. Lord B. had been sup- 
 posed the author of the "Vampire," of a "Pilgrimage td 
 Jerusalem," "To the Dead Sea," of Death upon the Pale 
 Horse," of odes to "Lavalette," to "Saint Helena," to 
 the "Land of the Gaul," and to a sucking child. Now, be 
 
LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF "MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW. 
 
 689 
 
 turned out to have written none of these things. Besides, 
 
 I you say,he knows in what a spirit of, etc. you criticise: — 
 
 ; Are you sure he knows all this ? tliat he has read you like 
 
 ' my poor dear aunt ? They tell me he is a queer sort of a 
 
 j man; and I would not be too sure, if I were you, either 
 
 I of what he has read or of what he has written. I thought 
 
 1 his style had been the serious and terrible. As tohissend- 
 
 ji ing you money, this is the first time that ever I heard of 
 
 his paying his reviewers in that coin; I thought it was 
 
 rather in their own, to judge from some of his earlier 
 
 productions. Besides, though he may not be profuse in 
 
 his expenditure, I should conjecture that his reviewer's 
 
 bill is not so long as his tailor's. 
 
 Shall I give you what I tiiink a prudent opinion? I 
 don't mean to insinuate, God forbid ! but if, by any ac- 
 cident, there should have been such a correspondence 
 between you and the unknown author, whoever he may 
 be, send him back his money : I dare say he will be very 
 glad to have it again ; it can't be much, considering the 
 value of the article and the circulation of the journal; and 
 you are too modest to rate your praise beyond its real 
 worth. — Don't be angry, — I know you won't, — at this 
 appraisement of your powers of eulogy ; for on the other 
 hand, my dear friend, depend upon it your abuse is worth, 
 not its own weigiit, — that's a feather, — but your weight 
 in gold. So don't spare it: if he lias bargained for that, 
 igive it handsomely, and depend upon your doing him a 
 (friendly office. 
 
 But I only speak in case of possibility ; for, as I said 
 pefore, I cannot believe, in the first instance, that you 
 jwould receive a bribe to praise any person whatever; and 
 till less can I believe, that your praise could ever produce 
 uch an off"er. You are a good creature, my dear Roberts, 
 tend a clever fellow ; else 1 could almost suspect that you 
 iiad fallen into the very trap set for you in verse by this 
 laonymous wag, who will certainly be but too happy to 
 jee you saving him the trouble of making you ridiculous. 
 The fact is, that the solemnity of your eleventh article 
 ices make you look a little more absurd than you ever 
 ^ti looked, in all probability, and at the same time, does 
 JO good; for if any body believed before in the octave 
 itanzas, they will believe still, and you will find it not less 
 lifBcult to prove your negative, than the learned Partridge 
 bund it to demonstrate his not being dead, to the satis- 
 'action of the readers of almanacs. 
 
 What the motives of this writer may have been for (as 
 fou magnificently translate his quizzing you) "stating. 
 
 with the particularity which belongs to fact, the forgery 
 of a groundless fiction," (do, pray, my dear R., talk a 
 little less "in King Cambyses' vein,") I caimot pretend 
 to say; perhaps to laugh at you, but that is no reason for 
 your benevolently making all the world laugli also. I 
 approve of your being angry; I tell you I am angry too; 
 but you should not have shown it so outrageously. Your 
 solemn "{/"somebody personating the Editor of the, etc. 
 has received from Lord B. or from any other person," 
 reminds me of Cliarley Incledon's usual exordium when 
 people came into the tavern to hear him sing without 
 paying their share of the reckoning — "if a maun, or any 
 maun, or ony other maun," etc. ; you have both the same 
 redundant eloquence. But why should you think any 
 body would personate you? Nobody would dream of such 
 a prank who ever read your compositions, and perhaps 
 not many who have heard your conversation. But I have 
 been inoculated with a little of your prolixity. The fact 
 is, my dear Roberts, that somebody has tried to make a 
 fool of you, and what he did not succeed in doing, 
 you have done for him and for yourself. 
 
 With regard to the poem itself, or the author, whom 
 I cannot find out, (can you?) I have nothing to say; my 
 business is with you. I am sure that you will, upon se- 
 cond thoughts, be really obliged to me for the intention 
 of this letter, however far short my expressions may have 
 fallen of the sincere good will, admiration, and thorough 
 esteem, witli which I am ever, my dear Roberts 
 Most truly yours, 
 
 WORTLEY CLUTTERBUCK. 
 
 Sept. 4th, 1819, 
 Little Pidliiigton. 
 
 P. S. My letter is too long to revise, and the post is 
 going. I forget whether or not I asked you the meaning 
 of your last words, "the forgery of a groundless fiction." 
 Now, as all forgery is fiction, and all fiction a kind of 
 forgery, is not this tautological? The sentence would 
 have ended more strongly with "forgery;" only it hath 
 an awful Bank of England sound, and would have ended 
 like an indictment, besides sparing you several words, 
 and conferring some meaning upon the remainder. But 
 this is mere verbal criticism. Good-bye — once more, 
 yours truly, W. C. 
 
 P. S. 2d. — Is it true tiiat the Saints make up the loss 
 of the Review ? — It is very handsome in them to be at 
 so great an expense. Twice more, yours, W. C. 
 
 I 
 
 44 
 
690 
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 ^imh^0k 
 
 ?if > v*y v,m^ttiH ^5#m5" 
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 DEBATE ON THE FRAME-WORK-BILL, IN/THE HOUSE OF LORDS, 
 
 FEBRUARY, 27, 1812. 
 
 The order of the da}' for the second reading of this bill 
 being: read, 
 
 LORD BYRON rose, and (for the first time) addressed 
 tlieir lordships, as follows: 
 
 My Lords, — The subject now submitted to j^ourlord- 
 
 sliips for the first time, though new to the House, is by no 
 
 i means new to the country. I believe it had occupied the 
 
 / serious thoughts of all descriptions of persons, long 
 
 before its introduction to the notice of that legislature, 
 
 wliose interference alone could be of real service. As a 
 
 person in some degree connected with tlie suftering county, 
 
 though a stranger not only to this House in general, but 
 
 to almost every individual whose attention I presume 
 
 to solicit, I must claim some portion of your lordsliips' 
 
 \ indulgence whilst I ofler a few observations on a question 
 
 5 in which I confess myself deeply interested. 
 
 To enter into any details of the riots would be super- 
 fluous: the House is already aware that every outrage 
 short of actual bloodshed lias been perpetrated, and that 
 the proprietors of the frames obnoxious to the rioters, and 
 all persons supposed to be connected with them, have 
 been liable to insult and violence. During the short time 
 I recently passed in Nottinghamshire, not twelve hours 
 elapsed without some fresh act of violence ; and on the 
 day I left the county, I was informed that forty frames 
 had been broken the preceding evening, as usual, without 
 resistance and without detection. 
 
 Such was then the state of that county, and such I have 
 reason to believe it to be at this moment. But whilst these 
 outrages must be admitted to exist to an alarming extent, 
 it cannot be denied that they have arisen from circum- 
 stances of the most unparalleled distress. The perse- 
 verance of these miserable men in their proceedings, tends 
 to prove that nothing but absolute want could have driven 
 a large, and once honest and industrious, body of the 
 people, into the commission of excesses so hazardous to 
 themselves, their families, and the community. At the 
 time to which I allude, the town and county were bur- 
 thened with large detachments of the military; the police 
 was in motion, the magistrates assembled; yet all the 
 movements,civil and military, had led to— nothing. Not a 
 single instance had occurred of the apprehension of any 
 real delinquent actually taken in tlie fact, against whom 
 there existed legal evidence sufficient for conviction. But 
 
 the police, however useless, were by no means idle : sc 
 veral notorious delinquents had been detected; men 
 liable to conviction, on the clearest evidence, of tlie capita 
 crime of poverty; men wlio had been nefariously guilt; 
 of lawfully begetting several children, whom, thanks t< 
 the times ! they were unable to maintain. Considerabb 
 injury has been done to the proprietors of the improve* 
 frames. These machines were to them an advantag( 
 inasmuch as they superseded the necessity of employinj 
 a number of workmen , who were left in consequence 1< 
 starve. By tlie adoption of one species of frame in par 
 ticular, one man performed the work of many, and th' 
 superfluous labourers were thrown out of employment 
 Yet it is to be observed, that the work thus executed wa 
 inferior in quality ; not marketable at home, and merel; 
 hurried over with a view to exportation. It was called 
 in tlie cant of the trade, by the name of "spider-work.' 
 The rejected workmen, in the blindness of their ignorance 
 instead of rejoicing at these improvements in arts so be 
 neficial to mankind, conceived themselves to be sacrifice* 
 to improvements in mechanism. Li the foolishness d 
 their hearts they imagined,that the maintenance and well 
 doing of the industrious poor were objects of greate 
 consequence than the enrichment of a few individuals I^ 
 any improvement, in the implements of trade, which thre» 
 the workmen out of employment,and rendered the labour 
 er unworthy of his hire. And it must be confessed, tha" 
 although the adoption of the enlarged machinery in tha 
 state of our commerce which the country once boasted 
 might have been beneficial to the master without beiii; 
 detrimental to the servant; yet, in the present situatioi 
 of our manufactures, rotting in warehouses, without ; 
 prospect of exportation, with the demand for work aiu 
 workmen equally diminished, frames of this descriplioi 
 tend materially to aggravate the distress and discontoi 
 of the disappointed sufferers. But the real cause of tliesij 
 distresses and consequent disturbances lies deeper! 
 When we are told that tliese men are leagued togethci 
 not only for the destruction of their own comfort, but 0| 
 their very means of subsistance, can we forget that it i; 
 the bitter policy, the destructive warfare of the last eigli- 
 teen years, Avhicli has destroyed their comfort, your com- 
 fort, all men's comfort? That policy whi(;h, originatinj 
 with "great sttitesmcn now no more," has survived tbi 
 
PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 691 
 
 dead to become a curse on the living, unto the third and 
 fourth generation ! These men never destroyed their looms 
 till they were become useless, worse than useless ; till tlicy 
 were become actual impediments to their exertions in 
 obtaining tlieir daily bread. Canyou, then, wonder that iri 
 times like these, when bankruptcy, convicted fraud, and 
 imputed felony are found in a station not far beneath that 
 of your lordsiiips, the lowest, though once most useful 
 portion of tlie people, should forget their duty in their 
 distresses, and become only less guilty than one of their 
 representatives ? But while the exalted offender can find 
 means to baffle the law, new capital punishments must be 
 devised, new snares of death must be spread for the 
 wretched meciianio,vvhois famished into guilt. These men 
 were willing to dig, but the spade was in other hands rthej^ 
 were not ashamed to beg, but there was none to relieve 
 them: their own means of subsistence were cut off", all 
 other employments pre-occupied, and their excesses, 
 however to be deplored and condemned, can hardly be 
 subject of surprise. 
 
 It has beenstated,thatthepersonsin the temporary pos- 
 session of frames connive at their destruction; if this be 
 proved upon inquiry, it were necessary that such material 
 accessories to the crime should be principals in the punish- 
 ment. But I did hope, that any measure proposed by his 
 iaajcsty 's government, for your lordships' decision, would 
 have had conciliation for its basis ; or, if that were hope- 
 less, that some previous inquiry, some deliberation would 
 have been deemed requisite; not that we should have 
 been called at once witliout examination, and witliout 
 cause, to pass sentences by wholesale, and sign death- 
 warrants blindfold. But admitting that these men had no 
 cause of complaint; that the grievances of them and their 
 employers were alike groundless; that they deserved the 
 worst ; what inefficiency , what imbecility has been 
 ^inced in tlie method chosen to reduce them ! Why were^ 
 Bic military called out to be made a mockery of, if tliey 
 irere to be called out at all ? As far as the difference of 
 seasons would permit, they have merely parodied the 
 summer campaign of Major Sturgeon; and, indeed, the 
 whole proccedingSjCivil andmilitary,seemed on the model 
 Of those of the Mayor and Corporation of Garratt- — 
 9nch marchings and counter-marchings! from Notting- 
 teim to Bull well, from Bull well to Banford, fromBanford 
 teManslicld! and when at length the detachments arrived 
 BCt their destinations, in all "the pride, pomp, and cir- 
 BUmstancc of glorious war," they came just in time to 
 Witness tlie mischief which had been done, and ascertain 
 Ihe escape of the perpetrators, to collect the "spolia 
 apima" in the fragments of broken frames, and return to 
 Bleir quarters amidst the derision of old women, and the 
 hootings of children. Now, though in a free country, it 
 were to be wished, that our military should never be too 
 tormidable, at least to ourselves, I cannot see the policy 
 iof placing them in situations where they can only be made 
 iridiculous. As the sword is the worst argument tliat can 
 be used, so should it be the last. In this instance it has 
 jbeen tlie first ; but providentially as yet only in the scab- 
 jbard. Tlie present measure will, indeed, pluck it from the 
 jsheath; yet had proper meetings been held in the earlier 
 iSiages of tiiese riots, — had the grievances of these men 
 
 and their masters (for they also had their grievances) been 
 fairly weighed and justly examined, I do think that means 
 might have been devised to restore these workmen to 
 their avocations, and tranquillity to the county. At pre- 
 sent the county suffers from the double infliction of an 
 idle military and a starving population. In what state of 
 apathy have we been plunged so long, that now for the 
 first time the House has been officially apprised of these 
 disturbances! All this has been transacting within 130 
 miles of London, and yet we, "good easy men, have 
 deemed full sure our greatness wasa-ripening," and have 
 sat down to enjoy our foreign triumphs in the midst of 
 / domestic calamity. But all the cities you have taken, all 
 the armies which have retreated before your leaders, are 
 but paltry subjects of self- congratulation, if your land 
 divides against itself, and your dragoons and your exe- 
 cutioners must be letlooseagainstyourfellow-citizens. — 
 You call these men a mob, desperate, dangerous, and 
 ignorant; and seem to think that the only way to quiet 
 the "Bellua multorum capitum" is to lop off" a few of its 
 superfluous heads. But even a mob may be better reduced 
 to reason by a mixture of conciliation and firmness, than 
 by additional irritation and redoubled penalties. Are we 
 aware of our obligations to a mob .' It is the mob that la- 
 bour in your fields, and serve in your houses, — that man 
 your navy, and recruit your army, — that have enabled 
 you to defy all the world, and can also defy you when 
 neglect and calamity have driven them to despair. Y'"ou 
 may call the people a mob; but do not forget, that a mob 
 too often speaks the sentiments of the people. And here 
 I must remark, with what alacrity you are accustomed to 
 fly to the succour of your distressed allies , leaving the 
 distressed of your own country to the care of Providence 
 or — the parish. When the Portuguese suffered under 
 the retreat of tlie French, every arm was stretched out, 
 every hand was opened, from the rich man's largess to 
 the widow's mite, all was bestowed to enable them to re- 
 build their villages and replenisli their granaries. Aiid at 
 this moment, when thousands of misguided but most un- 
 fortunate fellow-countrymen are struggling with the 
 extremes of hardships and hunger, as your charity be- 
 gan abroad it sliould end at home. A much less surn, a 
 tithe of the bounty bestowed on Portugal, even if those 
 men (which I cannot admit without inquiry) could not 
 have been restored to their emploj ments, would have 
 rendered unnecessary the tender mercies of the bayonet 
 and tiie gibbet. But doubtless our friends have too many 
 foreign claims to admit a prospect of domestic relief; 
 though never did such objects demand it. I have tra- 
 versed the seat of war inthePeninsula,Ihave been in some 
 of the most oppressed provinces of Turkey , but never 
 under the most despotic of infidel governments did I be- 
 hold such squalid wretchedness as I have seen since my 
 return in the very heart of aCiiristian country. And wliat 
 are your remedies? After months of inaction, and months 
 of action worse than inactivity, at length comes forth the 
 grand specific, the never-failing nostrum of all state- 
 pliysicians, from the days of Draco to the present time. 
 After feeling the pulse and shaking the head over the 
 patient, prescribing the usual course of warm water and 
 bleeding, the warm water of your mawkish police, and 
 
692 
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 the lancets of your military, these convulsions must 
 terminate in dcatli , the sure consummation of the pre- 
 scriptions of all political Sang-rados. Setting aside the 
 palpable injustice, and the certain inefficiency of the bill, 
 are there not capital punishments sufficient in your sta- 
 tutes? Is there not blood enough upon your penal code, 
 that more must be poured forth to ascend to heaven and 
 testify against you? How will you carry the bill into effect? 
 Can you commit a whole county to their own-prison? 
 Will you erect a gibbet in every field, and hang up men 
 like scarecrows? Or will you proceed (as you must, to 
 bring this measure into effect) by decimation ? place the 
 country under martial lav/I depopulate and lay waste all 
 around you? and restore Sherwood Forest as an accept- 
 able gift to the crown, in its former condition of a royal 
 chase and an asylum for outlaws? Are these the remedies 
 for a starving and desperate populace? Will the famished 
 wretch who has braved your bayonets be appalled by 
 your gibbets? When death is a relief, and the only relief 
 it appears that you will afford him, will he be dragooned 
 into tranquillity? Will that which could not be effected 
 by your grenadiers be accomplished by your execution- 
 ers? If you proceed by the forms of law, Avhereis your 
 evidence? Those who have refused to impeach their ac- 
 complices, when transportation only was the punishment, 
 will hardly be tempted to witness against them when death 
 is the penalty. With all due deference to the noble lords , 
 opposite, I think a little investigation, some previous in- 
 quiry, would iuduce-even them to change their purpose. 
 
 That most favourite state-measure, so marvellously effi- 
 cacious in many and recent instances,temporizing, would 
 not be without its advantages in this. When a proposal 
 is made to emancipate or relieve , you hesitate , you 
 deliberate for years, you temporize and tamper with the 
 minds of men; but a death-bill must be passed offhand, 
 withouta thought oftheconsequences.Surelamfrom what 
 I have heard, and from whatlhave seen, that to pass the 
 Billunderallthe existing circumstances without inquiry, 
 without deliberation,would only be to add injustice to irri- 
 tation,and barbarity to neglect.The framers of such a Bill 
 must be content to inh er it the honours of that Athenian la w- 
 giver whose edicts were said to be written Jiot in ink but 
 in blood. Butsupposeitpassed; supposeone of these men, 
 as I have seen them, — meagre with famine, sullen with 
 despair, careless of a life which your lordsiiips are per- 
 haps abut to value at something less than the price of a 
 stocking-frame — suppose this man surrounded by the 
 children for whom he is unable to procure bread at the 
 hazard of his existence, about to be torn for ever from a, 
 family which he lately supported in peaceful industry, 
 and which it is not his fault that he can no longer so sup- 
 port — suppose tliis man, and there are ten thousand 
 such from whom you may select your victims, dragged 
 into court, to be tried for this new offence by this new 
 law; still, there are two things wanting to convict and 
 condemn him; and these are, in my opinion, — twelve 
 Butchers for a Jury, and a Jeflcries for a Judge! 
 
 DEBATE ON THE EARL OF DONOUGHMORE'S MOTION FOR A COMMITTEE 
 ON THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CLAIMS, APRIL 21, 1812. 
 
 My Lords, — The question before the House has been 
 so frequently, fully , and ably discussed, and never per- 
 haps more ably than on this night, that it would be diffi- 
 cult to adduce new arguments for or against it. But with 
 each discussion difficulties have been removed, objections 
 have been canvassed and refuted, and some of the former 
 opponents of Catholic Emancipation have at length con- 
 ceded to the expediency of relieving the petitioners. In 
 conceding thus much, however, anew objection isstarted; 
 it is not the time, say they, or it is an improper time, or 
 there is time enough yet. In some degree I concur with 
 those who say it is not the time exactly; that time is 
 passed ; better had itbeenfor thecountry,thattheCatholics 
 possessed at this moment their proportion of our privile- 
 ges, that their nobles held their due weight in our coun- 
 cils, than that we should be assembled to discuss their 
 claims. It had indeed been better 
 
 Mon tempore tali 
 
 Cogcre concilium cum muros obsidct bostis. 
 
 The enemy is without, and distress within. It is too late 
 to cavil on doctrinal points, when we must unite in de- 
 fence of things more important than the mere ceremonies 
 of religion. It is indeed singular, that we are called to- 
 gether to deliberate, not on the God we adore, for in that 
 we are agreed; not about the king we obey, for to him we 
 
 are loyal; but how far a difference in the ceremonials of 
 worship, how far believing not too little,but too much (the 
 worst that can be imputed to the Catholics), how far too 
 much devotion to their God, may incapacitate our fellow- 
 subjects from effectually serving their king. 
 
 Much has been said, witliin and without doors, of 
 Church and State, and although those venerable words 
 have been too often prostituted to the most despicable of 
 party purposes, we cannot hear them too often, all, I pre- 
 sume, are the advocates of Church and State, the Church 
 of Christ, and the State of Great Britain; but not a slate 
 of exclusion and despotism, not an intolerant church, not 
 a church militant, which renders itself liable to the very 
 objection urged against the Romish communion, and in a 
 greater degree, for the Catholic merely withholds its spi- 
 ritual benediction (and even that is doubtful) ; but our 
 church, or rather our churchmen, not only refuse to the 
 Catholic their spiritual grace, but all temporal blessings 
 whatsoever. It was an observation of the great Lord Pe- 
 terborough, made within these walls, or within the walls 
 where the Lords then assembled, that he was for a "par- 
 liamentary king and aparliamentary constitution, but not 
 a parliamentary God and a parliamentary religion." The 
 interval of a century has not weakened the force oftherc^ 
 mark.It is indeed time that we should leave olf thesepctty 
 
PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 693 
 
 cavils on frivolous points , tlicse Lilliputian sophistries, 
 whether our "eggs are best broken at the broad or narrow 
 end." 
 
 The opponents of the Catholics may be divided into 
 two classes; those who assert that the Catholics have too 
 inuch already, and those who allege that the lower orders, 
 at least, have nothing more to require. We are told by 
 the former, that the Catholics never will be contented : by 
 the latter, that they are alrcad}' too happy. The last pa- 
 radox is sufficiently refuted by the present, as by all past 
 petitions ; it might as well be said, that the negroes did 
 not desire to be emancipated; but this is an unfortunate 
 comparison, for you have already delivered them out of 
 the house of bondage without any petition on their part, 
 but many from their task-masters to a contrarj' effect; and 
 for myself, when I consider this, I pity the Catholic pea- 
 santry for not having the good fortune to be born black. 
 But the Catholics are contented, or at least ought to be, 
 \9H we are told: Isiiall therefore proceed to touch on a few 
 of those circumstances which so marvellously contribute 
 to their exceeding contentment. They are not allowed the 
 free exercise of their religion in the regular army ;theCa- 
 lolic soldier cannot absenthimself from the service of the 
 
 otestant clergyman, and, unless he is quartered in Ire- 
 '|!and, or in Spain, where can he find eligible opportunities 
 of attending his own ? The permission of Catholic chap- 
 lains to the Irish militia regiments was conceded as a spe- 
 cial favour, and not till after years of remonstrance, al- 
 though an act, passed in 1793, established it as aright. 
 But are theCatliolics properly protected in Ireland? Can 
 Die Church purchase a rood of land whereon to erect a 
 jchapel? No: all the places of worship are built on leases 
 lof trust or sufferance from the laity, easily broken and 
 joften betrayed. The moment any irregular wisli, any ca- 
 Isual caprice of the benevolent landlord meets with oppo- 
 sition, the doors are barred against the congregation. This 
 has happened continually; but in no instance more glar- 
 ingly, than at the town of Newtown-Barry, in the county 
 of Wexford. The Catholics, enjoying no regular chapel, 
 as a temporary expedient, hired two barns, which, being 
 ithrown into one, served for public worship. At tliis time, 
 there was quartered opposite to the spot an officer, whose 
 mind appears to have been deeply imbued with those pre- 
 judices which the Protestant petitions, now on the table, 
 prove to have been fortunately eradicated from the more 
 rational portion of tlie people; and when the Catholics 
 were assembled on the Sabbath as usual, in peace and 
 food-will towards men, for the worship of their God and 
 ^ours, they found the chapel -door closed, and were told 
 hat if they did not immediately retire (and they were told 
 ;his by a yeoman officer and a magistrate), the riot- act 
 ihould be read, and the assembly dispersed at the point of 
 ;he bayonet! This was complained of to the middle-man of 
 Ijovernment, the secretary at the Castle in 1806, and the 
 uiswer was (in lieu of redress), that he would causealct- 
 ler to be written to the colonel, to prevent, if possible, the 
 ecurrence of similar disturbances. Upon this fact no very 
 jreat stress need be laid ; but it tends to prove that while 
 he Catholic church has not power to purchase land for 
 ts chapels to stand upon, the laws for its protection are 
 »fno avail. In the meantime, the Catholics are at the 
 
 Ik 
 
 mercy of every "pelting petty officer," who may chuse to 
 play his "fantastic tricks before high heaven," to insult 
 his God, and injure his fellow-creatures. 
 
 Every school-boy, any foot-boy (such have held com- 
 missions in our service), any foot-boy who can exchange 
 hisshoulder-knotforan epaulet, may perform all this and 
 more against the Catholic, by virtue of that very authority 
 delegated to him by hissovereign,fortbeexpresspurpose 
 of defending his fellow -subjects to the last drop of his 
 blood, without discrimination or distinction between Ca- 
 tholic and Protestant' 
 
 Have the Irish Catholics the full benefit of trial by 
 jury? They have not; they never can have, until they are 
 permitted to share the privilege of serving as sheriffs and 
 under-sheriffs. Of this a striking example occurred at the 
 last Enniskillen assizes. A yeoman was arraigned for the 
 murder of a Catholic named Macvournagh : three respect- 
 able uncontradicted witnesses deposed that they saw 
 the prisoner load, take aim, fire at, and kill the said 
 Macvournagh. This was properly commented on by the 
 judge; but, to the astonishment ofthe bar, and indignation 
 of the court, the Protestant jury acquitted the accused. 
 So glaring was the partiality, that Mr. Justice Osborne 
 felt it his duty to bind over theacquitted, butnotabsolved 
 assassin, in large recognizances ; thus for a time taking 
 away his license to kill Catliolics. 
 
 Are the very laws passed in their favour observed ? 
 They are rendered nugatory, in trivial as in serious cases. 
 By a late act, Catholic chaplains are permitted in jails, 
 but in Fermanagh county the grand jurj^ lately persisted 
 inpresentinga suspended clergyman for the office, thereby 
 evading the statute, notwithstanding the most pressing 
 remonstrances of a most respectabe magistrate, named 
 Fletcher, to tiie contrary. Such is law, such is justice, for 
 the happy, free, contented Catholic ! 
 
 It has been asked in another place, why do not the rich 
 Catholics endow foundations for the education of the 
 priesthood? Why do you not permit them to do so? Why 
 are all such bequests subject to the interference, the vexa- 
 tious, arbitrary, peculating interference of the Orange 
 commissioners for charitable donations ? 
 
 As to Maynooth College, in no instance, except at the 
 time of its foundation, when a noble Lord (Camden), at 
 the head ofthe Irish administration, did appear to interest 
 himself in its advancement; and during the government 
 ofa noble Duke (Bedford), who, like his ancestors, has 
 ever been the friend offreedom and mankind, and who has 
 not so far adopted the selfish policy ofthe day as to ex- 
 clude the Catholics from the number of his fellow-crea- 
 tures ; with these exceptions, in no instance has that insti- 
 tution been properly encouraged. There was indeed a 
 time when the Catholic clergy were conciliated, while the 
 Union was pending, tiiat union which could notbccarried 
 without them, while their assistance was requisite in pro- 
 curing addresses from the Catholic counties ; then they 
 were cajoled and caressed, feared and flattered, and given 
 tounderstand that"tiieUnion would do every thing;" but, 
 the moment it was passed, thej were driven back with 
 contempt into their former obscurity, 
 
 In the conduct pursued towards Maynooth College, 
 every thing is done to irritate and perplex — every thing 
 
694 
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 is done to efface the slightestimpression of gratitude from 
 tlie Catholic mind ; tlie very hay made upon the lawn, the 
 fat and tallow of the beef and mutton allowed, must be 
 paid for and accounted upon oath. It is true, this economy 
 in miniature cannot be sufficiently commended, particu- 
 larly atatime when only the insect defaulters of the Trea- 
 sury, your Hunts and your Chinnerys, when only tliese 
 "gilded bugs" can escape the microscopic eye of ministers. 
 But when you comeforward session after session, as your 
 paltry pittance is wrung from you with wrangling and 
 reluctance, to boast of your liberality, well might the Ca- 
 tholic exclaim, in the words of Prior, — ■ 
 
 To John I owe some obligation. 
 
 But Jobn unluckily thinks fit 
 To publish it to all the nation, 
 
 So John and I are more than quit. 
 
 Some persons have compared the Catholics to the beg- 
 gar in Gil Bias. Wo made them beggars? Who are en- 
 riched with the spoils of their ancestors ? And cannot you 
 relieve the beggar when your fathers have made him such? 
 If you are disposed to relieve him at all, cannot you do it 
 without flinging your farthings in his face? As a contrast, 
 however, to this beggarly benevolence, let us look at the 
 Protestant Charter - Schools ; to them you have lately 
 granted 41,000 L.: thus are they supported, and how are 
 they recruited? Montesquieu observes, on the English 
 constitution, that the model may be found in Tacitus, 
 where the historian describes the policy of the Germans, 
 and adds, "this beautiful system was taken from the 
 woods;" so in speaking of the charter-schools, it may be 
 observed, that this beautiful pystcm was taken from the 
 gypsies. These schools are recruited in the same manner 
 as the Janiaiaries at the time of their enrolment under 
 Amurath, and the gypsies of the present day with stolen 
 children, with children decoyed and kidnapped from 
 their Catiiolic connexions by their rich and powerful Pro- 
 testant neighbours : this is notorious, and one instance 
 may suffice to show in what manner. The sister of a Mr. 
 Carthy (a Catholic gentleman of very considerable pro- 
 perty) died, leaving two girls, wiio were immediately 
 marked out as proselytes, and conveyed to the charter- 
 school ofCoolgreny. Their uncle, on being apprised of 
 the fact, which took place during his absence, applied for 
 the restitution of his nieces, offering to settle an independ- 
 ence on these relations; his request was refused, and not 
 till after five years' struggle, and the interference of very 
 high authority, could tiiis Catholic gentleman obtain back 
 his nearest of kindred from a charity-charter-school. In 
 this manner are proselytes obtained, and mingled with the 
 offspringof such Protestants as may avail themselves of 
 the institution. And how are they taught ? A catechism 
 is put into their hands consisting of, I believe, forty-five 
 pages, in which are three questions relative to the Protes- 
 tant religion; one of these queries is: "Where was the 
 Protestant religion before Luther ?" Answer : "In the Gos- 
 pel." The remaining forty -four pages and a half regard 
 the damnable idolatry of Papists ! 
 
 Allow me to ask our spiritual pastors and masters, is this 
 training -up a child in the way which he should go? Is this 
 the religion of the gospel before the time of Luther ? tliat reli- 
 gion which preaches "Peace on earth, and glory to God ?" 
 
 Is it bringing up infants to be men or devils ? Better would it 
 be to send them any where than teach them such doctrines ; 
 better send them to those islands in the South Seas, where 
 they might more humanely learn to become cannibals; it 
 would be less disgusting that they were brought up to de- 
 vour the dead, than persecute the living. Schools do you call 
 them? call them rather dunghills, where the viper of into- 
 lerance deposits her young, that, when their teeth are 
 cut and their poison is mature, they may issue forth, filthy 
 and venomous to sting the Catholic. But are these the doc- 
 trines of the Church of England, or of churchmen? No; the 
 most enlightened churchmen are of a different opinion. 
 What says Paley ? "I perceive no reason why men of diffe- 
 rent religious persuasions, should not sit upon the same 
 bench, deliberate in the same council, or fight in the same 
 ranks, as well as men of various religious opinions, upon 
 any controverted topic of natural history, philosophy, or 
 ethics." It may be answered that Paley was not strictly 
 orthodox; I know nothing of his orthodoxy, but who will 
 deny that he was an ornament to the church, to human na- 
 ture, to cliristianity ? 
 
 I shall not dwell upon the grievance of tithes, so severe- 
 ly felt by the peasantry, but it may be proper to observe 
 that tliere is an addition to the burthen, a percentage to 
 the gatherei, whose interest it thus becomes to rate them 
 as higiily as possible, and we know that in many large 
 livings in Ireland, the only resident Protestants are the 
 tithe-prootor and his family. 
 
 Among many causes ofirritation, too numerous for re- 
 capitulation, there is one in the militia not to be passed 
 over, I mean the existence of Orange lodges amongst the 
 privates; can the officers deny this? And if such lodges do 
 exist, do they, can they tend to promote harmony amongst 
 the men, who are thus individually separated in society, 
 although mingled in the ranks? And is this general system 
 of persecution to be permitted, or is it to be believed that 
 with such a system the Catholics can or ougiit to be con- 
 tented? If they are, they belie human nature; tiiey are 
 then, indeed, unworthy to be any thing but the slaves you 
 have made them. The facts stated are from most respect- 
 able authority, or I should not have dared in this place, 
 or any place, to hazard this avowal. If exaggerated, there 
 are plenty, as willing as I believe them to be unable, to 
 disprove them. Should it be objected that I never was in 
 Ireland, I beg leave to observe, that it is as easy to know 
 something of Ireland without having been there, as it ap- 
 pears with some to have been born, bred, and cherished 
 there, and yet remain ignorant of its best interests. 
 
 Butthereare, who assert that the Catholics have already 
 been too much indulged: see (cry they) what has been 
 done: we have given them one entire college, we allo\*^ 
 them food andraiment, the full enjoyment of the elements^ 
 and leave to fight for us as long as they have limbs and 
 lives to offer; and yet they are never to be satisfied! Ge-f 
 nerous and just declaimers! To this, and to this only, 
 amount the whole of yourarguments, when stript of their 
 sophistry. These personages remind me of the story of a 
 certain drummer, who being called upon in the course of 
 duty to administer punishment to a friend tied to the hal* 
 berts, was requested to flog liigh ; he did — to flog lowfi 
 he did —to Hog in the middle, he did - high, low, dowi 
 
PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 695 
 
 ttie middle, and up again, but all in vain, the patient con- 
 tinued his complaints witli the most provoking' pertina- 
 icif}-, until tlie drummer, exhausted and angry, flung down 
 liis scourge, exclaiming, "the devil burn you, there 's no 
 pleasing you, flog where one will!" Thus it is, you have 
 floi,'^ged the Catholic, high, low, here, there, and everj' 
 wliere, and then you wonder he is not pleased. It is true, 
 tliat time, experience, and that weariness which attends 
 even the exercise of barbarity, have taught you to flog a 
 little more gently, but still you continue to lay on the lash, 
 and will so continue, till perhaps the rod may be w rested 
 tVcuii your hands, and applied to the backs of yourselves 
 and your posterity. 
 
 It was said by somebody in a former debate (I forget 
 by whom, and am not very anxious to remember), if the 
 Catholics are emancipated, why not the Jews? If thissen- 
 tinient was dictated by compassion for the Jews, it might 
 deserve attention, but as a sneer against the Catholic, what 
 is it but the language of Shylock transferred from his 
 daughter's marriage to Catholic emancipation — 
 
 Would any of the tribe of Barabbas 
 Should liave it rather than a Christian. 
 
 I presume a Catholic is a Christian, even in the opinion 
 of him whose taste only can be called in question for his 
 preference of the Jews. 
 
 It is a remark often quoted of Dr. Johnson (whom I 
 take to be almost as good authority as the gentle apostle 
 of intolerance, Dr. Duigenan), that he who could enter- 
 tain serious apprehensions of danger to the Church in 
 these times, would have "cried fire in the deluge." This 
 is more than a metaphor, for a remnant of these antedilu- 
 vians appear actually to have come down to us, with fire 
 in their mouths and water in their brains , to disturb and 
 perplex mankind with their whimsical outcries. And as 
 it is an infallible symptom of that distressing malady with 
 which I conceive them to be afflicted (so any doctor will 
 inform your Lordships) for the unhappy invalids to per- 
 ceive a flame perpetually flasliing before their eyes, par- 
 ticularly when their eyes are shut (as thoseof thepersons 
 to whom I allude have long been), it is impossible to con- 
 vince these poor creatures, that the fire against whicih they 
 are perpetually warning us and themselves, is nothing but 
 an ignis fatuus oftheirowndrivellingimaginations. What 
 rhubarb, senna, or "what purgative drug can scour that 
 fancy thence ?" — It is impossible, they are given over, 
 theirs is the true 
 
 "Caput insanabile tribus Anticyris." 
 These are your true Protestants. Like Bayle, who pro- 
 tested against all sects whatsoever, so do they protest 
 agains Catholic petitions, Protestant petitions, all redress 
 all that reason, humanity, policy, justice, and common 
 sense, can urge against the delusions of their absurd deli- 
 rium. These are the persons who reverse the fable of the 
 mountain that brought forth a mouse; they are the mice 
 who conceive themselves in labour with mountains. 
 • To return to the Catholics, suppose the Irish were ac- 
 tually contented under their disabilities, suppose them 
 capable of such a bull as not to desire deliverance, ought 
 we not to wish it for ourselves? Have we nothing to gain 
 by their emancipation? What resources have been wasted ! 
 t What talents have been lost by the selfish system of ex- 
 
 clusion! You already know the value of Irish aid; at this 
 moment the defence of England is intrusted to the Irish 
 militia; at this moment, while the starving people are ris-, 
 ing in the fierceness of despair, the Irisli are faithful to 
 their trust. But till equal energy is imparted throughout 
 by the extension of freedom, you cannot enjoy the full 
 benefit of the strength which you are glad to interpose 
 between you and destruction. Ireland has done much, but 
 will do more. At this moment the only triumph obtained 
 through long years of continental disaster has been 
 achieved by an Irish general: it is true he is not a Catholic; 
 had he been so, we should have been deprived of Ixis exer- 
 tions; but I presume no one will assert that his religion 
 would have impaired his talents or diminished his pa- 
 triotism, though in that case he must have conquered in 
 the ranks, for he never could have commanded an army. 
 
 But while he is fighting the battles of the Catholics ab- 
 road, his noble brother has this night advocated their 
 cause, with an eloquence which I shall not depreciate by 
 the humble tribute of my panegyric, whilst a third of his 
 kindred, as unlike asuneiiual, has been combatingagainst 
 his catholic brethren in Dublin, with circular letters, edicts, 
 proclamations, arrests, and dispersions — all the vexa- 
 tious implements of petty warfare that could be wielded 
 by the mercenary guerillas ofgovernment,clad in the rusty 
 armour of their obsolete statutes. Your Lordships will, 
 doubtless, dividft new honours between thesaviour of Por- 
 tugal, and the dispenser of delegates. Itis singular, indeed, 
 to observe the diflerence between our foreign and domestic 
 policy; if Catholic Spain, faithful Portugal, or the no less 
 Catholic and faithful king of the one Sicily (of which, by 
 theby,you have lately deprived him), stand in need of suc- 
 cour, away goes a fleet andanarmy, an ambassadorand 
 a subsidy, sometimes to fight pretty hardly, generally to 
 negotiate very badly, and always to pay very dearly for 
 our Popish allies. But let four millions of fellow-subjects 
 pray for relief, w ho fight and pay and labour in your be- 
 half, they must be treated as aliens, and although their 
 "father's house has many mansions," there is no resting- 
 place for them. Allow me to ask, are you not fighting for 
 the emancipation of Ferdinand theseventh, who certainly 
 is a fool, and consequently, in all probability, a bigot ; 
 and have you more regard for a foreign sovereign than 
 your own fellow-subjects, whoarenotfools, for they know 
 your interest better than you know your own; who are 
 not bigots, for they return you good for evil ; but who are 
 in worse durance tiian the prison of an usurper, inasmuch 
 as the fetters of the mind are more galling than those of 
 the body. 
 
 Upon the consequences of your not acceding to the 
 claims of the petitioners, I shall not expatiate; you know 
 them, you will feel them, and your children's children 
 when you are passed away. Adieu to that Union so called, 
 as "Lucus a non luccndo," a Union from never uniting, 
 which, in its first operation, gave a deathblow to the in- 
 dependence of Ireland, and in its last may be the cause of 
 her eternal separation from tiiis country. If it must be called 
 a Union, it is the union of the shark with his prey; the 
 spoiler swallows up his victim, and thus they becomeone 
 and indivisible. Thus has Great Britain swallowed up 
 the parliament, the constitution, the independence of Ire- 
 
696 
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 land, and refuses to disgorge even a single privilege, al- 
 tliougli for the relief of lier swollen and distempered body 
 politic. 
 
 And now, my Lords, before Isit down, will his majesty's 
 ministers permit me to say a few words, not on their me- 
 rits, for tliat would be superfluous, but on the degree of 
 estimation in which they are held by the people of these 
 realms. The esteem in which they are held has been 
 boasted of in a triumphant tone on a late occasion within 
 these walls, and a comparison instituted between their 
 conduct, and that of noble lords on this side of the house. 
 
 What portion of popularity may have fallen to the share 
 of my noble friends (if such I may presume to call them), 
 I shall not pretend to ascertain; but tiiat of his majesty's 
 ministers it were vain to deny. It is, to be sure, a little 
 like the wind, no one knows whence it cometh or whither 
 itgoeth," but they feel it, they enjoy it, they boast of it. 
 Indeed, modest and unostentatious as they are, to what 
 part of the kingdom, even the most remote, can they flee 
 to avoid the triumph which pursues them? If they plunge 
 into the midland counties, there they will be greeted by 
 the manufacturers, with spurned petitions in their hands, 
 and thosehalters round their necks recently voted in their 
 behalf, imploring blessings on the heads of those who so 
 simply, yet ingeniously contrived to remove them from 
 their miseries in this to a better world. If they journey 
 on to Scotland, from Glasgow to Johnny Groat's, every 
 where will they receive similar marks of approbation. If 
 they take a trip from Portpatrick to Donaghadee, there 
 will they rush at once into the embraces of four Catholic 
 millions, to whom their vote of this night is about to en- 
 dear them for ever. When they return to the metropolis, 
 if they can pass under Temple Bar without unpleasant 
 sensations at the sight of the greedy niches over that omi- 
 nous gateway, they cannot escape the acclamations of 
 the livery, and the more tremulous, but not less sincere, 
 applause, the blessings "not loud but deep" of bankrupt 
 merchants and doubting stock -holders. If they look to 
 the army, what wreaths, not of laurel, but of night-shade, 
 are preparing for the heroes of Walchcren. It is true 
 there are few living deponents left to testify to their merits 
 on that occasion ; but a "cloud of witnesses" are gone 
 above from that gallant army which they so generously 
 
 and piously dispatched, to recruit the "noble army of 
 martyrs." 
 
 What if, in the course of this triumphal career (in 
 which they will gatheras many pebbles as Caligula's army 
 did onasimilar triumph, theprototype oftheirown), they 
 do not perceive any of those memorials which a grateful 
 people erect in honour of their benefactors; what although 
 not even a sign-post will condescend to depose the Sara- 
 cen's head in favour of the conquerors of Walcheren, they 
 will not want a picture who can always have a caricature; 
 or regret the omission of a statue who will so often see 
 themselves exalted in effigy. But their popularity is not 
 limited to the narrow bounds of an island; thereareother 
 countries where their measures, and above all, their eon- 
 duct to the Catholics, must render them pre-eminently 
 popular. If they are beloved here, in France they must 
 be adored. There is no measure more repugnant to the 
 designs and feelings of Bonaparte than Catholieemancipa- 
 tion; no line of conduct more propitious to his projects, 
 than that which has been pursued, is pursuing, and, I fear, 
 will be pursued, towards Ireland. What is England with- 
 out Ireland, and what is Ireland without the Catholics? 
 It is on the basis of your tyranny Napoleon hopes to build 
 his own. So grateful must oppression of the Catholics be 
 to his mind, that doubtless (as he has lately permitted 
 some renewal of intercourse) the next cartel will convey 
 to this country cargos of Sevres china and blue ribands 
 (things in great request, and of equal value at this mo- 
 ment), blue ribands of the legion ofhonourforDr. Duige- 
 nan and his ministerial disciples. Such is that well-earned 
 popularity, the result of those extraordinary expeditions, 
 so expensive to ourselves, and so useless to our allies; of 
 those singular inquiries, so exculpatory to the accused, 
 and so dissatisfactory to the people; of those paradoxical 
 victories, so honourable, as we are told, to the British 
 name, and so destructive to the best interests of the Bri- 
 tish nation: above all, such is the reward of a conduct 
 pursued by ministers towards the Catholics. 
 
 I have to apologise to the House, who will, I trust, par- 
 don one, not often in the habit of intruding upon their in- 
 dulgence, for so long attempting to engage their attention. 
 My most decided opinion is, as my vote will be, in favour 
 of the motion. 
 
 DEBATE ON MAJOR CARTWRIGHT'S PETITION, JUNE 1, 1813. 
 
 Lord Bykon rose and said : 
 My Lords, the Petition which I now hold for the pur- 
 pose of presenting to the House, is one which I humbly 
 conceive requires the particular attention of your lord- 
 ships, inasmuch as, though signed but by a single indivi- 
 dual, it contains statements which (if not disproved) 
 demand most serious investigation. The grievance of 
 which the petitioner complains is neither selfish nor ima- 
 ginary. It is not his own only, for it has been, and is still 
 felt by numbers. No one without these walls, nor indeed 
 within,but may to-morrow be made liable to the same in- 
 sult and obstruction, in the discharge of an imperious 
 
 duty for the restoration of the true constitution of these 
 realms by petitioning for reform in parliament. The pe- 
 titioner, my Lords, is a man whose long life has been 
 spent in one unceasing struggle -for the liberty of the 
 subject, against that undue influence which has increased, 
 is increasing, and ought to be diminished ; and, whatever 
 difference of opinion may exist as to his political tenets, 
 few will be found to question the integrity of his intentions. 
 Even now,oppressed with years,aud not exempt from the 
 infirmities attendant on his age, but still unimpaired in 
 talent, and unshaken in spirit — "frariffas nonjlectes" — 
 he has received many a wound in the combat against cor- 
 
PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 697 
 
 ruption; and the new grievance, the fresh insult of which 
 he complains, may inflict another scar, but no dishonour. 
 The petition is signed by John Cartwright, and it was in 
 behalf of the people and parliament, in the lawful pursuit 
 of tliat reform in the representation, which is the best 
 service to be rendered both to parliament and people, that 
 he encountered the wanton outrage which forms the sub- 
 j ect matter of his petition to y our lordships. It is couched 
 infirm, yet respectful language — in the language of a 
 man, not regardless of what is due to himself, but at the 
 same time, I trust, equally mindful of the deference to be 
 paid to this House. The petitioner states, amongst other 
 matter of equal, if not greater importance, to all who are 
 British in their feelings , as well as blood and birth , tliat 
 on the 2Ist January, 1813, at Huddcrsfield, himself and 
 six other persons, who, on hearing of his arrival, had 
 waited on him merely as a testimony of respect, were 
 seized by a military and civil force, and kept in close 
 custody for several hours, subjected to gross and abusive 
 insinuations from the commanding offlcer relative to the 
 diaracter of the petitioner; that he (the petitioner) was 
 finally carried before a magistrate; and not released till 
 an examination of his papers proved that there was not 
 only no just, but not even statutable charge against him; 
 md that, notwithstanding tlie promise and order from 
 the presiding magistrates of a copy of the warrant against 
 ^our petitioner,it was afterwards withheld on divers pre- 
 texts, and has never until this hour been granted. The 
 names and condition of the parties will be found in tlie 
 tition. To the other topics touched upon in the petition, 
 hall not now advert, from a wish not to encroach upon 
 time of the House; but I do most sincerely call the 
 ||ttention of your Lordsliips to its general contents — it 
 i|in the cause of the parliament and people that the rights 
 |f this venerable freeman have been violated, and it is, in 
 [jjy opinion, the highest mark of respect that could be 
 
 paid to the House, that to your justice, rather than by 
 appeal to any inferior court, he now commits himself. 
 Whatever may be the fate of his remonstrance, it is some 
 satisfaction to me, though mixed with regret for tlie oc- 
 casion, that I liave this opportunity of publicly stating 
 the obstruction to which the subject is liable, in the pro- 
 secution of the most lawful and imperious of his duties, 
 the obtaining by petition reform in parliament. I have 
 shortly stated his complaint ; the petitioner has more 
 fully expressed it. Your Lordships will, I hope, adopt 
 some measure fully to protect and redress him, and not 
 him alone, but the whole body of tlie people insulted and 
 aggrieved in his person by the interposition of an abused 
 civil, and unlawful military force between them and their 
 right of petition to their own representatives. 
 
 His lordship then presented the petition from Major 
 Cartwright, which was read, complaining of the circum- 
 stances at Huddcrsfield, and of interruptions given to the 
 right of petitioning, in several places in the northern parts 
 of the kingdom, and which his lordship moved should be 
 laid on the table. 
 
 Several Lords having spoken on the question, ^, 
 
 LORD BYRON replied, that he had, from motives of ^' 
 duty, presented tliis petition to their lordships' consi- 
 deration. The noble Earl had contended that it was not a 
 petition but a speech ; and tliat, as it contained no prayer, 
 it should not be received. What was the necessity of a 
 prayer ? If that word were to be used in its proper sense, 
 their lordships could not expect that any man sliould 
 pray to others. He had only to say that the petition, 
 though in some parts expressed strongly perliaps , did 
 not contain any improper mode of address, but was 
 couclied in respectful language towards their lordships; 
 he should therefore trust their lordships would allow 
 the petition to be received. 
 
 44* 
 
698 
 
 EXTRACT OF MOORE'S NOTICES OF BYRON'S LIFE. 
 
 EXTRACT 
 
 OP 
 
 TH. MOORE'S NOTICES 
 
 OF 
 
 LORD BYRON S LIFE. 
 
 ^ It would have been , no doubt, the ambition of Lord 
 ^- Byron to acquire distinction as well in oratory as in 
 poesy ; but Nature seems to set herself against pluralities 
 in fame. He had prepared himself for this debate, — as 
 most of the best orators have done, in their first essays, — 
 not only by composing, but writing down, the whole of 
 his speech beforehand. The reception he met with was 
 flattering J some of the noble speakers on his own side 
 complimented him very warmly; and that he was himself 
 highly pleased with liis success appears from the annexed 
 account of Mr. Dallas, which gives a lively notion of his 
 boyish elation on the occasion. 
 
 "When he left the great chamber, I went and met him 
 in the passage; he was glowing with success, and much 
 agitated. I had an umbrella in my right hand, not ex- 
 pecting that he would put out his hand to me ; — in my 
 haste to take it when offered, I had advanced my Ifft 
 hand — "Wliat," said he, "give your friend your left 
 hand upon such an occasion?" I showed the cause, and 
 inunediately changing the umbrella to the other hand, I 
 gave him my right hand, which he shook and pressed 
 warmly. He was greatly elated, and repeated some of the 
 compliments which had been paid him, and mentioned 
 one or two of the peers who had desired to be introduced 
 to him. jHe concluded with saying, that he had, by his 
 speech, given me the best advertisement for Childc Ha- 
 rold's Pilgrimage." 
 
 The speech itself, as given by Mr. Dallas from the 
 noble speaker's own manuscript, is pointed andvigorous; 
 and the same sort of interest that is felt in reading the 
 
 poetry of a Burke, may be gratified, perhaps , by a few 
 specimens of the oratory of a Byron. 
 
 In reference to his own parliamentary displays, and 
 to this maiden speech in particular,wc have the following 
 remarks in one of his Journals. 
 
 "Sheridan's liking for me (vvliether he was not mysti- 
 fying me, I do not know, but Lady Caroline Lamb and 
 others told me that he said the same both before and after 
 he knew me) was founded upon 'English Bards and 
 Scotch Reviewers.' He told me that he did not care about 
 poetry (or about mme — at least, any but that poem of 
 mine), but he was sure, from that and other symptoms, 
 I should make an orator, if I would but take to speaking 
 and grow a parliament-man. He never ceased harping 
 upon this to me to the last; and I remember my old tutor, 
 Dr. Drury, had the same notion when I was a boy; but it 
 never was my turn of inclination to try. I spoke once or 
 twice, as all young peers do, as a kind of introduction 
 into public life; but dissipation, shyness, haughty and 
 reserved opinions, together with the short time I lived in 
 England after my majority (only about five years in all), 
 prevented me from resuming the experiment. As far as 
 it went, it was not discouraging, particularly my first 
 speech (I spoke three or four times in all), but just after 
 it, my poem of Childe Harold was published, and nobody 
 ever thought about my prose afterwards, nor indeed did 
 I; it became to me a secondary and neglected object, 
 though I sometimes wonder to myself if I should have 
 succeeded," 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO I. 
 
 Yes! sighed o'er DelphCs long-deserted shrine. 
 
 [pag. 3. Stanza 1. 
 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 up- 
 per part of it is paved, and now a cowhouse. On the other 
 side of Castri stands, a Greek monastery; someway above 
 which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns diffi- 
 cult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of 
 the mountain ; probably to the CorycianCavern mentioned 
 by Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and 
 the "Dews of Castalie." 
 
 If I thy guileless bosom had, 
 
 Mine own would not be dry. [p. 4. 
 
 Here follows in the original MS. : — 
 
 My Mother is a high-born dame, 
 
 And much misliketh me; 
 She said my riot bringeth shame 
 
 On all my ancestry : 
 I liad a sister once I ween. 
 
 Whose tears perhaps will flow ; 
 But her fair face I have not seen 
 
 For three long years and moe. 
 
 But long ere I come back again. 
 He 'd tear me where he stands. [p. 4. 
 
 Here follows in the original MS. : — 
 Methinks it would my bosom glad, 
 
 To change my proud estate, 
 And be again a laughing lad 
 
 With one beloved playmate. 
 Since youth, I scarce have pass'd an hour 
 
 Without disgust or pain, 
 Except sometimes in lady's bower, 
 Or when the bowl I drain. 
 
 Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! 
 My native Land — Good Night! [p. 4. 
 
 . Originally, the "little page" and the " yeoman" were 
 
 ^troduced in the following stanzas : — 
 
 And of his train there was a henchman page, 
 
 A peasant boy, who served his master well ; 
 
 And often would his pranksome prate engage 
 
 Cliilde Harold's ear, when his proud heart did swell 
 
 With sable thoughts that he disdain'd to tell. 
 
 Then would he smile on him, and Alwin smiled, 
 
 When aught that from his young lips archly foil 
 
 The gloomy film from Harold's eye beguiled; 
 
 And pleased for a glimpse appeared the woeful Childe. 
 
 Him and one yeoman only did he take 
 To travel eastward to a far countrie; 
 
 And, though the boy was grieved to leave the lake 
 
 On whose fair banks he grew from infancy, 
 
 Eftsoons his little heart beat merrily 
 
 With hope of foreign nations to behold. 
 
 And many things right marvellous to see. 
 
 Of which our vaunting voyagers oft have told, 1 
 
 In many a tome as true as Mandeville's of old. 
 
 A7ul rest ye at our "Lady's house of woe." 
 
 [p. 5. St. 20. 
 The convent of "Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa 
 Seaora dc Pcna *), on the summit of the rock. Below, at 
 some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius 
 dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From the hills, 
 the sea adds to the beauty of the view. 
 
 Tliroughout this purple land, where taw secures not life. 
 
 [p. 5. St. 21. 
 It is a well known fact, that, in the year 1809, the assas- 
 sinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not 
 confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen; but that 
 Englishmen were daily butchered: and so far from re- 
 dress beingobtained,we were requested not to interfere if 
 we perceived any compatriot defending 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 generally 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 tiie 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! 
 
 Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened! 
 
 [p. 5. St. 24. 
 The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of 
 the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits of Lord Wel- 
 lington 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. 
 
 *) Since the publication of this Poem, I have been 
 informed of the misapprehension of the term Nossa 
 Seaora dePena. It was owing to the want of the tilde, 
 or mark over the 3, which alters the signification 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 Hock," I may well 
 assume the other sense from the severities practised 
 tliere. 
 
700 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 
 
 Whereat the Urchin points and lavghs with all his soul. 
 
 [p. 5. St. 24. 
 
 Tlie passage stood dLBFerently in the original MS. Some 
 verses which the poet omitted at theentreaty of his friends 
 can now oflend no one, and may perhaps amuse many : — 
 
 In golden characters right well design'd. 
 First on the list appeareth one "Juuot;" 
 Then certain other glorious names we find, 
 Which rhyme compelleth me to place below : 
 Dull victors! baffled by a vanquish'd foe. 
 Wheedled by conynge tongues of laurels due, 
 Stand, worthy of each other, in a row — 
 Sir Arthur, Harry, and the dizzard Hew 
 Dalrymple, seely wight, sore dupe of t'other tew. 
 
 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 turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
 For well I wot, when first the news did come. 
 That Vimiera's field by Gaul was lost. 
 For paragraph ne paper scarce Jiad room. 
 Such Pteans teemed for our triumphant host, 
 In Courier, Chronicle, and eke in Morning Post: 
 
 But when Convention sent his handy-work. 
 
 Pens, tongues, feet, hands, combined in wild uproar; 
 
 Mayor, aldermen, laid down the uplifted fork; 
 
 The Bench of Bishops half forgot to snore; 
 
 Stern Cobbett, who for one whole week forbore 
 
 To question aught, once more with transport leapt, 
 
 And bit his devilish quill agen, and swore 
 
 With foe such treaty never should be kept; [slept! 
 
 Then burst the blatant beast,and roar'd,and raged,and— 
 
 Thus unto Heaven appeal'd the people: Heaven, 
 Which loves the lieges of our gracious King, 
 Decreed, that, ere our generals were forgiven, 
 Inquiry should be held about the thing. 
 But Mercy cloak'd the babes benealli her wing ; 
 And as they spared our foes, so spared we them; 
 (Where was the pity of our sires for Byng?) 
 Yet knaves, not idiots, should the law condemn ; 
 Then live, ye gallant knights ! and bless your judges' 
 phlegm ! 
 
 Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 
 
 [p. 6. St. 29. 
 The extent of^Iafra is prodigious; it contains a palace, 
 convent, and most superb church. Tlie sixorgans are the 
 most beautiful I ever beheld in point of decoration; we 
 did not hear them, but w ere told that their tones were 
 correspondent to their splendour. Mafra is termed the 
 Escurial of Portugal. 
 
 Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
 'Twixt him andLusian slave, the lowest of the loiu. 
 
 [p. 6. St. 33. 
 As I found the Portuguese, so 1 have characterized 
 them. That they are since improved, at least in courage, 
 is evident. 
 
 WJien Cava's traitor-sire first called the hand 
 That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic gore ? 
 
 [p. 6. St. 35. 
 Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pelagius 
 preserved liis independence in the fastnesses of the Astu- 
 rias, and the descendants of his followers, after some 
 centuries, completed their struggle by the conquest of 
 Grenada. 
 
 No! as he speeds, he chaunts : " Viva el Rei/!" 
 
 [p. 7. St. 48. 
 "Viva el Rey Fernando !"— Long live King Ferdinand ! 
 is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs: tliey 
 are cliiefly in dispraise of the old kingCharlcs, thcQueen, 
 and the Prince of Peace. I have heard many of tliem ; 
 some of the airs are beautiful. Godoy, the Principe de la 
 
 58. r 
 
 60. 
 tlie 
 
 Go. 
 
 Paz, was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, 
 and was originally in the ranks of the Spanisli Guards, 
 till his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him 
 to the dukedom of Alcudia. It is to tliis man tliat tlie 
 Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country. 
 
 Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
 Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. 
 
 [p. 8. St. 50. 
 The red cockade with "Fernando Septimo" in the 
 centre. 
 
 17ie ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match. 
 
 [p. 8. St. 51. 
 All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyra- 
 midal form in which shot and shells are piled. The Sierra 
 Morcna was fortified in every defile through which I 
 passed in my way to Seville, 
 
 Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter' d wall? 
 
 [p. 8. St. 50. 
 
 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 tiie 
 
 Junta. 
 
 Tlie seal Love's dimpling finger hath impressed 
 Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch. 
 
 [p. 8. St. 
 Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo 
 Vestigio demonstrant mollitudinem. 
 
 AuL. Gell. 
 Oh! thou Parnassus! [p. 8. St. 
 
 These stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), at 
 foot of Parnassus, now called yhuy.u(ju Liakura. 
 
 Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast 
 Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days, 
 
 [p. 9. St. 
 Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 
 
 Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why? 
 
 [p. 9. St. 70. 
 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 
 Boeotia, where the first riddle was propounded and 
 solved. 
 
 Some bitter o'er theflowers, its bubbling venom flinqn. 
 
 [p. 10. St. 82. 
 Medio de fonte leporum 
 Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat. 
 
 Luck. 
 
 Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 
 
 [p. 11. 
 In place of this song, which was written at Athens, 
 January 25, 1810, and which contains, as Moore says, 
 "some of the dreariest touches of sadness that ever 
 Byron's pen let fall," we find, in the first drauglit of the 
 Canto, the following : — 
 
 Oh never talk again to me 
 
 Of northern climes and British ladies; 
 It iias not been your lot to see. 
 
 Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
 Altiiough her eye be not of blue. 
 
 Nor fair her locks, like English lasses'. 
 How far its own expressive hue 
 
 The languid azure eye surpasses ! 
 
 Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 
 
 The fire, that through those silken lashes 
 In darkest glances seems to roll, 
 
 From eyes that cannot hide their flashes : 
 And as along her bosom steal 
 
 In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, 
 You'd swear each clustering lock could feel. 
 
 And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. 
 
 70 
 
 Our English maids are long to v\ oo, 
 
 And frigid even in possession; 
 And if their charms be fair to view, 
 
 Their lips are slow at Love's confession : 
 But, born beneath a brighter sun, 
 
 For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is 
 And who, — when fondly, fairly won, — 
 
 Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ? 
 
 The Spanish maid is no coquette, 
 Nor joys to see a lover tremble. 
 And if she love, or if she hate, 
 
 Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
 
 Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 
 
 Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
 
 : And, though it will not bend to gold, 
 
 . 'T will love you long and love you dearly. 
 
 The Spanish girl that meets your love 
 ' Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, 
 
 * For every thought is bent to prove 
 Her passion in the hour of trial. 
 When thronging foemen menace Spain, 
 
 She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 
 And should her lover press the plain. 
 She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 
 
 And when, beneath the evening star, 
 
 She mingles in the gay bolero, 
 Or sings to her attuned gnitar 
 
 Of Christian knight or Moorish hero, 
 Or counts her beads with fairy hand 
 
 Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
 Or joins devotion's choral band. 
 
 To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper; — 
 
 In each her charms the heart must move 
 
 Of all who venture to behold her: 
 Then let not maids less fair reprove 
 
 Because her bosom is not colder. 
 Through many a clime 't is rnine to roam, 
 
 Where many a soft and melting maid is. 
 But none abroad, and few at home, 
 
 May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz. 
 
 A traitor only fell beneath the feud. 
 
 [p. n.St.85. 
 Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, tlie Go- 
 vernor of Cadiz. 
 
 " War even to the knife !" [p. 1 1 . St. 86. 
 "War to the knife." Palafox's answer to the French 
 General at the siege of Saragoza. 
 
 So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed! 
 
 [p. 11. St. 87. 
 Thecanto,in the original MS., closes with the following 
 
 stanzas : — 
 
 Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
 
 Sights, Saints, Antiques, Arts, Anecdotes, and War, 
 
 Go ! hie ye hence to Paternoster-row — 
 
 Are they not written in the Book of Carr, 
 
 Green Erin's kniglit and Europe's wandering star? 
 
 Then listen. Reader, to the Man of Ink, 
 
 Hear what he did, and sought, and wrote afar; 
 
 All these are coop'd within one quarto's brink, [tliink 
 
 This borrow, steal — don't buy, — and tell us what you 
 
 There may you read, with spectacles on eyes. 
 
 How many Wellesleys did embark for Spain, 
 
 As if therein they meant to colonize; 
 
 How many troops y-cross'd the laughing main, 
 
 That ne'er beheld tlie said return again : 
 
 How many buildings are in such a place, 
 
 How many leagues from this to yonder plain. 
 
 How many relics each cathedral grace, 
 
 And where Giralda stands on her gigantic base. 
 
 There may you read (Oh, Phoebus, save Sir John, 
 
 That these my words prophetic may not err,) 
 
 All that was said, or sung, or lost, or won. 
 
 By vaunting Wellesley or by blundering Frere, 
 
 He that wrote half the "Needy Knife-Grinder." 
 
 Thus poesy the way to grandeur paves — 
 
 Who would not such diplomatists prefer? 
 
 But cease, my ]yiuse, thy speed some respite craves, 
 
 Leave legates to their house, and armies to.their graves. 
 
 Yet here of mention may be made. 
 
 Who for the Junta modell'd sapient laws. 
 Taught them to govern ere they were obey'd: 
 Certes, fit teacher to command, because 
 His soul Socratic no Xantippe awes; 
 Blest with a dame in Virtue's bosom nurst, — 
 With her let silent admiration pause! — 
 True to her second husband and her first: 
 On such unshaken fame let Satire do its worst 
 
 And thou, my friend! [p. 1 1 . St. 91 . 
 
 The Honourable J * 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 tlie 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 fiew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain^ 
 
 And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fiil'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 suffi- 
 ciently established his fame on the spot where it was 
 acquired; whilehis softer qualities live in the recollection 
 of friends who loved him too well to envy his superiority. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO II. 
 
 Despite of war and wasting fire. 
 
 [p. 12. St 1. 
 Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion 
 of a magazine during the Venetian siege. 
 
 But ivorse than steel, and fame, and ages slow. 
 Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
 Of men who never felt the sacred gloto 
 That thoughts of thee and thine on polish' d breasts bestow. 
 
 [p. 12. St L 
 
 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, ofpatriotism 
 to exalt, and of valour to defend his country, appear 
 more conspicuous than in the recordof what Athens was, 
 and the certainty of what she now is. This theatre of 
 contention between nughty 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 tiie ruins of Ba- 
 by Ion," were surely less degrading than such inhabitants. 
 The TTurks have the plea of conquest for their tyranny. 
 
702 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 and the Greeks have only suffered the fortune of war, in- 
 cidental to the bravest; but liovv are the mighty fallen, 
 when two painters contest the privilege of plundering the 
 Parthenon, and triumph in turn, according- to the tenor 
 of each succeeding firman! Sylla could butpuuish, PJiilip 
 subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens; but it remained for 
 the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to ren- 
 der 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 
 
 Man, vain man, 
 
 Drest in a little brief authority. 
 
 Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
 
 As make the angels weep. 
 
 Far on the solitary/ shore he sleeps. 
 
 [p. 12. St. 5. 
 It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn 
 their dead; the greater Ajax in particular was interred 
 entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their de- 
 cease, and he was indeed neglected, who had not annual 
 games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of his me- 
 mory by his countrymen,as Achilles,Brasidas, and at last 
 even Antinous, whose death was as heroic as his life was 
 infamous. 
 
 Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav' rite throne. 
 
 [p. 12. ^t. 10. 
 The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen co- 
 lumns, entirely of marble, yet survive: originally there 
 were 150. These columns, however, are by many sup- 
 posed to have belonged to the Pantheon. 
 
 And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. 
 
 [p. 13. St. 11. 
 The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 
 
 To rive what Goth, and Ikirk, and Time hath spared. 
 
 {p 13. St. 12. 
 
 At this moment (January 3, 1809), besides what has 
 been already deposited in London, an Hydriot vessel is 
 inthePirajus 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, tliey 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^^nrfer of Verres in Sicily, who followed the same 
 profession, he has proved the able instrument of plunder. 
 Between this artist and the French Consul Fauvel, who 
 wishes to rescue the remains for his own government, 
 there is now a violent dispute concerning a car employed 
 in their conveyance, the wheel of which — I wish 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 residence of ten years 
 in Athens he never had the curiosity to proceed as far as 
 Sunium*), till he accompanied us in our second excur- 
 
 *) Now Cape Colonna. In all Attica, if we except 
 Athens itself and Maratiion there isnoscenemore in- 
 teresting tiian Cape Colonna. To the antiquary and 
 artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible source of 
 observation and design ; to the philosopher, the sup- 
 posed scene of some of Plato's conversations will not 
 be unwelcome; and the traveller will be struck with 
 the beauty of tlie prospect over -"7i/e« that crown the 
 JEgean deep:" but for an Englishman, Colonna has 
 yet an additional interest, as the actual spot of Falco- 
 ner's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten in 
 the recollection of Falconer and Campbell: 
 
 sion. However, his works, as far as they go, are most 
 beautiful; liut (hey are almost all unfinished. Wiiile he 
 and his patrons confine themselves to tasting medals, ap- 
 preciating 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 aw ay three or four 
 shiploads of the most valuable and massy relics that time 
 and barbarism have left tothemost injured andmostcele- 
 brated of cities; when they destroy, in a vain attempt to tear 
 dowujthose works which have been the admiration of ages, 
 I 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 tlie charge of Ver- 
 res, that he had plundered Sicily, in the manner since imi- 
 tated at Athens. The most unblushing impudence could 
 hardly go farther than to affix the name of its plunderer 
 to the walls of the Acropolis; while the wanton and useless 
 defacement of the whole range of thebassorelievos, in one 
 compartment of the temple, will never permit that name 
 to be pronounced by an observer without execration. 
 
 On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a col- 
 lector or admirer of collections, consequently no rival ; 
 but I have some early prepossession in favour of Greece, 
 and do not think the honour of England advanced by plun- 
 der, 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, min- 
 ing and countermining, they have done nothing at all. We 
 had such ink - shed, and wine-shed, which almost ended 
 in bloodshed ! Lord E's "prig,"— see Jonathan Wylde for 
 the definition of "priggism," — quarrelled with another, 
 Gropius *) by name Qa very good name too for his busi- 
 
 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, w as less striking than the approach from the 
 isles. In our second land -excursion we had a narrow 
 escape from a party of Mainotes, concealed in the ca- 
 verns beneath. We were told afterwards, by one of 
 their prisoners subsequently ransomed, that they were 
 deterred from attacking us by the appearance of my 
 two Albanians : conjecturing very sagaciously , but 
 falsely, that we had a complete guard of tijescAruauts 
 at hand, they remained stationary, and thus saved our 
 party, which was too small to have opposed any efiect- 
 ual resistance. Colonna is no less a resort of paint- 
 ers than of pirates; there 
 
 The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
 And makes degraded Nature picturesque. 
 But there Nature, with 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 ac- 
 quaintance with this andmany other Levantine scenes 
 by the arrival of his performances. 
 
 *) 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 humble distance in the steps of Sr. Lusieri. A ship- 
 ful of his trophies was detainedj and I believe confis- 
 cated, at Constantinople in 1810. I am most happy to 
 be now enabled to state, that "this was not in his bond ;" 
 that he was employed solely as a painter, 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 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 703 
 
 ness), and muttered something' abont satisfaction, in a 
 verbal answer to a note of tl»e poor Prussian: this was 
 stated at table to Gropius, who laug-lied, but (!OuId eat no 
 dinner afterwards. Tlie rivals were not reconciled when 
 I k rt Greece. 1 Imvc reason to remember their squabble, 
 for they wanted to make me their arbitrator. 
 
 Her sans, too weak the sacred shrine to i/vard, 
 Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains. 
 
 [p. 13. St. 12. 
 
 1 cannot resist availing myself of the permission of my 
 friend Br. 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 Par- 
 thenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the superstruc- 
 ture with one of the triglypiis was thrown down by the 
 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,inasuppli(ratingtone 
 of voice, said toLusieri: Tf).oq\ — I was present." 
 
 The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present 
 Disdar. 
 
 Where was thine JEyis, Pallas! that appall'd 
 Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way? 
 
 [p. 13. St. 14. 
 AccordingtoZosimus, Minerva and Achilles frightened 
 Alaric from the Acropolis; but others relate that tlie Go- 
 thic king was nearly as mischievous as tlie Scottish peer. 
 — See Chandler. 
 
 The netted canopy. [p. 13. St. 18. 
 
 The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from falling 
 Ion deck during action. 
 
 But not in silence pass Calypso's isles. 
 
 [p. 14. St. 29. 
 Goza is said to have been the Island of Calypso. 
 
 Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
 On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
 
 " [p. 15. St. 38. 
 
 Albania comprises part of Macedonia, Illyria, Chaonia, 
 bud Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish word for Alexander; 
 jand the celebrated Scanderbcg (Lord Alexander) is allu- 
 jded to in the third and fourtii lines of tlie thirty-eighth 
 jstanza. I do not know whether I am correct in making 
 [Scanderbcg the countryman of Alexander, who was born 
 lat Pella in Macedon, but Mr. Gibbon terms him so, and 
 adds Pyrrhus to the list, in speaking of liis exploits. 
 
 Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country "within 
 sight of Italy is less known than the interior of America". 
 Circumstances, of little consequence to mention, led Mr. 
 Hobiiouse and myself into that country before we visited 
 any other part of tlie Ottoman dominions; and with the 
 exception of Major Leake, tlien officially resident at Ya- 
 nina, no other Englishmen have ever advanced beyond the 
 jcapital into the interior, as that gentleman very lately as- 
 isured me. Ali Pacha was at that time (October, 1809) 
 carrying on war againstlbrahimPacha, whomhehad dri- 
 ven to Berat, a strong fortress whicii he was then besieg- 
 ing: on our arrival at Yanina we were invited to Tepa- 
 leni, his Higliness'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 followed; 
 but though furnished with every accommodation and es- 
 corted by one of the Vizier's secretaries, we were nine 
 
 tiie name of his agent; and though I cannot much con- 
 demn myself for sharing in the mistake of so many, I 
 am iiappy in being one of the first to be undeceived. 
 Indeed, I have as much pleasure in contradicting this 
 as 1 felt regret in stating it. 
 
 days (on account of the rains)in accomplishinga journey 
 w liich, 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 and Delvinachi, the frontier-village of 
 Epirus and Albania proper. 
 
 On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to des- 
 cant, because this will be done so much better by my fel- 
 low-traveller, in a work which may probably precede this 
 in publication, that I as little wish to follow as I Avould to 
 anticipate him. But some few observations are necessary 
 to the text 
 
 The Arnauts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by their 
 resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in dress, fi- 
 gure, and manner of living. Their very mountains seemed 
 Caledonian with a kinder climate. The kilt, though white; 
 the spare, active form; their dialect, Celtic in its sound, 
 and their hardy habits, all carried me back to Morven. 
 No nation are so detestedand dreaded by their neighbours 
 as the Albanese: the Greeks hardly regard them as Chris- 
 tians, or the Turks as Moslems; and in fact they are a 
 mixture of both, and sometimes neither. Their habits are 
 predatory: all are armed; and the red -shawled Arnauts, 
 the Montenegrins, C:iiimariots, and Gegdes are treacher- 
 ous; the others difter somewhat in garb, and essentially 
 in character. As far as my own experience goes, I can 
 speak favourably. I was attended by two, an Infidel and 
 a Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other part of 
 Turkey which came within my observation; and more 
 faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service, are rarely to 
 be found. The Infidel was named Basilius, the Moslem, 
 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 Dervish was one of 
 fifty who accompanied us through the forests of A carnania 
 to the banks of Achelous, and onward to Messolunghi in 
 ^Etolia. 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. H. 
 for England, I was seized with a severe fever in the Morea, 
 these men saved my life by frightening away my physician, 
 w hose throat they threatened to cut if 1 was not cured Avithin 
 a given time. To this consolatory assurance of posthu- 
 mous retribution, and a resolute refusal of Dr. Roma- 
 nelli's prescriptions, I attributed my recovery. I had left 
 my last rem.aining English servant at Athens ; ray drago- 
 man was as ill as myself, and my poor Arnauts nursed me 
 with an attention which would have done honour to civi- 
 lization. 
 
 They had a variety of adventures; for the Moslem, Der- 
 vish, being a remarkably handsome man, was always 
 squabbling with the husbands of Athens; insomuch that 
 four of the principal Turks paid me a visit of remonstrance 
 at the Convent, on the subject of his having taken a wo- 
 man from the bath — whom he had lawfully bought, how- 
 ever — a thing quite contrary to etiquette. 
 
 Basili also was extremely gallant amongst his own 
 persuasion, and had thegreatest veneration for the church, 
 mixed with the highest contempt of churchmen, whom he 
 cufled upon occasion in a most heterodox manner. Yet 
 he never passed a church without crossing himself; and I 
 remember the risk he ran in entering St. Sophia, inStam- 
 bol, because it had once been a place of his worship. On 
 remonstrating with him on his inconsistent proceedings, 
 he invariably answered, "our church is lioly, our priests 
 are tliieves:" and then he crossed himself as usual, and 
 boxed the ears of the first papa who refused to assist in 
 any required operation, as was always found to be neces- 
 sary whereapriest had any influence withtheCogiaBashi 
 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 Al- 
 banians were summoned to receive their pay. Basili took 
 his with an awkward show of regret at my intended depart- 
 
704 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 urc, and marched away to his quarters with his bag of 
 piasters. I sent for Dervish, but for some time he was not 
 to he found; at last he entered, just as Signor Logotheti, 
 father to the ci-devant Anglo-consul of Athens, and some 
 other ofmy Greek acquaintances, paid me a visit. Dervish 
 took the money, but on a sudden dashed it to the ground; 
 and clasping his hands, Avhich lie raised to his forehead, 
 rushed out of the room weeping bitterly. From that mo- 
 ment to the hour ofmy embarkation he continued his la- 
 mentations, and all our eflorts to console him only pro- 
 duced this answer : "Mu qinvn," "He leaves me." Signor 
 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 believe that even 
 "Sterne's foolish fat scullion" would have left her "fish- 
 kettle," to sympathize with tlieunaflected and unexpected 
 sorrow of this barbarian. 
 
 For my own part, when I remembered that, a short time 
 before my departure from England, a noble and most in- 
 timate associate had excused himself from taking leave of 
 me because he had to attend a relation "to a milliner's," 
 I felt no less surprised than humiliated by the present oc- 
 currence and the past recollection. 
 
 That Dervish would leave me with some regret was to 
 be expected : when master and man have been scrambling 
 over the mountains of a dozen provinces together, they 
 are unwilling to separate ; but his present feelings, con- 
 trasted 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 jorney over Par- 
 nassus, an Englishman in my service gave him a push in 
 some dispute about the baggage, which he unluckily mis- 
 took for a blow; he spoke not, but sat down leaning his 
 head upon his hands. Foreseeing the consequences, we 
 endeavoured to explain away the affront, which produced 
 the following answer: — "I have beenarobher, I am a sol- 
 dier : no captain ever struck me ;3/om are my master, I have 
 eaten your bread, but by that bread! (a usual oath) had 
 it been otherwise, I would have stabbed the dog, your ser- 
 vant, and gone to the mountains." So the aftair ended, 
 but from that day forward he never thoroughly forgave 
 the thoughtless fellow who insulted him. 
 
 Dervish excelled inthedance of his country,conjectured 
 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 cultiva- 
 tors of the earth in the provinces, who have also that ap- 
 pellation,but the mountaineers) have a fine castof counte- 
 nance; and the most beautiful women I ever beheld, in 
 stature and in features, we saw levelliny the road broken 
 down by the torrents between Delvinachi andLibochabo. 
 Their manner of walking is truly theatrical ; but this strut 
 is probably the effect of the capote, or cloak, depending 
 from one shoulder. Their long hair reminds you of the 
 Spartans , and their courage in desultory warfare is un- 
 questionable. Though they have some cavalry amongst 
 the Gcgdes, I never saw a good Arnaut horseman : my 
 own preferred the English saddles, which, however, they 
 could never keep. But on foot they are not to be subdued 
 by fatigue. 
 
 And pass' d the barren spot, 
 
 Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave. 
 
 [p. 15. St. 39. 
 Ithaca. 
 
 Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar. 
 
 [p. 15. St. 40. 
 
 Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The 
 
 battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, but 
 
 less known, was fougiit in the gulph of Patras; here tlie 
 
 author of Don Quixote lost his left hand. 
 
 And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. 
 
 [p. 15. St. 41. 
 
 Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontory 
 
 (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown herself. 
 
 — Many a Roman chief and Asian king. 
 
 [p. 15. St. 45. 
 It is said, that on the day previous to the battle of 
 Actium Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. 
 
 Look where the second Casar's trophies rose ! 
 
 [p. 15. St. 45. 
 Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some 
 distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippodrome 
 survives in a few fragments. 
 
 — Acherusia's lake. [p. 16. St. 47. 
 
 According to Pouqueville the Lake of Yanina; but 
 Pouqueville is always out. 
 
 To greet Albania's chief. [p. 16. St. 47. 
 The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary man 
 there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Travels. 
 
 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. 
 
 [p. 16. St. 47. 
 Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the 
 castle of Suli, withstood 30,000 Albanians for eighteen 
 years: the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this con- 
 test there were several acts performed not unworthy of 
 the better days of Greece. 
 
 Monastic Zitza ! [p. 16. St. 48. 
 
 The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' jour- 
 ney from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Paclialick. 
 In the valley the river Kalamas (once the Acheron) 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 ^tolia may con- 
 test the palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica, even 
 Cape Colonna and Port Raphti,are very inferior; as also 
 every scene in Ionia, or the Troad. I am almost inclined 
 to add the approach to Constantinople; but from the 
 different features of the last, a comparison can hardly 
 be made. 
 
 Here dwells the caloyer. [p. 16. St. 49. 
 
 The Greek monks are so called. 
 
 Nature's volcanic amphitheatre. [16. St, 51. 
 TheChimariot mountains appear to have been volcanic. 
 — Behold black Acheron ! [p. 16. St. 51. 
 Now called Kalamas. 
 
 — In his white capote — [p. 16. St. 52. 
 Albanese cloak. 
 
 The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit. 
 
 [p. 16. St. 55. 
 Anciently Mount Tomarus. 
 
 Aiid Laos wide and fierce came roaring by. 
 
 [p. 16. St. 55. 
 The river Laos was full at the time the author passed 
 it; and, immediately above Tepaleni, was to the eye as 
 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 cer- 
 tainly is the finest river in the Levant; neither Achelous, 
 Alpheus, Acheron, Scamander nor Cayster, approached 
 it in breadth or beauty. 
 
 And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof. 
 
 [p. 17. St. 66. 
 Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 
 
 — Tlie red wine circling fast. 
 
 [p. 18. St. 71. 
 The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, 
 and indeed very few of the others. 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 705 
 
 Each Palikar his sahre from him cast, 
 
 [p. 18. St. 71. 
 
 Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, 
 
 from IluXvy.uiti,, a general name for a soldier amongst the 
 
 Greeks and Albanesc wlio speak Romaic — it means 
 
 properly "a lad." 
 
 Tamlourgi! Tamhourgi! thy 'larum afar. 
 
 [p. 18. Song, Stanza 1. 
 These stanzas are partly taken from dillerent Albanese 
 songs, as far as I was able to make them out by the ex- 
 position of the Albanese in Romaic and Italian. 
 
 Remember the moment ichen Previsafell. 
 
 [p. 18. Song, St. 8. 
 It was taken by storm from the French. 
 
 Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth. 
 
 [p. 18. St. 73. 
 Some thoughts on this subject will be found in the 
 subjoined papers. 
 
 Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
 Thou sa^st with Tlirasybulits and his train. 
 
 [p. 18. St. 74. 
 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. 
 
 Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest. 
 
 [p. 19. St. 77. 
 When taken by theLatins,and retained for several years. 
 
 The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. 
 
 [p. 19. St. 77. 
 Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the 
 Waiiabees, a sect yearly increasing. 
 
 Tliy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow — 
 
 [p. 19. St. 85. 
 On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura , the 
 snow never is entirely melted,notwithstanding tlie intense 
 heatof the summer; but I never saw it lie on the plains 
 even in winter. 
 
 Save where some solitary column mourns 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave. 
 
 [p. 19. St. 86- 
 Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug 
 that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The modern 
 name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave formed by the 
 quarries still remains, and will till tiie end of time. 
 
 When Marathon became a magic word — 
 
 [p. 20. St. 89. 
 "Siste Viator — heroa calcas!" was the epitapli on 
 the famous Count Merci; — what then must be our feel- 
 ings when standing on tlie tumulus of the two hundred 
 (Greeks) who fell on Marathon? The principal barrow 
 has recently been opened by Fauvel; few, or no relics, as 
 vases, etc. were found by the excavator. The plain of 
 Marathon was oflered 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 ofMiltiades worth no more? it could scarce- 
 ly have fetched less if sold by weight. 
 
 PAPERS REFERRED TO BY THE NOTE TO 
 STANZA 73. 
 
 I. 
 
 j Before I say any thing about a city of which every body, 
 
 I traveller or not, has thought it necessary to say something, 
 
 I I will request Miss Owenson, when she next borrows an 
 I Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to have the good- 
 ness to marry lier 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 
 Alliens ever saw (except Lord E.), and the unworthy 
 
 occupant of the Acropolis, on a handsome annual stipend 
 of 150 piastres (eight pounds sterling), out of which he 
 has only to pay his garrison, the most ill-regulated corps 
 in the ill-regulated Ottoman Empire. I speak it tenderly, 
 seeing I was once the cause of the husband of "Ida of 
 Athens" nearly suflering 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 as- 
 sociations which it would be pedantic and superfluous to 
 recapitulate, the very situation of Atliens 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 day 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 per- 
 ceived no such superiority of climate to our own ; and at 
 Constantinople, where I passed May, June, and part of 
 July (1810), 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 found at Livadia an"espritfort" in a Greek bishop, 
 of all free-thinkers! This worthy hypocrite rallied his 
 own religion with great intrepidity (but not before his 
 flock), and talked of a mass as a "Coglioneria." It was 
 impossible to think better of him for this: but, for a 
 Boeotian, he was brisk with all his absurdity. This phe- 
 nomenon (with the exception indeed of Thebes, the 
 remains of Chajronea, the plain of Platea, Orchomenus, 
 Livadia , and its nominal cave of Trophonius) was the' 
 only remarkable thing we saw before we passed Mount 
 Cithajron. 
 
 The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least my com- 
 panion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly and classical, 
 bathed in it) pronounced it to be tiie fountain of Dirce, 
 and any body who thinks it worth w hile 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 villan-., 
 ous 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^gean, 
 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, tliougli so superior in extent. 
 
 I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but excepting 
 the view from the monastery of Mcgaspelion (which is 
 inferior to Zitza in a command of country), and the des- 
 cent from the mountains on the way from Tripolitza to 
 Argos, Arcadia has little to recommend it beyond the 
 name 
 
 "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 Poly nices of Statins, "In 
 mediis audit duo litora 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 o{ Greece, 
 but not of the Greeks; for Joannina, in Epirus, is univer- 
 sally allowed, amongst themselvps, to be superior in the 
 
 45 
 
m 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect of its inliabitants. 
 Tlie Athenians are remarkable for their cunning-; and tlie 
 lower orders are not improperly characterized in tiiat 
 proverb, which classes them with "the Jews of Salonica, 
 and the Turks of the Negropont." 
 
 Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
 French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, there was never a 
 diflerenceofopinion in their estimate of the Greek cha- 
 racter, tiiough on all other topics they disputed with great 
 acrimony. 
 
 Mr. 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 eman- 
 cipated; reasoning on the grounds of their "national and 
 individual depravity," while heforgotthatsuchdepravity 
 is to be attributed to causes which can only be removed by 
 the measure he reprobates. 
 
 Mr. Roque, a French mercliant of respectability long 
 settled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing gravity: 
 "Sir, they are the same canaille that existed in the days of 
 lliemistocles /"an alarming remark to the "Laudator tem- 
 porisacti." The ancients banished Themistocles; the mo- 
 derns 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, 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 
 tlie popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the poor Way wode 
 with perpetual difference, agreed in the utter condemna- 
 tion, "nulla virtute redemptum," of the Greeks in general, 
 and of the Atiienians in particular. 
 
 For my own humble opinion, I am lotii to hazard it, 
 knowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. no less than 
 five tours of the first magnitude and of themost threaten- 
 ing aspect, all in typographical array, by persons 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 pertinaciously, as almost every 
 body has declared, that the Greeks, because they are very 
 bad, will never be better. 
 
 g) Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their panegy- 
 rics and projects ; but, on the other hand, De Pauw and 
 Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their demerits. 
 
 The Greeks will never be independent ; tliey will never 
 be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid they ever 
 should! but they may be subjects without being slaves. 
 Our colonies are not independent, but they are free and 
 industrious, and such may (Jreece be hereafter. 
 
 At present, like the Catliolics of Ireland and the Jews 
 throughout the world, and such otiier cudgelled and he- 
 terodox people, they suffer all the moral and physical ills 
 that can aftlict humanity. Their life is a struggle against 
 truth ; they are vicious in their own defence. Tliey 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 general 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 tra- 
 veller whose janissary flogs them, and to the scribbler 
 whose journal abuses them! This is the amount of their 
 obligation to foreigners. 
 
 II. 
 
 Franciscan Convent, Athens, January 2^, 1811. 
 
 Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of the 
 earlier ages are the traces of bondage which yet exist in 
 difterent countries, whose inhabitants, however divided 
 in religion and manners, almost all agree in oppression. 
 
 The English have at last compassionated their Negroes, 
 and under a less bigoted government, may probably one 
 day release their Catholic brethren : but the interposition 
 of foreigners alone can emancipate the Greeks, who, 
 otherwise, appear to have as small a cliance of redemp- 
 tion 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 tiieir 
 time to the study of the Greek writers and history, which 
 would bemuch more usefully speutin mastering their own. 
 Of the moderns we are perhaps more neglectful than they 
 deserve; and while every man of any pretension to learn- 
 ing is tiring out his youth, and often his age, in the study 
 of the language and of the harangues of the Athenian de- 
 magogues in favour of freedom, the real or supposed des- 
 cendants of these sturdy republicans are left to the actual 
 tyranny of their masters, although a very slight effort is 
 required to strike off" their chains. 
 
 To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their rising 
 again to their pristine superiority, would be 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 obstatile, except in the apathy of the 
 Franks, to their becoming an 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 pro- 
 bal)le 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 forgot- 
 ten. The French they dislike; although the subjugation 
 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 pos- 
 sessed themselves of the Ionian republic, Corfu excepted. 
 But whoever appear with arms in their hands will be wel- 
 come; 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 
 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 in their eulogy, and publishing 
 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 fortunes of Peru. 
 
 One very ingenious person terms them the "natural al- 
 lies" of Englishmen; another, no less ingenious, will not 
 allow them to be the allies of any bod}', and denies their 
 very descent from the ancients ; a tliird, more ingenious 
 than eitlier, builds a Greek empire on a Russian founda- 
 tion, and realizes (on paper) all the chimeras of Cathe- 
 rine II. As to the question of their descent, what can it 
 import whether the Mainotes are the lineal Laconians or 
 not? or the present Athenians as indigenous as the bees 
 ofHymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to which they once 
 likened themselves? What Englishman cares if he be of 
 a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or Trojan blood? or wlio, ex- 
 cept a Welchman, is affficted with a desire of being des- 
 cended from Caractacus ? 
 
 The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good 
 things of this world, as to render even their claims to an- 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 707 
 
 tiquity an object of envy ; it is very cruel then in Mr. Tliorn- 
 ton, to disturb them in the possession of all that time has 
 left them; viz. their pedigree, of which they are the more 
 tenacious, at 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 andSonnini; 
 paradox on one side, and prejudice on the other. Mr. 
 Thornton conceives himself to have claims to public con- 
 fidence from a fourteen years' residence atPera ; perhaps 
 he may, on the subject of the Turks, but this can give him 
 no more insight into the real stateof Greece and her inha- 
 bitants, than as many years spent in Wapping into that 
 of the Western Highlands. 
 
 The Greeks of Constantinople live in the Fanal ; and 
 if Mr. Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn 
 than his brother-merchants arcaccustomed to do, I should 
 place no great reliance on his information. I actually 
 heard one of these gentlemen boast of their little general 
 intercourse witli the city, and assert of himself with an 
 air of triumph, tiiat he had been but four times at Con- 
 stantinople in as many years. 
 
 As to Mr. Thornton's voyages in 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 tlien does he arrogate 
 the right of condemning by wholesale a body of men, of 
 whom he can know little? It is rather a curious circum- 
 stance tliat Mr. Thornton, who so lavishly dispraises 
 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 information 
 on the subject of the Greeks, and in particular their lite- 
 rature, nor is there any probability of our being better ac- 
 quainted, till our intercourse becomes more intimate or 
 their independence confirmed; the relationsof passing tra- 
 vellers 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 acquired from si- 
 milar sources. *) 
 
 *) A word, en passant, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. 
 Pouqueville; who have been guilty between them of 
 sadly clipping the Sultan's Turkish. 
 
 Dr. Pouqueville tells a long»tory of a Moslem, who 
 swallowed corrosive sublimate in such quantities that 
 he acquired the name of "Suleyman Yeyen," i. e. 
 quoth the Doctor, "Sulei/niun, the eater of corrosive 
 sublimate." "Aha," thinks Mr. Thornton (angry with 
 the Doctor for the fiftieth time) "have I caught 
 you?" — Then, in a note twice the thickness of tlie 
 Doctor sanecdote,he questions theDoctor's proficiency 
 in the Turkish tongue, and his veracity in his own.— 
 "For," observes Mr. Thornton (after inflicting on us 
 the tough participle of a Turkish verb), "it means no- 
 thing more than Suleyman the eater," and quite cash- 
 iers the supplementary "sublimate" Now both are 
 right and both are wrong. If Mr. Thornton, when he 
 next resides "fourteen years in the factory ,"' will con- 
 sult hisTurkish dictionary ,or ask any of his Stambol- 
 ine acquaintance, he will discover that '^Suleyman 
 yeyen" put together discreetly, mean the ^' Swallower 
 oj" sublimate," without any Suleyman" in the case; 
 " Suleyma" signifying "corrosive sublimate," and not 
 being a proper name on this occasion, altliough it be 
 an orthodox name enough with theadmtion ofn. After 
 Mr. Thornton's frequent hints of profound Orienta- 
 lism, he might have founS this out before he sang 
 such pwans over Dr. Pouqueville. 
 
 After tliis, I think "Travellers i;er«Ms Factors" shall 
 be our motto, though the above Mr. 'Thornton has 
 condemned" hoc genus omne," for mist^e andmisre- 
 
 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 heasserts that the British breed of hor- 
 ses is ruined by Newmarket, and that the Spartans were 
 cowards in the field, betrays an equal knowledge of Eng- 
 lish horses and Spartan men. His"philosophical observa- 
 tions" have a much better claim to the title of "poetical." 
 It could not beexpected that he who so liberally condemns 
 some of the most celebrated institutions of the ancient, 
 should have mercy on the modern Greeks; and it fortu- 
 nately happens, that the absurdity of his hypothesis on 
 their forefathers 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 reason- 
 able hope of the redemption of a race of men, who, what- 
 ever may be the errors of their religion and policy, have 
 been amply punished by three centuries and a half of cap- 
 tivity. 
 
 III. 
 
 Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 17, 1811. 
 "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 Edinburgh- 
 Review as a great favour, and certainly at this distance 
 an acceptable one, from the Captain of an Englisli frigate 
 oft' Salamis. In that number, Art. 3 containing the review 
 of a French translation of Strabo, there are introduced 
 some remarks on the modern Greeks and their literature, 
 witii a short account of Coray, a co-translator in the French 
 version. On those remarks I mean to ground a few obser- 
 vations, and the spot where I now write will, I hope, be 
 sufficient excuse for introducing them in a work in sdme 
 degree connected with the subject. Coray, the most cele- 
 brated of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was 
 born at Scio (in the Review, Smyrna is stated, I have rea- 
 son 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 tliat of Gregory Zolikogloou.*) Coray has 
 recently been involved in an unpleasant controversy with 
 Mr. Gail **), a Parisian commentator and editor of some 
 translations from the Greek poets, in consequence of the 
 Institute having awarded him the prize -version of Hip- 
 pocrates ^'Jl(()l vSuiwv," to the disparagement, and con- 
 sequently 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 the 
 two brothers Zosimado (merchants settled in Leghorn) 
 who sent him to Paris, and maintained him, for the ex- 
 press purpose of elucidating the ancient, and adding to the 
 modern, researches of his countrymen. Coray, however, 
 
 presentation. "Ne Sutor ultra crepidam." "No mer- 
 chant beyond his bales." N. B. For the benefit of Mr. 
 Thornton, "Sutor" is not a proper name. 
 
 *) 1 have in my possession an excellent Lexicon 
 "vQiylwaaov" which I receivedin exchange from S.Cr— , 
 Esq. for a small gem : my antiquarian friends have 
 rfiver forgotten it, or forgiven me. 
 
 **) In Gail's pamphlet against Coray he talks of 
 "tiirowing the insolent Hellenist out of the window." 
 On thisa French critic exclaims, "Ah, my God ! throw 
 an Hellenist out of the window ! what sacrilege!" It 
 certainly wouldbe a serious business for those authors 
 who dwell in the attics : but! have quoted the passage 
 merely to prove the similarity of style among the con- 
 troversialists of all polished countries; London or 
 Edinburgh could hardly parallel this Parisian ebul- 
 lition. 
 
708 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 is not considered by liis countrymen equal to some who 
 lived in the two last centuries; moie particularly Doro- 
 theus of Mitylcne, whose Hclk'nio writln«,^s are so much 
 esteemed by the Greeks, that Miletius terms him ''Maru 
 TO*' OovxvdHijv y.ul Sfvocpwvru ugtavog ' lilhp'0)r. ' 
 
 Panagiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, and 
 Kamarascs, wjio translated Ocellus Lucanus on the 
 Universe into Frencii, Christodoulos, and more particu- 
 larly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in Yanina, 
 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. But Po- 
 lyzois, who is stated by the Reviewer to be tlie only mo- 
 dern except Coray who has distinguished himself by a 
 knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Polyzois Lampa- 
 nitziotes of Yanina, who has published a number 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 destitute of scholastic ac- 
 quirements. As the name, however, is not uncommon, 
 some other Polyzois may have edited the Epistles of 
 Aristajnetus. 
 
 It is to be, regretted that the system of continental 
 blockade has closed tlie few channels through which the 
 Greeks received their publications, particulary Venice 
 and Trieste. Even the common grammars for children 
 are become too dear for the lower orders. Amongst their 
 original works the Geograpliy of Meletius, Archbishop 
 of Athens, and a multitude of theological quartos and 
 poetical pamphlets arc to be met with: their grammars 
 and lexicons of two, three, and four languages are numer- 
 ous and excellent. Tlieir poetry is in rhyme. The most 
 singular piece I have lately seen is a satire in dialogue 
 between a Russian , English, and French traveller, and 
 the Way wode of VVallachia (or Blackbey, as they term 
 him), an archbislipp, 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 "zltvn ttuISk; to>v ' EXXi'ivtDv by the unfor- 
 tunate Riga. But from a catalogue of more than sixty 
 authors, now before 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 
 Anarcliarsis in Romaic, as he has no other opportunity, 
 unless he despatches the MS. to Vienna by the Black Sea 
 and Danube. 
 
 The reviewer mentions a school established at He- 
 catonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of Sebastiani : 
 he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali; a town on 
 the continent where that institution for a hundred stu- 
 dents and three professors still exists. It is true that this 
 establishment was disturbed by the Porte, under the 
 ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were constructing a 
 fortress instead of a college; but on investigation, and tiie 
 patient of some purses to the Divan, it has been per- 
 mitted to continue. The principal professor, named Ven- 
 iamin (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, Latin, and some Frank 
 languages ; besides a smattering of the sciences. 
 
 Though it is not my intention to enter further on this 
 topic than may allude to the article in question. I cannot 
 but observe that the reviewer's lamentation over the fall 
 of tiie Greeks appears singular, when he closes it with 
 these words: '■'■the change is to be attributed to their mis- 
 fortunes rather than to any physical degradation." It may 
 be true that the Greeks are not physically 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 connection between 
 moral degradation and national decay. ^ 
 
 The reviewer mentions a plan ^'we believe" byPotemkin 
 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.Petersburgh for theGreeks ; 
 but it was suppressed by Paul, and has not been revived 
 by his successor. 
 
 There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a slip of 
 the pen, in p. 58, No. 31, of the Edinburgh Review, where 
 these words occur:— "We are told that when the capital 
 of the East yielded to Solyman" — It may be presumed 
 that this last word will, in a future edition, be altered to 
 Mahomet II. *) The"ladies of Constantinople," 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 tlie 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: 
 "J2, AO-riru ■jzQUTi] Xojqu 
 Tt yia duQovq TQeqxiq xb)qu'' 
 In Gibbon, vol. X. p. 161 , is the following sentence; — 
 "The vulgar dialect of the city was gross and barbarous, 
 though the compositions of the church and palace some- 
 times affected to copy the purity of the Attic models." 
 Whatever may be asserted on the subject, it is difficult 
 to conceive that the "ladies of Constantinople," in the 
 reign of the last Ctesar, spoke a purer dialect than Anna 
 Comnena wrote three conturies before: and those royal 
 pages are not esteemed the best models of composition, 
 although the princess y).omuv ti/tv ylK11JiJ12^ Attl- 
 Y.iX>ovauv. 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 througli Greece: he is in- 
 telligent, and better educated than a fullow-commoner of 
 most colleges. I mention tiiis 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 "Horaj lonicse," as qualified to give 
 details of tliese 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 be 
 states the Albanian dialect of the Romaic to approximate 
 
 *) In a former number of the Edinburgh Review, 
 1808, it is observed, "Lord Byron passed some of his 
 early years in Scotland, where he might have learned 
 tliatp/^roc/t does not mean a bagpipe, any more than | 
 duet means a fiddle." Query, — Was it in Scotland 
 that tlie young gentlemen of the Edinburgh Review 
 learned that Solyman means Mahomet II. any more 
 than criticism means infallibility? — but thus it is, 
 "Ciedimus inque vicem pra^bemus crura sagittis." 
 The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the pen 
 (from the great similarity of the two w ords, and the 
 total absence of error from the former pages of tiie 
 literary leviathan ), that I should have passed it over 
 as in the text, had I not perceived in the Edinburgh 
 Review much facetious exultation on all such detec- 
 tions, particularly a recent one, where words and 
 syllables arc subjects of disquisition and transposition; 
 and the abovementioned parallel-passage in my own 
 case irresistibly propelled me to hint how much easier 
 it is to be critical tlian correct. The gentlemen, having 
 enjoyed many a triumph on such victories,will hardly 
 begrudge me a slight ovation for the present. 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 709 
 
 nearest to the Hellenic: for the Albanians speak a Romaic 
 as notoriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aberdeenshire, 
 or the Italian of Naples. Yanina (where, next to the Fa- 
 nal, the Greek is purest) althoug-h the capital of Ali 
 Pacha's dominions, is not in Albania but Epirus: and 
 beyond Del vinachi in Albania Proper upto Argyrocastro 
 and Tepaleni (beyond which I did not advance) they 
 speak worse Greek than even the Athenians. I was attend- 
 ed for a year and a half by two of these sing'ular moun- 
 taineers, wiiose mother tongue islllyric, 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 Vely Pacha) praised for their Greek, but often 
 laughed at for their provincial barbarisms. 
 
 I have in my possession about twenty -five letters, 
 amongst which some from the Bey of Corinth, written to 
 me by Notaras, theCogiaBachi, and others by the drago- 
 man of tiie Caimacan of the Morea (which last governs 
 in Vely Pacha's absence) which are said to be favourable 
 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 
 69) 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- 
 ragrapii, recommending, in explicit terms, tlie 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 ! Now I am inclined to think, that a Dutch tyro 
 in our tongue (albeit himself of Saxon blood) would be 
 sadly perplexed with "Sir Tristram" or any other given 
 "Auchinlech MS." with or without a grammar or glos- 
 sary; and to most apprehensions it seems evident, that 
 none birt a native can acquire a competent, far less com- 
 plete, knowledge of our obsolete idioms. We may give the 
 critic credit for his ingenuity , but no more believe him 
 than we do Smollet's Lismahago, who maintains that the 
 purest English is spoken in Edinburgli. 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 ougiit to 
 be, of the greatest aid to tlie 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 observations 
 I have oil'ered I should have left wiiere I made them, had 
 not the article in question, and above all the spot wliere 
 I read it, induced me to advert to those pages wiiicli tlie 
 advantage of my present situation enabled me to clear, 
 ■ip at least to make the attempt. 
 
 |5^ Jhaveendeavouredto wave the personal feelings, which 
 rise in despite of me in touching upon any part of tlie 
 Edinburgh Review; not from a wish to conciliate the 
 favour of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance of a 
 syllal)ie I Jiave 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been much 
 exaggerated, or rather have considerably diminislied of 
 late years. The Mussvdnians 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 them- 
 selves. As far as my own slight experience carried me I 
 have no complaint to make; but am indebted for many 
 civilities (I might almost say for friendship), and much 
 hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son Vely Pacha of the 
 Morea, and several others of high rank in the provinces. 
 Suleyman Aga, late Governor of 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, w iicn 
 our English party were masquerading, both himself and 
 his successor were more happy to "receive masks" than 
 any dowager in Grosvenor-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 Way wode himself triumphed in his fall. 
 
 In all money-transactions with the Moslems, I evex 
 found the strictest honour, the highest disinterestedness. 
 In transacting business with them, tliere are none of those 
 dirty peculations, under the name of interest, difl'erence 
 of exchange, commission, uniformly found in applying 
 to a Greek consul to cash bills, even on the tirst 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 Christianity ; 
 but there does not exist a more honourable, friendly, and 
 high-spirited character than the true Turkish 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, possess 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 civili- 
 zation. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our country- 
 towns, would be more incommoded in England 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'Ohsson's French; of their 
 manners, perhaps, in Thornton's English. The Ottomans, 
 witli all their defects, are not a people to be despised. 
 Equal, at least, to the Spaniards, they are superior to the 
 Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce what they are, 
 we canatleastsay what they are Jio<: theyareno^treaciier- 
 ous, they are not cowardly, they do not burn heretics, they 
 are not assassins, nor has an enemy advanced to their 
 capital. They arc faithful to their sultan till he becomes 
 unfit to govern, and devout to their God without an in- 
 quisition. 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 w hich they are so ge- 
 nerally, and sometimes justly, accused, itmay 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? 
 IsaTurkish sabre inferior toaToledo? or isaTurk worse 
 clothed or lodged, or fed and taught, than a Spaniard? 
 Are their Pachas worse educated than a Grandee? or an 
 Eflendi than a Knight of St.Iago? I think not. 
 
 I remember Mahmout,the grandson of Ali Pacha, ask- 
 ing whether my fVllow- traveller and myself were in the 
 upper or lower House of Parliament. Now this question 
 from a boy often years old proved that his education had 
 not been neglected. It may be doubted if an English boy 
 at that age knows the difl'erence of the Divan from a Col- 
 lege of Dervises ; but I am very sure a Spaniard does not. 
 How little Mahmout, surrounded, as he has been, entirely 
 
710 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 by his Turkish tutors, had learned that tliere was such 
 a thing as a Parliament it were useless to conjecture, un- 
 less 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 tauglit with- 
 out the churcli of Turkey being put into peril. 1 believe 
 the system is not yet printed (thougii there is such a thing 
 as a Turkish press, and books printed on the late military 
 institution of thcNizam Gedid) ; norhavelheard whether 
 the Mufti and the MoUas have subscribed, or the Caima- 
 can and the Tcfterdar taken the alarm, for fear the inge- 
 nuous 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 Catho- 
 lic college from the English legislature. Who sliall then 
 affirm, that the Turks are ignorant bigots, when they thus 
 evince the exact proportion of Christian charity w hieh is 
 tolerated in the most prosperous and orthodox of all pos- 
 sible kingdoms? But, though they allow all this, they will 
 not sufler the Greeks to participate in their privileges: no, 
 let them fight their battles, and pay their haratch (taxes), 
 be drubbed in tliis world, and damned in tlie next. And 
 shall we then emancipate our Irish Helots? Mahometfor- 
 bid! We should then be bad Mussulmans, and worse 
 Christians; at present we unite the best of both — Jesuitical 
 faith, and something not much inferior to Turkish tole- 
 ration. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 mil- 
 lions; and yet, for so scanty a number, 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 thegenerous advocates of oppression, who, 
 while they assert 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 nothing." Well! and pray what else can they 
 write about.' It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, par- 
 ticularly an Englishman, who may abuse tiiegovernment 
 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, scientilic, scepti- 
 cal, or moral subject, sneering at the Greek legends. A 
 
 Greek must not write on politics, and cannot touch on 
 science for want of instruction; if he doubts, he isexcom- 
 muni(!ated and damned; therefore his countrymen are not 
 poisoned with modern philosophy; and as to morals, 
 thanks to the Turks! there are no such things. Wliatthen 
 is left him, if he has a turn for scribbling? Religion aiid-^ 
 holy biography : and it is natural enough that tliose 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-fiveGreek writers, many of whom were lately living, 
 not above fifteen should have touched on any thingbutre- 
 ligion. The catalogue alluded to is contained in the twen- 
 ty-sixth chapter of the fourth volume of Meletius's Eccle- 
 siastical History. I have in MS. a long dramatic satire on 
 the Greek priesthood, princes, and gentry. The com- 
 mencement is, as follows : 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 A Russian, Englishman, and Frenchman, making the 
 tour of Greece, and observing the miserable state of the 
 country, interrogate, in turn, a Greek Patriot, to learn 
 the cause ; afterwards an Archbishop, then a Prince of 
 Wallachia, a Merchant, and Cogia Rachi or Primate. 
 Thou friend of thy country ! to strangers record 
 Why bear ye the yoke of the Ottoman Lord? 
 Why bear ye these fetters thus tamely display'd, 
 The wrongs of the matron, the stripling, and maid? 
 The descendants of Hellas's race are not ye! 
 The patriot sons of the sage and the free. 
 Thus sprung from the blood of the noble and brave. 
 To vilely exist as the Mussulman slave! 
 Not such were the fathers your annals can boast, 
 Who conquer'd and died for the freedom you lost! 
 Not such was your land in her earlier hour , 
 The day-star of nations in wisdom and power! 
 And still will you thus unresisting increase. 
 Oh shameful dishonour! the darkness of Greece? 
 Then tell us, beloved Achtean! reveal 
 The cause of the woes which you cannot conceal. 
 The reply of the Philellenist I have not translated , as 
 it is no better than the question of the travelling trium- 
 virate ; and the above will sufficiently show with what 
 kind of composition the Greeks are now satisfied- I trust 
 I have notmuch injured the original in the few lines given 
 as faithfully, and as near the "Oh, Miss Bailey ! unfortu- 
 nate Miss Bailey!" measure of the Romaic, as I could 
 make them. Almost all their pieces, above a song, which 
 aspire to the name of poetry, contain exactly the quantity 
 of feet of 
 
 "A captain bold of Halifax who lived in 
 
 country-quarters" 
 
 which is in fact the present heroic couplet of the Romaic. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO III. 
 
 In "pride of place" here last the earjlejlew. 
 
 [p. 22. St. 18. 
 "Pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means the 
 highest pitch of fiight — See Macbeth : 
 
 An Eagle towering in his pride of place 
 Was by a mousing Owl hawked at and killed. 
 
 Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 
 
 [p. 22. St. 20. 
 Sec the famous Song on Harmodius andAristogiton.— 
 The best English translation is in Bland's Anthology, by 
 Mr. Denman. 
 
 "With myrtle my sword will I wreathe." 
 
 And all went merry as a marriaye-hell. JP 
 
 [p. 22. Sf/in. 
 On the night previous to the action, it is said tliataball 
 was given at Brussels. 
 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's cars. 
 
 [p. 23. S(. 2G. 
 Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant JJonald, the 
 "gentle Lochiel" of "the forty-five." 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. 
 
 [p. 23. St. 27. 
 
 The wood of Solgnies is supposed to be a remnant of 
 
 the "forest of Ardennes," famous in Boiardo's Orlando, 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 711 
 
 and immortal in Shakspeare's "As you like it." It is also 
 celebrated in Tacitus as being tlie spot of successful de- 
 fence by the Germans against the Roman encroachments. 
 — 1 liave ventured to adopt the name connected with 
 nobler associations than tliose of mere slaughter. 
 I turn' d from all she brought to those she could not bring, 
 
 [p. 23. St. 30. 
 
 My guide from MontSt. Jean over the field seemed in- 
 telligent and a(;curate. The place where Major Howard 
 fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees (there was 
 a third cut down, or shivered in the battle) which stand a 
 few yards from each other at a pathway's side. — Beneath 
 these lie died and was buried. The body has since been 
 removed to England. A small hollow for the present 
 marks where it lay; but will probably soon be eflaced; the 
 plough has been upon it, and the grain is. 
 
 After pointing out thedifterent spots where Picton and 
 lotlier gallant men had perished; the guide said, "here 
 Major Howard lay; I was near him when wounded." I 
 |told him my relationship, and he seemed then still more 
 nxious to point out the particular spot and circumstan- 
 loes. The place is one of the most marked in the field from 
 Ihc peculiarity of the two trees above mentioned. 
 
 I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing it 
 with my recollection of simdar scenes. As a plain, Water- 
 loo seems marked out for the scene of some great action, 
 though this may be mere imagination. I have viewed with 
 attention those of Platiea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, 
 Chajronea, and Marathon ; and the field around Mont St. 
 Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little but a better 
 cause, and that undefinable 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 
 Imentioned. 
 
 Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore. 
 
 [p. 23. St. 34. 
 
 The fabled apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes 
 were said to be fair without, and within ashes. — Vide 
 Tacitus, Histor. 1, 5, 7. 
 
 For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den. 
 
 [p. 24. St. 41. 
 
 The great error of Napoleon, "if we have writ our an- 
 nals true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind of his 
 want of allcommunity offeelingforor with them; perhaps 
 more oflensive 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 
 jhave used on returning to Paris after the Russian winter 
 had destroyed his army, rubbinghis hands over a fire,"Tliis 
 is pleasanter than Moscow," would probably alienate 
 more favour from his cause than the destruction and re- 
 kOLScs which led to the remark. 
 
 What want these outlaws conquerors should have? 
 
 [p. 25. St. 48. 
 "What wants that knave 
 That a king should have?" 
 ivas King .James's question on meeting Johnny Armstrong 
 [111(1 ills followers in full accoutrements — See the Ballad. 
 
 kTlie castled crag of Drachcnfels. 
 [p. 25. St. 55. 
 e castle of Drachenfels stands on the higliest summit 
 n ■ uie Seven Mountains," over tlie Rhine banks ; it is in 
 ruins, and connected with some singular traditions: it is 
 the first in view on the road from Bonn, but on the oppo- 
 !«te side of the river; on this bank, nearly facing it, are the 
 remains of another cal led 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 
 Rliine on both sides is very great, and their situations re- 
 markably beautiful. 
 
 The whiteness of his soul, andthus men o'er him wept. 
 
 [p. 26. St. 57. 
 The monument of thcyoung and lamented General Mar- 
 
 ceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Altenkirchen on the last day 
 of the fourth year of the French republic) still remains as 
 described. 
 
 The inscriptions on his monument are rather too Ion"-, 
 and not required: his name was enough; France adored' 
 and her enemies admired; both wept over him. — His fu- 
 neral was attended by the generals and detachments from 
 both armies. In the same grave general Hoche is interred, 
 a gallant man also in every sense of the word, but thou<Hi 
 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 bu- 
 ried by Marceau's) is raised for him near Andernach, op- 
 posite to which one of his most memorable exploits was 
 performed, in throwing a bridge to an island ontheRhine. 
 The shape and style are dift'erent from that of Marceau's, 
 and the inscription more simple and pleasing: 
 "The Army of the Sambre and Meuse 
 to its Conjmander in Chief 
 Hoche." 
 
 This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed 
 among the first of France's earlier generals before Buona- 
 parte monopolized her triumphs. — He was the destined 
 commander of the invading army of Ireland. 
 
 Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shatter' d wall. 
 
 [p. 26. St. 68. 
 Ehrenbreitstein, i. e. "the broad Stone of Honour," one 
 of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dismantled and 
 blown up by the French at the truce of Leoben. - It had 
 been and could only be reduced by famine or treachery. It 
 yielded to the former, aided by surprise. After having seen 
 the fortifications of Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much 
 strike by comparison, but the situation is commanding. 
 General Marceau besieged 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. 
 
 Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek' d each wandering 
 ghost. [p. 26. St. 63. 
 
 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 eftaced this record 
 of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A few still 
 remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by the Burgun- 
 dians tor ages (all wiio passed that way removing a bone 
 to their own country), and tiic less justifiable larcenies of 
 tlieSwiss postillions, who carried them oflto sell for knife- 
 handles, a purpose for which the whiteness imbibed by 
 the bleaching of years had rendered them in great request. 
 Of these relies I ventured to bring away as much as may 
 havemade the quarter of ahero,for which the sole excuse 
 is, that if I had not, the next passer by might havepervert- 
 ed them to worse uses than the careful preservation which 
 I intend for them. 
 
 LeveU'd Aventicum, hath strew' d her subject lands. 
 
 *[p. 26. St. 65. 
 Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capital of 
 Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 
 
 And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. 
 
 [p. 26. St. 66. 
 Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon 
 after a vain endeavour to save her father, condemned to 
 death as a traitor by Aulus Cajcina. Her epitaph was dis- 
 covered many years ago ; — it is thus — 
 Julia Alpinula 
 Hie jaceo, 
 Infelicis patris infelix proles, 
 Dei« Aventian Sacerdos. 
 Exorare patris necem non potui ; 
 Male mori in fatis illi erat. 
 Vixi annos XXttf. 
 
712 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 I know of no human composition so affecting as this, 
 nor a history of deeper interest. These are the names and 
 actions whicli oug^ht not to pcrisli, and to which we turn 
 with a true and healtliy tenderness, fromthe wretched and 
 glittering detail of a confused mass of conquests and bat- 
 tles, with which themindis roused for a time to afalseand 
 feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs at length with 
 all the nausea consequent on such intoxication. 
 
 In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow. 
 
 [p. 27. St. 67. 
 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 dis- 
 tinct 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 mirror is 60 miles. 
 
 By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. 
 
 [p. 27. St. 71. 
 The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, a depth of 
 tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt or 
 frcsli, except in the Mediterranean and Arcliipelago. 
 
 Tlian vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. 
 
 [p.28. St.79. 
 
 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 salutation 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 qf 
 love that ever kindled into words ; which after all must be 
 felt, from their very force, to be inadequate tothedelinea- 
 tion: a painting can give no sufficient idea of the ocean. 
 
 Of earth-o'ergazing-mountains. 
 
 [p. 29. St. 91. 
 
 It is to be recollected , that the most beautiful and im- 
 pressive doctrines of the divine Founder of Christianity 
 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 dif- 
 ference between what we read of the emotions then and 
 there produced, and those we ourselves experience in the 
 perusal in the closet. It is one thing to read the Iliad at 
 Sigieum 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 li- 
 brary — this I know. 
 
 Were the early and rapid progress of what is called 
 Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the en- 
 thusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines (the 
 truth or error of which I presume neither to canvass nor 
 to question) I should venture to ascribe it to the practice 
 of preaching in the fields, and the unstudied and extem- 
 poraneous effusions of its teachers. 
 
 The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least 
 in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore impres- 
 sive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed orisons 
 and prayers wherever they may be at 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 ap- 
 peared to be within and upon them, made a far greater 
 impression than any general rite whieh was ever per- 
 formed in places of worship, of which I have seen tliose of 
 almost every persuasion under the sun; including most 
 of our own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the Ar- 
 
 menian, 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 itsrites: some of these I had a distant view 
 ofatPatras, 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. 
 
 The sky is changed! — and such a change ! 
 
 [p. 29. St. 92. 
 
 The thunder- storms to which these lines refer occurred 
 
 on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen among 
 
 the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari several more 
 
 terrible, but none more beautiful. 
 
 And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought. 
 
 [p. 29. St. 99. 
 
 Rousseau's Heloise, Letter 17, part 4, note. — Ces moa- 
 tagnes sont si hautes, qu'une demi-heure apres le soleil 
 couche leurs sommets sont encore eclaircs de ses rayons, 
 dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches une belle cou- 
 leur de rose qu'on apper9oit de fort loin." 
 
 This applies more particularly to the heights over Meil- 
 lerie. 
 
 "J'allai k Vevay loger k la Clef, et pendant deux jours 
 que j'y restai sans voir personneje 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 vo- 
 lontiers k ceux qui ont dugoiitetqui sont scnsibles : 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, pouruneClaire etpour un St. Preux; 
 mais ne les y cherchez pas." Les Confessions, livre iv. 
 
 In July, 1816, 1 made a voyage round the Lake of Ge- 
 neva; 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 "Heloise," I can safely 
 say, that in this there is no exaggeration. It would be dif- 
 ficult to see Clarens (with the scenes around it, Vevay, 
 Chillon, Boveret, St. Gingo, Meillerie, Evian, and the en- 
 trances of the Rhone), without being forcibly struck with 
 its peculiar adaptation to the persons and events with 
 which it has been peopled. 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 compre- 
 hensive 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 ownparticipa- 
 tion of its good and of its glory; it is the great principleof 
 the universe, wliitih 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 as- 
 sociations would not less have belonged to such scenes. 
 He has added to the interest of his works by their ad- 
 option; he has shown his sense of their beauty by the se- 
 lection; but they have done that for him which no hu- 
 man 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 magnifi- 
 cence of all around, although occasionally accompanied 
 by danger to the boat, which was small and overloaded. 
 It was over this very part of the lake that RousseaaJjas 
 driven the boat of St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to 
 Meillerie for shelter during a tempest. 
 
 On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, we found that the 
 wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down some fine i 
 old chesnut-trees on the lower part of the mountains. On j 
 the opposite height is a seat called the Chateau deClarens. 
 The liills are covered with vineyards, and interspersed j 
 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 ?elfishncss of the ; 
 monks of St. Bernard (to whom «he landi^ppertained), 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 713 
 
 that the ground might be inclosed into a vineyard for the 
 miserable drones of an execrable superstition, theinhabi- 
 tantsof Clarens still point out the spot v\liere its trees 
 stood, calling it by the name which consecrated and sur- 
 vived them. 
 
 Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in the pre- 
 servation of the 'iocal habitations" he has given to "airy 
 nothings." The Prior of Great St. Bernajrd 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 im- 
 proving the road to theSimplon. The road is an excellent 
 one, but I cannot quite agree with a remark which I heard 
 made, that "La route vautmieux que les souvenirs." 
 
 Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes. 
 
 [p. 30. St 105. 
 Voltaire and Gibbon. 
 
 JJad Inotjiled my mind, which thus itself subdued. 
 
 [p. 30. St. 113 
 
 "If it be thus, 
 
 For Banquo's issue have \ filed my mind." 
 
 [Shaksp. Macbeth. 
 O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve. 
 
 [p. .'iO. St. 1 14. 
 It is said by Rochefoucault that "there is always some- 
 thing in the misfortunes of men's best friends notdispleas- 
 ing to them." 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO IV. 
 
 Intood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
 s,; A palace and a prison on each hand. 
 
 [p. 32. St. 1. 
 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 sunkin the thick wallsofthepalace; 
 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 cell, upon the bridge, 
 was there strangled. The low portal through which the 
 criminal was taken into this cell is now walled up; but 
 the passage is still open, and is still known by the name 
 «f the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are under the flooring 
 of the chamber at the foot of the bridge. They were for- 
 merly twelve, but on the first arrival of the French the Ve- 
 netians hastily blocked or broke up the deeper of these 
 dungeons. Yon may still, however, descend by a trap- 
 door, and crawl down through holes, half choked by rub- 
 bish, to the depth of two stories below the first range. If 
 you are in want of consolation for the extinction of patri- 
 cian power, perhaps you may find it there; scarcely a ray 
 of light glimmers into the narrow gallery which leads to the 
 tells, and the places of confinement themselves are totally 
 ilark. A small hole in the wall admitted the damp air of 
 the passages, and served for the introduction of the pri- 
 soner'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 prison- 
 er was found when the republicans descended into these 
 hideous recesses, and he is said to have been confined six- 
 teen years. But the inmates of the dungeons beneath had 
 left traces of their repentance, or of their despair, w hich are 
 still visible, and may perhaps owe something to recent in- 
 genuity. Some of the detained appear to have oH'ended 
 against, and others to hav& 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 asolitude. As nearly as they could 
 he copied by more ti|an one pencil, three of them are as 
 follows: ^ 
 
 1. 
 
 NON TI FIDAR AD ALCUNO PENSA E TACI 
 
 SE lUGIR VUOI DE SPIONI INSIDIE E LACCI 
 
 IL PENTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 
 
 MA BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 
 
 1607 aDI 2 GENARO FCI RETENTO 
 P' LA BESTIEMMA P' AVER DATO DA 
 MANZAR A UN MORTO 
 ^ , lACOMO. GRITTI. SCRISSK. 
 
 UN PARLAR POCHO ET 
 
 NEGARE PRONTO ET 
 
 UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA 
 
 A NOl ALTRI MESCHINI 
 
 1605. 
 EGO lOHN BAPTISTA AD 
 ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 
 
 DE CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIO 
 
 DE CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDARO 10 
 
 A 
 
 V. LA sTA. cH. K*. rNA. 
 
 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 
 needs to be observed, that Bestemmia and Mangiar may 
 be read in the first inscription, which was probably writ- 
 ten by a prisoner confined for some act of impiety com- 
 mitted at a funeral: that Cortellarivs 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 Kat- 
 tolica Romana. 
 
 She looks a sea- Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
 Rising with her tiara of proud towers. 
 
 [p. 33. St. 2. 
 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 fit ut qui supeme urbem eontempletur, turritam 
 telluris imaginem medio Oceano figuratam se putet in- 
 spicere." Marci Antonii Sabelli de Venetae Urbis situ 
 narratio, edit Taurin. 1527, lib. I. fol. 202. 
 
 Jn Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 
 
 [p. 33. St 3. 
 The well known song of the gondoliers, of alternate 
 stanzas , from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with the in- 
 dependence of Venice. Editions of the poem, with the 
 original on one column, and the Venetian variations on 
 the other, as sung by the boatmen, were once common, 
 and are still to be found. The following extract will serve 
 to show the diflerence between the Tuscan epic and the 
 "Canta alia Barcariola." 
 
 Original. 
 Canto r armi pietose, e'l capitano 
 
 Che '1 gran Sepolcro libero di Cristo. 
 Molto egli opr6 col scnno, e con la mano 
 
 Alolto soflri nel glorioso acquisto ; 
 E in van 1' Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vano 
 
 S' arm6 d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto, 
 Che il Ciel gli di^ favore, e sotto a i Santi 
 Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. 
 
 45* 
 
714 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRDIAGE. 
 
 Venetian. 
 V armc pietose dc cantar gho vogia, 
 E de Goflredo la immortal braura 
 Che al tin 1' ha libera co strassia, e dogia 
 
 Del nostro buon Gesii la Sepoltura 
 De mezo mondo iinito, e de quel Bogia 
 
 Missier Pluton no 1' ha bu mai paura: 
 Dio r ha agiuti, e i compagni sparpagnai 
 Tutti 'I gh' i ha messi insieme i di del Dai. 
 Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up 
 and continue a stanza of their once familiar bard. 
 
 On the7th of last January, the author of ChildeHarold, 
 and another Englishman, tlie writer of this notice, rowed 
 to the Lido witii two singers, one of whom was a car- 
 penter, and the other a gondolier. The former placed 
 himself at the prow , the latter at the stern of the boat. A 
 little after leaving tiie quay of the Piazzetta, 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 fre- 
 quently obliged to prompt his companion, told us that 
 he could translate the original. He added, that he could 
 sing almost three hundred stanzas , but had not spirits 
 (niorhin was the word he used), to learn any more, or to 
 sing what he 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 aflecting than his performance, 
 which habit alone can make attractive. The recitative 
 was shrill, screaming, and monotonous, 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 endeavoured to restrain, but was too much 
 interested in liis subject altogether to repress. From these 
 men we learnt that singing is not confined to the gondo- 
 liers, and that although the chant is seldom, if ever, vo- 
 luntary, tliere 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 tlie verses of the 
 Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is yet much 
 music upon the Venetian canals; and upon holidays, 
 those strangers who are not near or informed enough to 
 distinguish the words, may fancy that many of the gon- 
 dolas still resound with the strains ofTasso. Thevyriter 
 of some remarks which appeared in the Curiosities of 
 Literature must excuse his being twice quoted; for, with 
 the exception of some phrases a little too ambitious and 
 extravagant, he has furnished a very exact, as wellas 
 agreeable, description. 
 
 "In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long passages 
 from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chant them with a 
 peculiar melody. But tliis talent seems at present on tlie 
 decline: — at least, after taking some pains, I could find 
 no more than two persons who delivered to me in tliis 
 way a passage from Tasso. I must add, that the late Mr. 
 Berry once chanted to me a passage in Ta.s.so in the man- 
 ner, as he assured me, of the gondoliers. 
 
 "There are always two concerned wiio alternately sing 
 the strophes. We know the melody eventually by Rous- 
 seau, 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 figurato; 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 they pro- 
 ceeded to St. Georgio. One began the song: when he had 
 ended his strophe, the other took up tlie lay, and so con- 
 tinued tlie song alternately. Throughout the whole of it, 
 the same notes invariably returned, but according to the 
 
 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 excellency of their singing in 
 the force of their voice: one seemed desirous of conquer- 
 ing 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 un- 
 pleasant situation. 
 
 "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 gon- 
 dola, while the other went to the distance of some hun- 
 dred paces. They now began to sing against one another 
 andl kept walking up and down between them both,so as 
 always to leave him who was to begin his part. 1 fre- 
 quently 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 re- 
 quired to be sung in a lower tone, seemed like plaintive 
 strains succeeding the vociferations of emotion or of pain. 
 The other, who listened attentively, immediately began 
 where the former left oft", answering him in milder or more 
 vehement notes, according as the purport of the strophe 
 required. The sleepy canals, the lofty buildings, the splen- 
 dour of the moon, the deep shadows of the few gondolas, 
 that moved like spirits hither and thither, increased the 
 striking peculiarity of the scene; and amidst all these 
 circumstances it was easy to confess the character of this 
 wonderful harmony. 
 
 "It suits perfectly well with an idle solitary mariner, 
 lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of tiiese canals, 
 waiting for his company, or for a fare, the tiresomeness 
 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 rattling of carriages, 
 no noise of foot-passengers : a silent gondola glides now 
 and then by him, of which the splashing of the oars are 
 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 
 former, and exerts himself to be heard as he had heard 
 the other. By a tacit convention they 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 other- 
 wise was not a very delicately organized person, said 
 quite unexpectedly : "6 singolare come quel canto inte- 
 nerisce, e molto piu quando la cantano meglio." 
 
 "I was told that the women of Libo, the long row of is- 
 lands that divides the Adriatic from the Lagoons *), par- 
 ticularly the women of the extreme districts of Malamocca 
 
 *) The writer meant Lido, w hi(;h is not a long row 
 of islands, but a long island : littus, the shore. 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 715 
 
 d Palestrina, sing in like manner the works of Tasso 
 
 tliese and similar tunes. 
 
 "They have tlie custom, when their liusbands are fishing 
 out at sea, to sit along the shore in the evenings and vo- 
 ciferate these songs, and continue to do so with great vio- 
 lence, till each of them can distinguish the responses of 
 her own husband at a distance." 
 
 The love ofmusicandof poetry distinguishes all classes 
 of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of Italy. The 
 city itself can occasionally furnish respectable jwdiences 
 for two and even^ three opera-houses at a time; and there 
 arefew events in private lifetliat do not call forthaprinted 
 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 con- 
 gratulated on a marriage, or a birth, or a lawsuit, the Mu- 
 ses are invoked 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 ca- 
 pital. The last curtsy of a favourite "prima donna" brings 
 down a shower of these poetical tributes from those upper 
 regions, from which, in our theatres, nothing but Cupids 
 tmdsnovv-storms are accustomed to descend. There is a 
 poetry in the very life of a Venetian, which, in its com- 
 inon course, is varied with those surprises and changes 
 SO recommendable in fiction, but so diflerent from the 
 «obermonotony of northern existence; amusements are 
 raised into duties, duties arc softened into amusements, 
 and every object being considered as equally making a 
 part of the business of life, is announced and performed 
 with the same earnest indiflerence and gay assiduity. 
 The Venetian gazette constantly closes its columns with 
 the following triple advertisement. 
 
 Charade. 
 
 Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the 
 church of St. — 
 
 Th eatres. 
 
 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. 
 
 Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. 
 
 [p. 33. St. 10. 
 
 The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the strangers 
 who praised the memory of her son. 
 
 St, Mark yet sees his Lion where he stood 
 Stand,— [p. 33. St. IL 
 
 The lion has lost nothing by his journey to the Invalides 
 but tJie 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 be- 
 fore, half hidden unter the porch- window of St. Mark's 
 cliurch. 
 
 -; Their history, after a desperate struggle, has been satis- 
 •factorily explored. The decisions and doubts of Erizzo 
 and Zanetti, and lastly, of the Count Leopold Cicognara, 
 would have given them a Roman extraction, and a pedi- 
 gree not more ancient than the reign of Nero. But M. de 
 Schlegel stepped in to teach the Venetians the value of 
 tiieir 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 answer. It should 
 seem that the horses are irrevocably Chian, and were 
 transferred to Constantinople by Theodosius. Lapidary 
 writing is a favourite play of the Italians, and lias con- 
 
 ferred reputation on more than one of their literary cha- 
 racters. One of the best specimens of Bodoni's typo- 
 graphy is a respectabe volume of inscriptions, all written 
 by his friend Pacciaudi. Several were prepared for the 
 recovered horses. It is to be hoped the best was not se- 
 lected, when the following words were ranged in gold 
 letters above the cathedral porch : 
 
 QUAT['OR EQUORUM SIGNA A VENETIS BYZANTIO CAPTA AD 
 TEMP. 1). MAR A. R. S. MCCIV POSITA QVX. HOSTILIS CUPIDITAS 
 A. MDCCCUl ABSTULERAT FRANC. I. IMP. PACISORBIDAT.«TRO- 
 PH^UM A. MDCCCXV VICTOR REUfXIT. 
 
 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 ivould have been more prudent to haveavoidedali 
 allusions to either robbery. An apostolic prince should, 
 perhaps, have objected to affixing over the principal en- 
 trance of a metropolitan church an inscription having a 
 reference to any other triumphs than those of religion. 
 Nothing less than the pacification of tlie world can excuse 
 such a solecism. 
 
 Tlie Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
 An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt. 
 
 [p. 33. St. 12. 
 
 After many vain efforts on the part of the Italians en- 
 tirely to throw oil' the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, and as 
 fruitless attempts of the Emperor to make himself abso- 
 lute master throughout the whole of his Cisalpine domi- 
 nions, the bloody struggles of four and twenty years were 
 happily brought to a close in the city of Venice. The ar- 
 ticles of a treaty had been previously agreed upon between 
 Pope Alexander III. and Barbarossa, and theformer hav- 
 ing received a safe conduct, had already arrived at Venice 
 from Ferrara, in company 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 beimprac- 
 ticable. At this juncture it was suddenly reported that the 
 Emperor had arrived atChioza, a town fifteen miles from 
 the capital. The Venetians rose tumultuously, and in- 
 sisted 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 
 reassured by the prudence andaddress of Sebastian Ziaui, 
 the Doge. Several embassies passed between Chioza and 
 the capital, until, at last, the Emperor relaxing somewhat 
 of his pretensions, "laid aside his leonine ferocity, and put 
 on the mildness of the lamb." *) 
 
 On Saturday tiie 23d of July, in the year 1 177, six Ve- 
 netian 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 patriarchal palace 
 to Saint Mark's church, and solemnly absolved the Empe- 
 ror and his partisans from the excommunication pro- 
 nounced against him. The Chancellor of the Empire, on 
 the part of his master, renounced, the anti-popes and their 
 schismatic adherents. Immediately the Doge, with a great 
 suite both of theclergy and laity,got on board the galleys, 
 and waiting on Frederic, rowed him in mighty state from 
 theLido to the capital. The Emperor descended from the 
 galley at the quay of the Piazzetta. The Doge, the pa- 
 triarch, his bishops and clergy, and the people of Venice 
 with their crosses and their standards, marched in solemn 
 
 *) "Quibus auditis, imperator, operante eo, qui 
 corda principum sicut vult et quando vult humilitei 
 inclinat, leonina feritate deposita, ovinam mansueta- 
 dineminduit."Romualdi SalernitaniChronicon, apud 
 Script. Rer. Ital. tom. vn. p. 229. 
 
fl6 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 procession before him to the church of Saint Mark. Alex- 
 ander was seated before the vestibule of the basilica, at- 
 tended by his bishops and cardinals, by the patriarch 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 vene- 
 rating the Almighty in the person of Alexander, laying 
 aside his imperial dignity, and throwing ofl" 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 immedi- 
 ately 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 re- 
 ceived his benediction, returned to the ducal palace." 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, driv- 
 ing the laity from the choir, and preceding the pontiff" to 
 the altar. Alexander, after reciting the gospel , preached 
 to the people. The Emperor put himself close to the pul- 
 pit in the attitude of listening; and the pontiff', touclied 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 tlie Ger- 
 man tongue. The creed was then chanted. 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 
 performance, 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 cere- 
 mony, and whose story is confirmed by every subsequent 
 narration. It would be not worth so minute a record, were 
 it not the triumph of liberty as well as of superstition. The 
 states of Lombardy owed to it the confirmation of their pri- 
 vileges; and Alexander hadreason to thank the Almiglity, 
 wlio had enabled an infirm, unarmed old man to subdue 
 a terrible and potent sovereign.*) 
 
 Oil for one hour of blind old Dandolo! 
 
 TIC octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 
 
 [p. 33. St 12. 
 
 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 Con- 
 stantinople he was consequently ninety-seven years old. 
 At tills age he annexed the fourth and a half of the whole 
 empire of Romania,*) for so the Roman empire was then 
 called, to the title and to the territories of the Venetian 
 Doge. The three-eighths of this empire were preserved in 
 
 *) See the above citedRomuald of Salerno. In a se- 
 cond sermon which Alexander preached, on the first 
 day of August, before the Emperor, he compared Fre- 
 deric to the prodigal son, and himself to the forgiving 
 father. 
 
 **) Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important a, and 
 has written Romani instead of Romania?. Decline and 
 Fall, cap. Lxi. note 9. But the title acquired by Dan- 
 dolo runs thus in the Chronicle of his namesake, the 
 Doge Andrew Dandolo: Ducalititulo addidit "■Quarta 
 partis etdimidice totius imperii RomanicB," And.Dand. 
 Chronicon. cap. in. pars xxxvii. ap. Script. Rer. Ital. 
 lom. XII. page 331. And the Romania is observed in 
 the subsequent acts of the Doge. Indeed the continent- 
 al possessions of tlie Greek empire in Europe were 
 then generally known by tiie name of Romania, and 
 that appellation is still seen in the maps of Turkey as 
 applied to Thrace. 
 
 the diplomas until the Dukedom of Giovanni Dolfino, 
 who made use of the above designation in the year 1357. 
 
 Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person : 
 two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied together, 
 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 Erythrsean sybil. "A gathering to- 
 gether of the powerful shall be made amidst the waves of 
 the Adriatic, under a blind leader ; they shall beset the 
 goat — they shall profane Byzantium — they shall blacken 
 her buildings — her spoils shall be dispersed; a new goat 
 shall bleat until they have measured out and run over fif- 
 ty-four feet, nine inches, and a half."*). 
 
 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 Constantinople. 
 Strangely enough it must sound , that the name of the re- 
 bel apothecary who received the Doge's sword, and anni- 
 hilated the ancient government in 1797, was Dandolo, 
 
 But is not Doria's menace come to pass? 
 . Are they not bridled? [p. 33. St. 13. 
 
 After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking of 
 Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united arma- 
 ment of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara , Signor 
 of Padua, the Venetians were reduced to the utmost des- 
 pair. 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 only her independence. The 
 Prince of Padua was inclined to listen to these proposals, 
 but the Genoese, who, after the victory at Pola, had shout- 
 ed, "to Venice, to Venice, and long live St. George !" de- 
 termined to annihilate their rival, and Peter Doria, their 
 commander in chief, returned this answer to the sup- 
 pliants: "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 commune. As for these my brotners of Genoa, that 
 j'ou 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 Ma- 
 lamocco, within five miles of the capital; but their own 
 danger and the pride of their enemies gave courage to the 
 Venetians, who made prodigious efforts, and many indi- 
 vidual 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 threat- 
 ened Venice, which was reduced to extremities. At this 
 time, the 1st of January, 1380, arrived Carlo Zeno, who 
 had been cruising on the Genoese coast with fourteen gal- 
 leys. The Venetians were now strong enough to besiege 
 the Genoese. Doria was killed on the 22d of January by 
 a stone bullet 195 pounds weight, discharged fromabom- 
 bard called the Trevisan. Chioza was then closely invested; 
 5000 auxiliaries, amongst whom were some English Con- 
 do+tieri, commanded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the 
 Venetians. The Genoese in their turn, prayed for condi- 
 tions, but none were granted, until, at last, they surren- 
 dered at discretion; and, on the 24th of June, 1380, 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 
 
 *) "Fiet potentium in aquis Adriaticis congregatio, 
 cceco praduce, Hircum ambigent, Byzantium prof ana- 
 bunt, cedificia denigrabunt; spolia dispergentur,Hircus 
 novus balabit unque diim Liv pedes et ix pollices,et semis 
 pramensuratidiscurrant."lChrotu{\,ihi(i.patsxx\l'V-] 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 717 
 
 ontfitof tlie expedition, fell into the hands of theconquer- 
 ors, who, had it not been for the inexorable answer of 
 Doria, would have gladly reduced their dominion to the 
 city of Venice. An account of these transactions is found 
 in a work called the War of Chioza, written by Daniel 
 Chinazzo, who was in Venice at the time. 
 
 Tlie "Planter of the Lion:' [p. 34. St. 14. 
 Plant the i/on— that is, the Lion of St. Mark, the stand- 
 ard of the republic, which is the origin of the word Pan- 
 taloon — Pianta-leone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 
 
 Tliin streets and foreign aspects, such as must 
 Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. 
 
 [p. 34. St. 15. 
 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 dimi- 
 nishes daily. The commerce and the official employments, 
 which were to be the unexhausted source of Venetian 
 grandeur, have both expired*). Most of the patrician 
 mansions are deserted, and would gradually disappear, 
 had not the government, alarmed by the demolition of se- 
 venty-two, during the last two years, expressly forbidden 
 this sad resource of poverty. Many remnants of the Ve- 
 netian nobility are now scattered and confounded with 
 the wealthier Jews upon the banks oftheBrenta, whose 
 Palladian palaces have sunk, or are sinking, in the gene- 
 ral decay. Of the "gentil uorao 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 
 pa him if he is querulous. Whatever may have been the 
 «vices of the republic, and although the natural term of its 
 existence may be thought to foreigners to have arrived in 
 the due course of mortality, only one sentiment can be ex- 
 pected from the Venetians themselves. At no time were 
 the subjects of the republic so unanimous in their resolu- 
 ,tion to rally round the standard of St. Mark, as when it 
 was for the last time unfurled; and the cowardice and 
 Ihe treachery of the few patricians who recommended the 
 jfetal neutrality, were confined to thepersons of the traitors 
 jthemselves. 
 
 The present race cannot be thought to regret the loss 
 of their aristocratical forms, and too despotic governmen t ; 
 they think only on their vanished independence. They pine 
 ^wayatthe remembrance, and on this subject suspend 
 for a moment their gay good -humour. Venice may be 
 said, in tlie words of the scripture, "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 hiseyes. 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. Theabhorrenceof slavery which 
 drove the Venetians to the sea, has, since their disaster, 
 forced them to the land, where they may be at least over- 
 looked amongst the crowd of dependants, and not present 
 tlie humiliating spectacle of a whole nation loaded with 
 recent chains. Tiieir liveliness, their affability, and that 
 happy indifference which constitution alone can give, for 
 philosopliy aspires to it in vain, have not sunk under cir- 
 cumstances; but many peculiarities of costume and man- 
 Tier have by degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a pride 
 common to all Italians who have been masters, have not 
 been persuaded to parade their insignificance. That splen- 
 dour, which was a proof and a portion of their power, 
 
 *) "Nonnullorum e nobilitate immcnsa? sunt opes, 
 adeo utvix aistimari possint: id quod tribus e rebus 
 oritur, parsimonia, commercio, atque iis emolumen- 
 tis,qu8eeRepub. percipiunt,quie hancobcausamdiu- 
 turna fore creditur." — See de Principatibus Italia) 
 Tractatus, edit. 1631. 
 
 they would not degrade into the trappings of their sub- 
 jection. They retired from the space which they had oc- 
 cupied in the eyes of their fellow -citizens ; their continu- 
 ance in which would have been a symptom of acquies- 
 cence, and an insult to those who suffered by the common 
 misfortune. Those who remained in the degraded capi- 
 tal, might be said rather to haunt the scenes of their de- 
 parted power, than to live in them. The redection , "who 
 and what enthrals," will hardly bear a comment from one 
 who is, nationally, the friend and the ally of the conquer- 
 or. 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 unprofitableaversion will not have 
 been corrected before Venice shall have sunk into the 
 slime of her choked canals. 
 
 Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse. 
 
 [p. 34. St. 16. 
 The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. 
 
 And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art. 
 
 [p. 34. St. 18. 
 Venice Preserved; Mysteries of Udofpho: the Ghost- 
 seer, or Armenian; the Merchant of Venice; Othello. 
 
 But from their nature will the tannen grow 
 Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter' d rochs. 
 
 [p. 34. St. 20. 
 Tannen is the plural ottanne, a species of fir peculiar 
 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 heightthan any other 
 mountain-tree. 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven, 
 
 [p. 35. St. 28. 
 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 de- 
 lineation of an August-evening (the eighteenth), as con- 
 templated in one of many rides> along the banks of the 
 Brenta near La Mira. 
 
 Watering the tree which hears his lady's name 
 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 
 
 [p. 35. St. 30. 
 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. We must not, however, think that 
 these memoirs are as much a romance as Bclisarius or 
 the Incas, although we are told so by Dr. Beattie, a great 
 name, but a little authority. His "labour" has not been 
 in vain, notwithstanding his "love" has, like most other 
 passions, made him ridiculous. *) The hypothesis which 
 overpowered the struggling Italians, and carried along 
 less interested critics in its current, is run out. We have 
 another proof that we can never be sure that the paradox, 
 the most singular, and therefore having the most agreeable 
 and authentic air, will not give place to there-established 
 ancient prejudice. 
 
 It seems^ien, 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 hypothesis of the 
 Abbe had no stronger props than the parchment sonnet 
 and medal found on the skeleton of the wife of Hugo dc 
 Sade, and the manuscript-note to the Virgil of Petrarch, 
 
 *) Mr. Gibbon called his Memoirs "a labour of 
 love," and followed him with confidence and delight. 
 Tiie (compiler of a very voluminous work must tal c 
 much criticism upon trust; Mr. Gibbon has done so, 
 though not so readily as some other authors. 
 
718 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRLVIAGB. 
 
 now iij the Ambrosian library. If these proofs were both 
 incontestable, the poetry was written, the medal com- 
 posed, cast, and deposited, within the space of twelve 
 hours ; and these deliberate duties were performed round 
 the carcass of one who died of the plag-ue, and was hur- 
 ried to the grave on the day of her death. These docu- 
 ments, therefore, are too decisive: they prove, not the 
 fact, but the forgery. Either tJie sonnet or the Yirgilian 
 note must be a falsification. The Abbe cites both as in- 
 contcstably true ; the consequent 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 hon- 
 oured Avignon by making that town the theatreof an honest 
 French passion, and played oflfor one-and-twenty years 
 her little niacldnery of alternate favours and refusals *) 
 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 faitli of a misinterpreted abbreviation, 
 and the decision of a librarian. **) It is, however, satis- 
 factory to think that the love of Petrarch was not platouic. 
 The happiness which he prayed to possess but once and 
 for a moment was surely not of tiie mind,***) and some- 
 thing so very real as a marriage -project, with one who 
 has been idly called a shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, 
 detected in at least six places of his own sonnets. The 
 love of Petrarch was neither platonic nor poetical; and 
 if in one passage of his works he calls it "amore veemcn- 
 teissimo ma unico cd onesto," he confesses , in a letter 
 to a friend, that it was guilty and perverse, that it absor- 
 bed him quite, and mastered his heart, f) 
 
 In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed for the 
 culpability of his wishes; for the Abbe de Sade himself, 
 Avho certainly would not have been scrupulously delicate, 
 if he could have proved his descent from Petrarch as well 
 as Laura, is forced into a stout defence of his virtuous 
 grand-mother. As far as relates to the poet, we have no 
 security for the innocence, except perliaps in the con- 
 stancy of his pursuit. He assures us in his epistle to pos- 
 terity that, when arrived at his fortieth year, he not only 
 had in horror, but had lost all recollection and image of 
 any "irregularity." tt) But the birth of his natural daugh- 
 ter cannot be assigned earlier than his thirty-ninth year; 
 and either the memory or the morality of the poet must 
 have failed him, when he forgot or was guilty of this slip. 
 
 *) " Par ce petit manege , cette alternative de 
 faveursetderigueurs bien menagee,unefemmetendre 
 et sage amuse, pendant vingt-un ans, le phis grand 
 pofete deson si^cle, sans faire la moindre breche k son 
 honneur." The Italian editor of the London edition of 
 Petrarch , who has translated Lord Woodhouselee, 
 renders the"femme tendre et sage" '■'■rafjinata civetta." 
 
 **) In a diaologue with St. Augustin, Petrarch 
 has described Laura as having a body exhausted with 
 repeated ptubs. The old editors read and printed 
 perturbationibus ; but Mr. Capperonier , librarian to 
 the French King in 1762, who saw the MS. in the 
 Paris library, made an attestation that "mi litet qu'on 
 doit lire, parlubus exhaustum." DeSaue joined the 
 names of Messrs. Boudot and Bejot with Mr. Cap- 
 peronier, and in the whole discussion on this ptubs 
 showed himself a downright literary rogue. Thomas 
 Aquinas is called in to settle whether Petrarch's mis- 
 tress was a chaste maid or a continent wife. 
 
 ***) Pigmalion, quanto lodar ti dei 
 
 Deir immagine tna, se mille volte 
 N' avesti quel ch' i' sol una vorrei. 
 
 t) Quella rea e perversa passione che solo tutto 
 mi occupava e mi regnava nel cuore. 
 
 +t) Azion disonesta are his words. 
 
 The weakest argument for the purity of his love has been 
 drawn from the permanence of eftects, which survived the 
 object of his passion. The reflexion of Mr. 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 hu- 
 man feeling. Such apophthegms can do nothing for Pe- 
 trarch 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 edi- 
 fied 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 riglit in re- 
 taining his favorite hypothetic salvo, which secures the 
 author, although it scarcely saves the honour of the still 
 unknown mistress of Petrarch. *) ^_ 
 
 They keep his dust in ArqucI, where he died. '^| 
 
 [p. 35. St. 31. 
 
 Petrarch retired to Arquk immediately on his return 
 from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at Rome, 
 in the year 1370, and, with the exception of his celebrated 
 visit to Venice in company with Francesco Novello 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 con- 
 tinual languor, and in the morning of July the 19th, in 
 the year 1374, was found dead in his library-chair with his 
 head resting upon a book. The chair is still shown 
 amongst the precious relics of Arquk, which, from the 
 uninterrupted veneration that has been attached to every 
 thing relative to this great man from the moment of his 
 death to the present hour, have, it may be hoped, a better 
 chance of authenticity than the Sliakspearian memorials 
 of Stratford upon Avon. 
 
 Arqui (for the last syllable is accentedin pronunciation, 
 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 toRovigo, 
 in thebosom of theEuganean hills. After a walk of twenty 
 minutes, across a flat well-wooded meadow, you come to 
 a little blue lake, clear but fathomless, and to the foot of 
 a succession of acclivities and hills, clothed with vine- 
 yards 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 over- 
 looking two descents, and commanding a view not only 
 of the glowing gardens in the dales immediately beneath, 
 but of the wide plains, above whose low woods of mul- 
 berry 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 clrmate 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 fount- 
 
 *) "And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was 
 inexorable, he enjoyed, and might boast of enjoying 
 the nymph of poetry." Gibbon. Perhaps the if is here 
 meant for although. 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 719 
 
 tin, for here every things is Petrarch's, springs and ex- 
 ;>ands itself beneath an artilioial arch, a little below li>e 
 church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest season, with 
 that soft water which was the ancient wealth of theEuga- 
 aean hills. It would be more attractive, were it not, in 
 jome seasons, beset with hornets and wasps. No other 
 soincidence could assimilate the tombs of Petrarch and 
 Airchilochus. The revolutions of centuries have spared 
 these sequestered vallies, and the only violence which has 
 jeen ollered to the ashes of Petrarch was prompted , not 
 jy hate, but veneration. An attempt was made to rob the 
 iarcopliagus of its treasure, and one of the arms was sto- 
 €n by a Florentine through a rent which is still visible. 
 The injury is not forgotten, but has served to identify the 
 )0et with the country where he was born, but where he 
 ivould not live. A peasant-boy of Arqui being asked who 
 Petrarch was, replied, "that the people of the parsonage 
 cnew all about him, but that he only knew that he was a 
 Florentine." 
 
 Mr. Forsyth was not quite correct in saying, that Pe- 
 rarcli never returned to Tuscany after he had once quit- 
 ;ed it when a boy. It appears he did pass through Flo- 
 [■ence on his way from Parma to Rome, and on his return 
 n the year 1350, and remained there long enough to form 
 !0me acquaintance with its most distinguished inhabi- 
 ants. A Florentine gentleman, ashamed of the aversion 
 bf the poet for his native country, was eager to point out 
 ;his trivial error in our accomplished traveller, wiiom he 
 tnew and respected for an extraordinary capacity, ex- 
 lensive erudition, and refined taste, joined to that enga- 
 ging simplicity of manners which has been so frequently 
 ecognized as the surest, though it is certainly not an in- 
 dispensable, trait of superior genius. 
 
 Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously 
 raced and recorded. The house in which he lodged is 
 ihown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in order to 
 Jecide the ancient controversy between their city and the 
 leighbouring Ancisa, where Petrarch was carried when 
 leven months old, and remained until his seventh year, 
 lave designated by a long inscription the spot where their 
 freat fellow-citizen was born. A tablet has been raised to 
 lim at Parma, in the chapel of St. Agatiia, atthecathe- 
 iral, because lie was archdeacon of that society, and was 
 inly snatched from his intended sepulture in their church 
 »y dL foreign deatli. Another tablet with a bust has been 
 Iprected to him at Pavia, on account of his having passed 
 ihe autumn of 1368 in that city, with his son-in-law Bros- 
 iano. The political condition, which lias for ages preclu- 
 ted the Italians from the criticism of the living, has con- 
 ;entrated tiieir attention to the illustration of the dead. 
 The tablet at Parma is as follows : 
 
 D. O. M. 
 
 Francisco Petrarchaj 
 
 Parmensi Arcliidiacono. 
 
 Parentibus praselaris genere pcrantiquo 
 
 Ethices Christianas scriptori eximio 
 
 Romana? lingute reslitutori 
 
 j EtrusccB principi 
 
 Africae ob carmen hac in urbe peractum 
 
 regibus accito 
 
 S. P. Q. R. laurea donato 
 
 Tanti Yiri 
 
 Juvenilium juvenis senilium senex 
 
 Studiosissimus 
 
 Conies Nicolaus Canonicus Cicognarus 
 
 Marmorea proxima ara excitata 
 
 Ibique condito 
 
 Divaj Januarite cruento corpore 
 
 H. M. P. 
 
 Suftectum 
 
 Sed infra meritum Francisci sepulchro 
 
 Summa hac in aide eflerri maiidantis 
 
 Si Parma? occumlieret 
 
 Extera morte lieu nobis erepti. 
 
 Or, it may he, with demons, [p. 35. St. 34. 
 The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demons 
 as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilderness 
 for the temptation of our Saviour. And our unsullied Joho 
 Locke preferred the presence of a child to complete so- 
 litude. 
 
 In face of all his foes, the Cmscan quire. 
 And Boileaii, whose rash envy — [p. 36. St. 38. 
 
 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 verse ; 
 A Malherbe, h. Racan preferer Theophile, 
 Et le clinquant du Tasse h. tout I'or de Virgile. 
 Sat. IX. 176. 
 The biographer Serassi, out of tenderness to the reputation 
 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 we examine the 
 whole anecdote as reported by Olivet. The sentence pro- 
 nounced against him by Bohours, is recorded only to the 
 confusion of the critic, whose palinodia the Italian makes 
 no eflort to discover, and would not perhaps accept. As 
 to the opposition which the Jerusalem encountered from 
 tiie Cruscan academy, who degraded Tasso from all com- 
 petition with Ariosto, below Bojardo and Pulci, the dis- 
 grace of such opposition must also in some measure be 
 laid to the charge of Alphonso , and the court of Ferrara. 
 For Leonard Salviati, the principal and nearly the sole 
 origin of this attack, was, there can be no doubt, 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 pri- 
 soner of state. The hopes and eliorts ofSalviati must serve 
 to show the cotemporary opinion as to the nature of the 
 poet's imprisonment ; and will till up the measure of our 
 indignation at tlu; tyrant-jailor. 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, he was in his 
 turn abandoned, and expired in neglected poverty. The 
 opposition of the Cruscaus was brought to a close' in six 
 years after the commencement of the controversy, and if 
 the academy owed its first renown to having almost opened 
 witli such a paradox; it is probable that, on the other 
 hand, the care of his reputation alleviated rather than ag- 
 gravated the imprisonment of tlie injured poet. The de- 
 fence of his father and of himself , for both were involved 
 in the censure ofSalviati, 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. The late biographer of Ariosto seems as if wil- 
 ling to renew the controversy by doubting the interpreta- 
 tion of Tasso's self-estimation, related in Serassi's life of 
 tlie poet. But Tiraboschi had before laid that rivalry at 
 rest, by showing, that between Ariosto and Tasso it is not 
 a question of comparison, but of preference. 
 
 T7ie liyhtning rent from Ariosto's bust 
 The iron crown of laurel's mimic' d leaves. 
 
 [p. 36. St. 41. 
 Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from tlie 
 Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his bust, 
 which surmounted tiietomb, was struck by lightning, and 
 a crown of iron laurels melted away. The event has been 
 recorded by a writer of the last century. The transfer of 
 these sacred ashes on the 6th of June 1801 was one of the 
 most brilliant spectacles of the shortlived Italian Repub- 
 lic, and to consecrate the memory of the ceremony, the 
 
720 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 once famous fallen Intrepidi were revived and reformed 
 into the Ariostean academy. The large public plaee tlirou^li 
 which the procession paraded was then for tiie first time 
 called Ariosto Square. The author of the Orlando is jeal- 
 ously claimed as the Homer, not of Italy, but Ferrara. 
 The mother of Ariosto was ofReg-gio, 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 Settembre dell' anno 1474." 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 inkstand, and 
 his autographs — 
 
 '' Hie illius arma, 
 
 Hie currus fuit " 
 
 The house where he lived , the room where he died, are 
 designated by his own replaced memorial*), and by a re- 
 cent inscription. The Ferrarese are more jealous of their 
 claims since the animosity of Denina, arising from a cause 
 which their apologists mysteriously bint is not unknown 
 to them, ventured to degrade their soil and climate to a 
 Boeotian incapacity for all spiritual productions. A quarto 
 volume has been called forth by the detraction, and this 
 supplement to Barotti's Memoirs of the illustrious Fer- 
 rarese has been considered a triumphant reply to the 
 "Quadro Storico Statistico dell' Alta Italia." 
 
 For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 
 Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 
 
 [p. 36. St. 41. 
 The eagle, the sea-calf, the laurel , and the white vine, 
 were amongst the most approved preservatives against 
 lightning: Jupiter chose the first, Augustus Ctesar the se- 
 cond, and Tiberius never failed to wear a wreath of the 
 third when the sky threatened a thunder-storm. These 
 superstitions may be received without a sneer in a coun- 
 try 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 commentator on Sueto- 
 nius has taken upon himself gravely to disprove the im- 
 puted virtues of the crown of Tiberius, by mentioning 
 that, a few years before he wrote, a laurel was actually 
 struck by lightning at Rome. 
 
 Know, that the lightning sanctifies below, 
 
 [p. 36. St. 41. 
 
 The Cnrtian 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 aputeal, or 
 altar, resembling the mouth of a well, with a little chapel 
 covering the cavity supposed to be made by the thunder- 
 bolt. Bodies scathed and persons struck dead were thought 
 to be incorruptible : and a stroke not fatal conferred per- 
 petual dignity upon the man so distinguished by heaven. 
 
 Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a white gar- 
 ment, and buried where they fell. Tlie superstition was 
 not confined to the worshippers of Jupiter : the Lombards 
 believed in the omens furnished by lightning, and a Chris- 
 tian priest confesses that, by a diabolical skill in interpret- 
 ing thunder, a seer foretold to Agilulf, duke of Turin, an 
 event which came to pass, and gave him a queen and a 
 crown. There was, however, something equivocal in this 
 sign, which the ancient inhabitants of Rome did not al- 
 ways 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 
 
 *) "Parva, sed apta mihi, sed nulli obnoxia, sed non 
 Sordida, parta meo sed tamen a;re domus." 
 
 walls of Velitrse, and including that which plajed upon a 
 gate at Florence, and foretold the pontificate of one of its 
 citizens. 
 
 Italia, oh Italia ! [p. 36. St. 42. 
 
 The two stanzas, 42 and 43, are with the exception of 
 a line or two, a translation of the famous sonnet of Filioaja: 
 "Italia, Italia, O tu cui feo la sorte." 
 
 Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him. 
 The Romanfriend of Rome's least mortal mind. 
 
 [p. 36. St. 44. 
 
 The celebrated letter of Scrvius 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^gina 
 towards Megara, I began to contemplate the prospect of 
 the countries around me: ^gina was behind, Megara be- 
 foreme ; Piraeus on the right, Corinth on the left; all which 
 towns, once famous and flourishing, now lie overturned 
 and buried in tfieir ruins. Upon this sight, I could not 
 but think presently within myself: Alas ! how do we poor 
 mortals fret and veKOurselves if any of our friends happen 
 to die or be killed, whose life is yet so short, whenthecar- 
 casses of so many noble cities lie here exposed before me 
 in one view." 
 
 — And we pass 
 Tlie skeleton of her Titanic form. 
 
 [p. 36. St. 46. 
 
 It isPoggio who, looking from the Capitoline hill upon 
 
 ruined Rome, breaks forth into the exclamation: "Ut nunc 
 
 omnidecore nudata, prostrata jacet, instargiganteicada- 
 
 veris corrupti atque undique exesi." 
 
 Tliere too the Goddess loves in stone. 
 
 [p. 36. St. 49. 
 
 The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests 
 the lines in the Seasons, and the comparison of the object 
 with the description proves, not only the correctness of 
 the portrait, but the peculiar turn of thought, and, if the 
 term may be used, the sexual imagination of the descriptive 
 poet. The same conclusion may be deduced from another 
 hint in the same episode of Musidora; for Thomson's no- 
 tion 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 moment he might perhaps be the com- 
 panion of her bath; 
 
 "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 Whetter. 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, atRome, where the whole group of the I 
 fable of Marsyas is seen in tolerable preservation and the 
 Scythian slave whetting 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 difficul- 
 ty than to suppose the knife in the hand of the Florentine 
 statue an instrument for shaving, which it must be, if, as 
 Lanzi supposes , the man is no other than the barber of 
 Julius Csesar. Winkelmann, illustratingabasrelief of tlie ^ 
 same subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agostiui, 
 and his authority might have been thought conclusive, , 
 even if the resemblance did not strike the most careless j 
 observer. ; 
 
 Amongst the bronzes of the same princely collection, is 
 still to be seen the inscribed tablet copied andcommented 
 upon by Mr. Gibbon. Our historian found some difficul- 
 ties, but did not desist from his illustration; he might be 
 vexed to hear that his criticism has been thrown away on 
 an inscription now generally recognized to be a forgery. 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 721 
 
 — His eyes to thee upturn, 
 Feeding on thy sweet cheek! 
 
 [p.37. St. 5L 
 '0<fduXfiovq iaxiifv. 
 "Atque oculos pascat uterque suos." 
 
 Ovid. Amor. lib. ii. 
 
 In Santa Grace's holy precincts lie. 
 
 [p. 37. St. 54. 
 This name will recall 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 elo- 
 iHicnce 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 dazzling 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 friendship or detraction has held the pen- 
 cil: the impartial portrait was hardly to be expected from 
 ;u otemporary. The immediate voice of her survivors will, 
 it is probable, be far from aftording 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; 
 th<y can surprise by no new miracles; they can confer no 
 privilege; Corinna has ceased tobea woman — she is only 
 an author : and it may be foreseen that many will repay 
 tlicniselves for former complaisance by a severity to which 
 the extravagance of previous praises may perhaps give 
 tlie colour of truth. The latest posterity, for to the latest 
 posterity they will assuredly descend, will have to pro- 
 nounce upon hervarious 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 
 I the decision. She will enter into that existence in which 
 jthe great writers of all ages and nations are, as it were, 
 associated in a world of their own, and, from that superior 
 spliere, shed their eternal influence for the controul and 
 consolation of mankind. But the individual will gradually 
 disappear as the author is more distinctly seen; someone, 
 therefore, of all those whom the charms of involuntary 
 wit, and of easy hospitality, attracted within the friendly 
 cir<^les of Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those vir- 
 tues which, although they are said to love the shade, are, 
 in fact, more frequently chilled than excited by the domes- 
 tic cares of private life. Some one should be found to 
 pourtray the unaftected graces with which she adorned 
 those dearer relationships, the performance of whose du- 
 ties is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets, than 
 seen in the outward management, of family intercourse; 
 and which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of genuine af- 
 fection to qualify for the eye of an indiflerent 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 
 wliich, divested of the ambition and the arts of public ri- 
 valry, shone forth only to give fresh animation to those 
 around her. The mother tenderly attectionate and ten- 
 derly generous.but still esteemed,the charitable patroness 
 of all distress, cannot be forgotten by those whom sheche- 
 rished, and protected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned 
 the most where she was known the best; and, to the sor- 
 rows of very many friends and more dependants, may be 
 oftered the disinterested regret of a stranger, who, amidst 
 the sublimer scenes of the Leman lake, received his chief 
 satisfaction from contemplating the engaging qualities of 
 the incomparable Corinna. 
 
 Here repose 
 
 Ange/o's, Alfieri's bones, [p. 37. St. 54. 
 Alfieri 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 because, 
 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 obser- 
 ved by Cicero, that nowhere were the true opinions and 
 feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at the theatre. *) 
 In the autumn of 1816 a celebrated improvisatore exhi- 
 bited his talents at the Opera-house of Alilan. The read- 
 ing of the theses handed in for the subjects of his poetry 
 was received by a very numerous audience, for the most 
 part in silence, or with laughter; but when the assistant, 
 unfolding one of the papers, exclaimed : " The apotheosis 
 of Victor Aljieri," 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 bom- 
 bardment of Algiers. The choice, indeed, is not left to ac- 
 cident quite so much as might be thouglit 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 pru- 
 dential afterthought, 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. 
 
 Here Machiavelli's earth , return' d to whence it rose. 
 
 [p. 37. St. 54. 
 
 The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscriptions, 
 w hich so often leaves us uncertain whether the structure 
 before us is an actual depository, or a cenotaph, or a 
 simple memorial not of death but life, has given to the 
 tomb of Machiavelli no information as to the place or 
 time of the birth or death, the age or parentage, of the 
 Itistorian. 
 
 TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM 
 NICOLAVS 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 pro- 
 verbial of iniquity, exist no longer at Florence. His me- 
 mory was persecuted as his life had been for an attachment 
 to liberty,incompatible with the new system of despotism, 
 which succeeded the fall of the free governments of Italy, 
 He was put to the torture for being a "libertine," that is, 
 for wishing to restore the republic of Florence; and such 
 are the undying efforts of those who are interested in the 
 perversion not only of the nature of actions, but the 
 meaning of words, that what was once patriotism, has by 
 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 infatuatioa 
 in all. It seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse 
 the author 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 beproved, 
 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 Inquisition 
 
 *) 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 sufter the brilliancy of the spectacle iQ 
 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 
 shoutitig round the chariots, of Lepidus and Plancus, 
 who had proscribed their brothers, De Germanis non 
 de Gallis duo triumphant Consules, a saying worth a 
 record, were it nothing but a good pun. 
 
 46 
 
722 
 
 NOTES 10 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 "beneh6 fosse tardo," to prohibit the treatise, and the 
 otlier (jualilied tlie secretary of the Florentine republic 
 as no better than a fool. The fatlier Possevin was pnncd 
 never to have read the book, and the father Lucohesiai 
 not to have understood it. It is clear, however, that such 
 critics must liave objected not to the slavery of the doc- 
 trines, but to the supposed tendency of a lesson wliich 
 shows how distinct are tlie interests of a monarcli from 
 the happiness of mankind. The Jesuits are re-establislied 
 in Italy, and the last chapter of the Prince may again call 
 forth a particular refutation, from those who are employed 
 once more in moulding the minds ofthe rising generation, 
 so as to receive the impressions of despotism. The chapter 
 bears for title: Esortazione a liberare la Italia dai Uar- 
 bari," and concludes with a libertine excitement to tlie 
 future redemption of Italy. "Aon si deve adunque lasciar 
 passiire qucsta occasione, acciocche la Italia vegga dopo 
 tanto tempo apparire un suo redentore. Neposso espri- 
 mere con qval amove eifusse ricevuto in tutte quelle pro- 
 vincie, che lianno patito per queste illuvioni esterne, con 
 qualsete di vendetta, con che ostinatafede, con che lacrime. 
 Qualiporte se li serrereheno! Quali popoli li neyherebheno 
 la obbedienza? Quale Italiano li negherebbe I' ossequio? 
 AD OGNUNO PUZZA QUESTO BARBARO DOMINIO." 
 
 Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar. 
 
 [p. 37. St. 57. 
 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 fineof 8000 lire; on the non-pay- 
 ment of which he was further punished by the seques- 
 tration of all his property. The republic, however, was 
 not content with this satisfaction, for in 1772 was disco- 
 vered in the archives at Florence a sentence in which 
 Dante is the eleventh of a list of fifteen condemned 
 in 1302 to be burnt alive; Talis perveniens igne com- 
 huratur sic quod moriatur. The pretext for this judgment 
 was a proof of unfair barter , extortions , and illicit 
 gains: Baracteriarum iniquarum, extorsionum , et illi- 
 citorum lucrorum; and with such an accusation it is not 
 strange that Dante should have always protested his in- 
 nocence, and the injustice of his fellow -citizens. His ap- 
 peal to Florence was accompanied by another to the 
 Emperor Henry, and the death of that sovereign in 1313, 
 was the signal for a sentence of irrevocable banishment. 
 He had before lingered near Tuscany with liopes of recall; 
 then travelled into the north of Italy where V erona had 
 to boast of his longest residence, and he finally settled at 
 Ravenna, which was his ordinarybutnotconstant abode 
 until his death. The refusal of tlie Venetians to grant him 
 a public audience, on the part of Guido Novello da Po- 
 lenta, his protector, is said to have been tiie principal 
 cause of this event, which h£^)pened in 1321. He was 
 buried ("in sacra minorum aede") at Ravenna, in a hand- 
 some tomb, which was erected by Guido,restorcd by Ber- 
 nardo Bembo in 1483,prcietor for tiiat republic which had 
 refused to hear him, again restored by Cardinal Corsi in 
 1692, and replaced by a more magnificent sepulchre, con- 
 structed in 1780 at the expense ot tlie Cardinal Luigi 
 Valenti Gonzaga. The oftence 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, con- 
 tended 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 the expounding of his verses, and 
 Boccaccio was appointed to this patriotic employment. 
 The example was imitated by 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 tiie images of his mystic 
 muse. His birth and Ids infancy were discovered to have 
 been distinguislied above those of ordinary men; the 
 author ofthe Decameron, his earliest biographer, relates 
 that his mother was warned in a dream ofthe 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 tlie 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 competition had sobered the judg- 
 ment of the Italians, Dante was seriously declared supe- 
 rior to Homer, and although the preference appeared to 
 some casuists "an heretical blasphemy worthy of the 
 flames," the contest was vigorously maintained for nearly 
 fifty years. In later times it was made a question which 
 ofthe Lords of Verona could boast of having patronized 
 him, and the jealous scepticism of one writer would not 
 allow Ravenna tfie undoubted possession of his bones. 
 Even the critical Tirabosclii was inclined to believe that 
 the poet had foreseen and foretold one ofthe discoveries 
 of Galileo. Like the great originals of other nations, his 
 popularity has not always maintained the same level. 
 The last age seemed inclined to undervaluehimas a model 
 and a study; and Bettinelli one day rebuked his pupil 
 Monti, for poring over the harsh and obsolete extrava- 
 gances ofthe Commedia. The present generation having 
 recovered from the Gallic idolatries of Cesarotti has re- 
 turned to the an<!ient worship, and theDanteggiare ofthe 
 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 celebrated 
 Hugo Foscolo meditates to supply tiiis defect; and it is 
 not to be regretted that this national work has been re- 
 served for one so devoted to his country and the cause 
 of truth. 
 
 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
 21iy factions, iti,their worse than civil war. 
 Proscribed etc. [p. 37. St. 57. 
 
 The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he was not 
 buried at Liternum, whither he had retired to voluntary 
 banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, and the 
 story of an inscription upon it, Ingrata Patria, having 
 given a name to a modern tower, is, if not true, an agree- 
 able fiction. If he was not buried, he certainly lived 
 there.*) 
 
 In cosi angusta e solitaria villa 
 Era 'I grand' uomo che d'Africa s'appella 
 Perche prima col ferro al vivo aprilla. 
 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 aristo- 
 cracy and the multitude. 
 
 Yettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at Por- 
 tolongo, and many years afterwards in the more decisive 
 action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by the Ve- 
 netian Government, and thrown into chains. The Avvo- 
 
 *) Vitam Literni egit sine desiderio urbis. Liv. 
 Hist. lib. xxxviii. Livy reports that some said he was 
 buried at Liternum, others at Rome. 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 723 
 
 ^dori proposed to behead him, but the supreme tribunal 
 was content with the sentenoe of imprisonment. Whilst 
 Pisani was suffering this unmerited disgrace, Chioza, in 
 •the vicinity of the capital, was, by the assistance of the 
 Sif/nor of Padua, delivered into the hands of Pietro 
 D()ria. 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 t lie 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: 
 tlic prisoner was called before them, and the Doge, Au- 
 di ca Contarini, informed him of the demands of the people 
 and the necessities of the state, wliose only hope of safety 
 was reposed on his eflbrts, and who implored him to for- 
 get the indignities he had endured in her service. "I have 
 siil)mitted," replied the magnanimous republican, "I have 
 submitted to your deliberations withoutcomplaint ; Ihave 
 supported patiently the pains of imprisonment, for they 
 iwere inllicted at your command : tiiis is no time to inquire 
 whether 1 derserved them — the good of the republic may 
 have seemed to require it, and that which the republic re- 
 solves 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 con- 
 junction with those of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon re- 
 covered the ascendancy over their maritime rivals. 
 
 The Italian communities were no less unjust to their ci- 
 tizens tiian the Greek republics. Liberty, botli with tiie 
 one and the other, seems to have been a national, not an 
 individual object: and, notwithstanding the boasted egwa/- 
 iti/ bit/ore the laws, which an ancient Greek writer consi- 
 dc) ed 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 tlie old de- 
 mocracies. The world may have not yet seen an essay 
 by tlie author of the Italian Republics, in which the dis- 
 tinction between the liberty of former states, and the sig- 
 nilication attached to that word by the happier constitu- 
 tion of England, is ingeniously developed. 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 Rovere, proposed the question, "which was pre- 
 ferable, 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 qua- 
 lity, 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- 
 nijicent answer, down to the last days of Italian servitude. 
 
 And the crown 
 
 Wliich Petrarch's laureate-brow supremely wore, 
 Upon afar and foreign soil had grown. 
 
 [p. 37. St. 57. 
 The Florentines did not take the opportunity of Pe- 
 trarch's short visit to their city in 1350 to revoke the de- 
 cree which conhscated 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 univer- 
 sity, they repented of their injustice, and Boccaccio was 
 sent to Padua to intreat the Laureate to conclude his 
 wanderings in the bosom of his native country, where he 
 might linish his immortal Africa, and enjoy, with his 
 recovered possessions, tlie esteem of all classes of his fel- 
 low-citizens. They gave him the option of the book and 
 the science he might condescend to expound ; they called 
 him the glory of his country, w ho was dear, and would be 
 dearer to them; and they added,thatifthere was any thing 
 unpleasing in their letter, he ought to return amongst them, 
 were it only to correct their style. Petrarch seemed at 
 first to listen to the flattery and to the intreaties of his 
 
 friend, but he did not return to Florence , and preferred 
 a pilgrimage to the tomb of Laura and the sliades of 
 Vaucluse. 
 
 Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
 Bis dust. [p. 37. St. 58. 
 
 Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. Michael and 
 St. James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Valdelsa, w hich 
 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 re- 
 pose. But the "hyeena bigots" of Certaldo tore up the 
 tombstone -of Boccaccio, and ejected it from the holy pre- 
 cincts of St. Michael and St. James. The oc(!asion, and, it 
 may be hoped, the excuse, of this ejectment was the mak- 
 ing of a new floor for the church ; but the fact is, that the 
 tombstone 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 de- 
 votion of the Italians for their great names, could it not 
 be accompanied by a trait more honourably conformable 
 to the general character of the nation. The principal per- 
 son of the district, the last branch of thehouseof Medicis, 
 aflbrded that protection to the memory of the insulted 
 dead which her best ancestors had dispensed upon all co- 
 temporary merit. The Marchioness Lenzoni rescued the 
 tombstone of Boccaccio from the neglect in which it had 
 some time lain, and found for it an honourable elevation 
 in her own mansiou. 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. af- 
 fixed an inscription. This house she has taken measures 
 to purchase,and proposes to devote to it that care and con- 
 sideration 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 language; 
 who, besides the esteem of every polite court of Europe, 
 was thought worthy of employment by the predominant' 
 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 priests of Certaldo, and from a 
 late English traveller, who strikes off" his portrait as an 
 odious, contemptible, licentious writer, whose impure re- 
 mains should be suffered to rot without a record *). That 
 
 *) Classical Tour, chap. ix. vol. ii. p. 365. edit. 3d. 
 
 "Of Boccaccio, the modern Petronius, we say nothing; 
 the abuse of genius is more odious and more contempt- 
 ible 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 tra- 
 veller may pass unnoticed the tomb of the malignant 
 Arctino." 
 
 This dubious phrase is hardly enough to save the 
 tourist from the suspicion of another blunder respect- 
 ing the burial-place of Arctino, whose tomb was in the 
 church of St. Luke at Venice, and gave rise to the fa- 
 mous controversy of which some notice is taken in 
 Bayle. Now the words of Mr. Eustace would lead us 
 to think the tomb was at Florence, or at least was to 
 be somewhere recognized. Whether the inscription so 
 much disputed was ever written on the tomb cannot 
 now bedecided.for all memorial of this author has dis- 
 appeared from the church of St. Luke, which is now- 
 changed into a lamp-warehouse. 
 
724 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 English traveller, unfortunately for those who have to de- 
 plore tile loss of a very amiable person, is beyond all cri- 
 ticism; but themortality which did not protect Boccaccio 
 from Mr. Eustace, must not defend Mr. Eustace from the 
 impartial judgment of liis successors. — Death may ca- 
 nonize liis virtues, not his errors ; and it may be modestly 
 pronounced that he transgressed , not only as an author, 
 but as a man, when he evoked the shade of Boccaccio in 
 company with that of Atetino, 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 w hat censure is past upon a coxcomb 
 who owes his present existence to the above burlesque 
 character given to liim by tlie poet w hose amber has pre- 
 served many other grubs and worms ; butto classify Boc- 
 caccio with such a person, and to excommunicate his very 
 ashes, must of itself make us doubt of the qualilieation of 
 the classical tourist for writing upon Italian, or, indeed, 
 upon any other literature; for ignorance on one point may 
 incapacitate an author merely for that particular topic, but 
 subjection to a professional 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 otter- 
 ed for the priests of Certaldo, or the author of the Clas- 
 sical Tour. It wouldhave answered thepurposeto confine 
 the censure 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 
 restricted that censure to the objectionable qualities of 
 the hundred tales. At any rate, the repentance of Boccac- 
 cio might have arrested his exhumation, and it should 
 have been recollected and told, that in his old age he wrote 
 a letter intreating his friend to discourage the reading of 
 the Decameron, for the sakeof modesty, and for the sake of 
 theauthor, who would not haveanapologistalways at hand 
 to state in his excuse that he wrote it when young, and at the 
 command of superiors *) . It is neither the licentiousness of 
 the writer, nor the evil propensities of the reader, which 
 have gi ven to the Decameron alone, of all the works of Boc- 
 caccio, a perpetual popularity. The establishment of a new 
 and deligiitful dialect conferred an immortality on the 
 works in which it was first fixed. The sonnets of Petrarch 
 vvere,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 Pe- 
 trarch is to be regarded in no other light than as the lover 
 of Laura. Even, however, had the father of the Tuscan 
 prose been known only as the author of the Decameron, a 
 considerate writer would have been cautious to pronounce 
 a sentence irreconcileable with the unerring voice of many 
 ages and nations. An irrevocable value has never been 
 stampcduponany work solely recommended by impurity. 
 The true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, whicii 
 began at a very early period, was the choice of his scan- 
 dalous personages in the cloisters as well sis 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 tin; life. Two of the novels are allowed to be facts use- 
 fully turned into tales, to deride the canonization of ro- 
 gues and laymen. Ser Ciappelletto and Marcellinus are 
 cited with applause even by the decent Mura tori. Thegrcat 
 
 *) "Noncnimubiqacesf, qui in excusationem meam 
 consurgens dicat, juvcuis .scripsit, et majoris eoactus 
 
 imperio." 
 
 Arnauld, as he is quoted in Bayle, states, that a new edi- 
 tion 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 his- 
 tory of Italy particularizes no such edition; but it was noj 
 long before the whole of Europe had but one opinion ol 
 the Decameron; and the absolution of the author seems 
 to have been a point settled at least a hundred years ago : 
 "On se ferait sidfler si Ton pretendait convaincre IJoccace 
 de n'avoir pas etc honnete homme, puisqu'il a fait le De- 
 cameron." So said one of the best men, and perhaps the 
 best critic, that ever lived — the very martyr to impartial- 
 ity*). But as this information, that in the beginning oi 
 the last century one would have been hooted at for pre- 
 tending that Boccaccio 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, amore 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 cotemporary, who thought one oi 
 the tales of this impure writer worthy a Latin version from 
 his own pen. ^'^1 have remarked elsewhere,'' says Petrarch, 
 writing to Boccaccio, that the book itself has been worriea 
 by certain dogs, but stoutli/ defended by your staff' and 
 voice. Nor was I astonished, for Ihavehadproof of thevi- 
 gour of your mind, arid Iknow youhavef alien on thatunac- 
 commodating incapable race of mortals who, xchatcver they 
 either like not, orknownot, orcannotdo, are sure to repre- 
 hend in others : and on those occasions only put on a shoiv oj 
 learning and eloquence, but otherwise are entirely dumb."*"') 
 It is satisfactory to find tliat all the priesthood do not 
 resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them who did 
 not possess tiie bones of Boccaccio would not losethe op- 
 portunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. Bevius, 
 canon of Padua, at the beginning of the 16th century, 
 erected at Arqu;\, opposite to the tomb of the Laureate, a 
 tablet, in which he associated Boccaccio to the equal ho- 
 nours of Dante and of Petrarch. 
 
 What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 
 
 [p. 37. St. 60. 
 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, unfi- 
 nished chapel in that church, designed for the mausoleum 
 of the Dukes of Tuscany, set round with crowns and 
 coffins, gives birth to no emotions but those of contempt 
 for the lavish vanity of a race of despots , whilst the pave- 
 ment-slab simply inscribed to the Father of his Country, 
 reconciles us to the name of Medici.***) It was very natu- 
 ral for Corinna to suppose that the statue raised to the 
 Duke of Urbino in the capella de' depositi was intended for 
 his great namesake ; but the magnificent Lorenzo is only 
 the sharer of a coffin half hidden in a niche of the sacristy. 
 The decay of Tuscany dates from the sorereiguty of the 
 Medici. Of the sepulchral peacic, which succeeded to the 
 establishment of the reigning families in Italy, our own 
 Sidney has given us a glowing, but a faithful picture., 
 "Notwithstanding all the seditions of Florence, and otiier! 
 cities of Tuscany, the horrid factions of Guelphs and 
 
 *) Eclaircissement, in the Supplement to Bayle's 
 Dictionary. 
 
 **) "Animadvertialicubilibrumipsum canum den- 
 tibus lacessitum , tuo tamen baculo egregie tuaqut, 
 voce defensum. Nee miratus sum : nam et vires ingcnri 
 tui novi, et scio expertus esses hominum genus insoi 
 lens et ignavum, qui quicquid ipsi vel nolunt vel ne-I 
 sciunt, vel non possunt, in aliis reprehendunt; ad ho( 
 unum docti et arguti, sed elingues ad reliqua." 
 
 ***) Cosmus Medices , Decreto Publico , Patei 
 Patri^. 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 725 
 
 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 peace- 
 able 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 Se- 
 cond of Spain gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, his 
 embassador tlien at Rome sent him word, tliat he had 
 given away more than 650,000 subjects; and it is not be- 
 lieved there are now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and 
 territory. Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortoua, and other 
 towns, tliat were tlien good and populous, are in the like 
 proportion 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 YIII. 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 depart 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 135,000 
 well-armed men; whereas now that city, with all the 
 others in that province, are brought to such despicable 
 weakness, emptiness, poverty and baseness, 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 habitations in Venice, 
 Genoa, Rome, Naples, and Lu»;ca. This is not the etiect 
 of war or pestilence; they enjoy a perfect peace, and 
 suffer no other plague than the government they are un- 
 der." *) From the usurper Cosmo dow n to the imbecil 
 Gaston, we look in vain for any of tliose unmixed qua- 
 lities which should raise a patriot to the command of his 
 fellow-citizens. The Graiid-Uukes, and particularly tlie 
 third Cosmo, had operated so entire a change in the 
 Tuscan character, that the candid Florentines in excuse 
 for some imperfections in the philanthropic system of 
 Leopold, are 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. 
 
 Ayi earthquake reeled unheededly away! 
 
 [p. 38. St. 63. 
 
 *^And such was their mutual animosity, so intent were 
 they upon the battle, that the earthquake, which overthrew 
 in great part many of the cities oj" Italy, which turned the 
 course ojf rapid streams, poured back the sea upon the ri- 
 vers, and tore down the very mountains , was not felt by 
 one of the combatants,"**) Such is the description of 
 Livy. It may be 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 tlie w ay to Rome, has 
 for the first two or three miles, around iiim, 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 
 
 *) On Government , chap. ii. sect. xxvi. Sidney 
 is, together with Locke and Hoadley, one of Mr. 
 Hume's '^despicable" writers. 
 
 **) Tantusque fuit ardor animorum,adeo intentus 
 pugnae animus, ut eum terras motum, qui multarum 
 urbium Italiaj magnas partes prostravit, avertitque 
 cursu rapido amnes, mare tluminibus invexit, montcs 
 lapsu ingenti proruit, nemo pugnantium senserit." 
 '.IV. XXII. 12. 
 
 ridge of hills, bending down towards the lake of Thra- 
 simene, called by Livy "montes Cortonenses," and now 
 named theGualandra.These hills he approaches atOssaja, 
 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 be- 
 low on the right, with Borghetto, a round tower close 
 upon the water; and the undulating hills partially co- 
 vered with wood, amongst which tlie road winds, sink by 
 degrees into the marshes near to this tower. Lower than 
 the road, down to the right, amidst these woody hillocks, 
 Hannibal placed his horse, *) in the jaws of or rather 
 above the pass, which was between the lake and the pre- 
 sent road, and most probably close to Borghetto, just 
 under the lowest of the "tumuli."**) On a summit to the 
 left, above the road, is an old circular ruin which the pea- 
 sants 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 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 liills. It then, indeed, appears "a place made as it 
 were on purpose for a snare," locus insidiis natus. Bor- 
 ghetto is then found to stand in a narrow marshy pass 
 close to the hill and to the lake, whilst there is no other 
 outlet at the opposite turn of the mountains than througli 
 the little town of Pasignano, which is pushed into the 
 water by the foot of ahigh rocky acclivity.***) There is a 
 woody eminence branching down from tlie mountains 
 into the upper end of the plain nearer to the side of Pa- 
 signano, and on this stands a wiiite village called Torre. 
 Polybius seems to allude to this eminence as the one on 
 which Hannibal encamped and drew out his heavy armed 
 Africans and Spaniards in a conspicuous position. From 
 this spot he dispatclied hisBalearic and ligiit-armed troops 
 round through the Gualandra-heights to the right, so as 
 to arrive unseen and form an ambush amongst the broken 
 acclivities 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 lie 
 perceived nothing of the horse and light troops above and 
 about him, a<id saw only the heavy-armed Carthaginians 
 in front on the hill of Torre, f) The Consul began to 
 draw out his army in the fiat, and in the mean time the 
 horse in ambush occupied the pass behind him at Bor- 
 ghetto. 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 their left flank, and being prevented from rece- 
 ding by the cavalry, w ho, the farther they advanced, stop- 
 ped up all tlie outlets in the rear- A fog rising from the 
 lake now spread itself over the army of the Consul, but 
 
 *) Equites ad ipsas fauces sattus tumulis apte 
 tegentibus locat. Lfv. xxii. 4. 
 
 **) Ubi maxime montesCortonensesTbrasimenus 
 subit. Ibid. 
 
 ***) Inde colles assingunt. Ibid. 
 
 t) A tergo et super caput decepere iusidiie. Ibid 
 
726 
 
 NOTES TO CHILUE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 the high lands were in the sun-shine, 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 liis troops on the eminences, behind and in the flank 
 of Flaminius, rushed forwards as it were with one accord 
 into the plain. The Romans, who were forming their 
 array in the mist, suddenly heard the shouts of 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 tlie first of 
 these at about a mile after he comes into the plain, and 
 this divides tiie Tuscan from tiie 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 "Sauguinetto" and the hills, 
 which, they say, was the principal scene of slaughter. The 
 other part of the plain is covered with thick-sctolive-trees 
 in corn-grounds, and is no where quite level except near 
 the edge of the lake. It is, indeed, most probable that the 
 battle was fought near this end of tlie valley, for the six 
 thousand Romans who, at the beginning of the action, 
 broke through the enemy, escaped to the summit of an 
 eminence wliich must have been in tliis quarter , other- 
 wise 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 disper- 
 sion. The Carthaginian horse then burst in upon the fu- 
 gitives, and the lake, the marsh about Borghetto, but 
 chiefly the plain of the Sanguinetto and the passes of the 
 Gualandra, were 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 con- 
 firmed the pretensions and the name of the "stream of 
 blood." 
 
 Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north some 
 painter is the usual genius of the place, and the foreign 
 Julio Romano more than divides Mantua with hernative 
 Virgil.') To the south we hear of Roman names. Near 
 Thrasimene tradition is still faithful to tiie fame of an 
 enemy,and Hannibal the Carthaginian is theonly ancient 
 aame 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 Maharbal, 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 
 posthouse atSpoleto, tells you that his town repulsed the 
 victorious enemy, and shows you the gate still called 
 Porta di Anibale. It is hardly worth while ta remark that 
 a French travel- writer, well known by the name of the 
 President Dupaty, saw Thrasimene in the lake ofUolsena, 
 which lay convenieiUly on his way from Sienna to Rome. 
 
 But thou, Clilumnus! [p. 38. St. 66. 
 
 No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the 
 
 temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and SpoRto; 
 
 and no site, or scenery, even in Italy, is more worthy a 
 
 description. 
 
 Charming the eye with dread, - a matchless cataract. 
 
 [p. 38. St. 71. 
 
 I saw the "Cascata del marmore" of Terni twice, at 
 different periods ; once from the summit of the precipice, 
 and again from the valley below. The lower view is far 
 
 *) About the middle of the xiith century the coins 
 of Mantua bore on one side the image and figure of 
 Virgil. 
 
 to be preferred , if the traveller has time for one only ; 
 but in any point of view, either from above or below, it 
 is worth all the cascades and torrents of Switzerland put 
 together; the Staubbach, Reichenbach, Pisse-Vache, fall 
 of Arpenaz, are rills in comparative appearance. Of tiie 
 fallof Schallhausen I cannot speak, not yet having seen it. 
 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge. 
 
 [p. 38. St. 72. 
 Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of Iris the 
 reader may see a short account in a note to Manfred. 
 The fall looks so much like "the hell of waters" that Ad- 
 dison thought the descent alluded to by the gulph in which 
 Alecto plunged into the infernal regions. It is singular 
 enougli 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 
 Reatine territory was the Italian Tempe, *) and the 
 ancient naturalist, amongst other beautiful varieties, re- 
 marked the daily rainbows of the lake Velinus. **) 
 
 The thundering lauwine. [p. 38. St. 73. 
 In the greater part of Switzerland the avalanches are 
 known by the name ef lauwine. 
 
 I abhorred 
 
 Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
 Tlie drilled dull lesson, forced down word hy word. 
 
 [p. 39, St. 75. 
 These stanzas may probably remind the reader of Ensign 
 Northerton's remarks : "D — n Homo," but our reasons 
 for our dislike are not exactly tlie same. I wish to express 
 tiiat we become tired of the task before we can compre- 
 hend 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 re- 
 quires an acquaintance with life, as well as Latin and 
 Greek, to relish or to reason upon. For tiie 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 into us 
 at eight years old, as an exercise, not of mind but of me- 
 mory : so tliat when we are old enough to enjoy them, the 
 taste is gone, and the appetite palled. In some parts of 
 tiie Continent young persons are taught from more com- 
 mon authors, and do not read the best classics till their 
 maturity. I certainly do not speak on this point from any 
 pique or aversion towards the place of my education. I 
 was not a slow, thougli an idle boy; and I believe no one 
 could, or can be more attached to Harrow than I have al- 
 ways been, and vvitlj reason; — a part of the time passed 
 tliere was the happiest of my life; and my preceptor (the 
 Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury) was tiie best and worthiest friend 
 I ever possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but 
 too well — though too late — when I have erred, and whose 
 counsels I have but followed w hen I have done well or 
 wisely. If ever this imperfect record of my feelings towards 
 him should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one who 
 never thinks of him but witli gratitude and veneration— of 
 one wlio would more gladly boast of having been his pu- 
 pil, if, bymore closely following his injunctions, hecould 
 reflect any honour upon his instructor. 
 
 TAe trebly hundred triumphs! 
 
 [p. 39. St. 62.' 
 Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the number 
 of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius; andPanviuius 
 by Gibbon and the modern writers. 
 
 *) Reatini me ad sua Tempe duxerunt. CictRO, 
 epist. ad Attic, iv. 15. 
 
 **) "In eodem laeu nultonondie apparere areas." 
 PLiN.Hist.Nat.il. 42. 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRLMAGE. 
 
 727 
 
 Oh thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune's tvheel. 
 
 [p. 39. St. 83. 
 Certainly were it not for these two traits in the life of 
 Sylia, alluded to in this stanza, we should regard him as 
 a monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. The 
 ntonement of his voluntary resignation of empire may per- 
 liaps be accepted by us, as it seems to have satisfied the 
 liitmans, who if they had not respected must have destroy- 
 ed him. There could be no mean, no division of opinion; 
 they must have all thought, like Euorates, that what had 
 appeared ambition was a love of glory, and that what had 
 been mistaken for pride was a real grandeur of soul.*) 
 
 And laid him with the earth's precedinc/ clay, 
 
 [p. 40. St. 86. 
 On the third of September Cromwell gained the victory 
 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. 
 
 And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in 
 The austerestform of naked majesty. . 
 
 [p. 40. St. 87. 
 The projected division of the Spada Pompey has alrea- 
 dy been recorded by the historian of the Decline and Fall 
 of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon found it in the me- 
 morials of Flaminius Vacca, and it may be added to his 
 mention of it that Pope Julius III. gave the contending 
 owners fivehundred crowns for the statue; and presented it 
 toCardinalCapo diFerro,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 opera- 
 tion; for theFrench, whoacted the Brutus ofVoltaire in the 
 Coliseum, resolved thattheirC<esar should fall at the base 
 of thatPompey, which was supposed to have been sprink- 
 led with the blood of the original dictator. The nine foot 
 hero was therefore removed to the Arena of the amphi- 
 theatre, and to facilitate its transport suffered the tempora- 
 ry amputation of its right arm. The republican tragedians 
 had to plead that the arm was a restoration : but their accu- 
 sers do not believe that the integrity of the statue would 
 have protected it.The love of finding every coincidence has 
 discovered the true Cajsarean ichor in a stain near the right 
 knee ; but colder criticism has rejected not only the blood 
 but the portrait, and assigned theglobeof powerrather 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 theGrimaniAgrippa, a co- 
 temporary almost, is heroic; and naked Roman figures 
 were only very rare, not absolutely forbidden. The face 
 accords much better with the "/tommem integrum etcastum 
 et ffravem," 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 Alexan- 
 der the Great cannot be discerned, but tiie traits resemble 
 the medal of Pompey. The objectionable globe may not 
 liave been an ill-applied flattery to him who found Asia Mi- 
 nor the boundary, and left it the centre of the Roman em- 
 pire. It seems that Winkelmann has made a mistake in 
 thinking that no proof of the identity of this statue, with 
 that which received the bloody sacrifice, can be derived 
 from the spot where it was discovered. Flaminius Vacca 
 says sotto una cantina, and this cantina is known to have 
 been in the V ieolo de' Leutari near the Cancellaria, a po- 
 sition corresponding exactly to that of the Janus before 
 the basilica of Pompey 's theatre, to which Augustus trans- 
 ferred the statue after the curia was either burnt or taken 
 
 down. Partof thePompeian shade,*) Iheportico, existed 
 in the beginning of the XVth century, and the atrium was 
 still called Satrum, So says Blondus. At all events, so 
 imposingis the stern majesty of the statue, and so memor- 
 able is the story, that the play of the imagination leaves 
 no room for the exercise of the judgment, and the fiction, 
 ifa fiction it is, operates on the spectator with an eflect 
 not less powerful fiian truth. 
 
 And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! 
 
 . . _ [p. 40. St. 88. 
 
 Ancient Rome, 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. Oneof these, of brass in ancient tvork, 
 was seen by Dionysius at the temple of Romulus under 
 the Palatine, and is universally believed to be that men- 
 tioned by the Latin historian, as having been made from 
 the money collected by a fine on usurers, and as standing 
 under the Ruminal fig-tree.**) The other was that which 
 Cicero***) has celebrated both in prose and verse, and 
 which the historian Dion also records as having sufiered 
 the same accident as is alluded toby the orator. Theques- 
 tion agitated by the antiquaries is, whether the wolf now 
 in the conservator's palace is that of Livy and Dionysius, 
 or that of Cicero, or whether it is neither one or the other. 
 The earlier writers difler as much as the modern : Lucius 
 Faunust) says, that it is the one alluded to by both, which 
 is impossible, and also by Virgil, which may be. Fulvius 
 Ursinus calls it the wolf of Dionysius, and Marlianus talks 
 of it as the one mentioned by Cicero. To him Rycquius 
 tremblinyly assents ft). Nardini is inclined to suppose it 
 may beoneof themany wolves preservedinancientRome: 
 but of the two rather bends to the Ciceronian statue. 
 Montfaucon ttt) mentions it as a point without doubt. 
 Of the latter writers the decisive Winkelmann proclaims 
 it as having been found at the church of Saint Theodore, 
 where, or near where, was the temple of Romulus, and 
 consequently makes it thewolf of Dionysius. His author- 
 ity is Lucius Faunus, who, however, only says that it 
 
 *) "Seigneur, vous changez toutes mes idees de la 
 faQon dont je vousvoisagir. Je croyais que vous aviez 
 de I'ambition, inais aueun amour pour la gloire: je 
 voyais bien que votreameetait haute ; maisjenesoup- 
 9onuais pas (ju'elle fiit grande." Montesquieu, Dial, 
 de Sylla et d'Eucrate. 
 
 *) "Tu modo Pompeia lenta spatiare sub umbra/' 
 
 Ovid de Arte Amandi. 
 
 **) Ad ficum Ruminalem simulacra infantium con- 
 
 ditorum urbis sub uberibuslupaj posuerunt. Liv. x. 69. 
 
 This was in the year U. C. 455, or 457. 
 
 ***) "Turn statua Natt«, tum simulacra Deorum, 
 Romulusque et Remus cum altrice bellua vi fulminis 
 icti conciderunt." De Divinat. ii. 20. "Tactus est ille 
 etiam qui banc urbem condidit Romulus, quem inau- 
 ratum in Capitolio parvum atque lactantcm, uberibus 
 lupinis inhiantemfuisse meministis." In Catilin. iii. 8. 
 "Hie silvestris erat Romani nominis altrix 
 Martia, quae parvos Mavortis semine natos 
 Uberibus gravidis vitali rore rigabat, 
 Quee tum cum pueris fiammato fulminis ictu 
 Concidit, atque avulsa pedum vestigia liquit." 
 De Consulatu, lib. ii. (lib. 1. de Divinat. c. ii.) 
 
 +) "In eadem porticu ienea lupa, cujus uberibus 
 Romulus ac Remus lactantes inhiant, conspicitur; de 
 hac Cicero et Virgilius semper intellexere. Livius hoc 
 signum ab ^Edilibus ex pecuniis quibus mulctati es- 
 sent foeneratores positum innuit. Antea in Comitiis 
 ad Ficum Ruminalem, quo locopueri fuerant expositi, 
 locatum pro certo est." 
 
 tt) "Non desunt qui banc ipsam esse putent, quam 
 adpinximus, qua; e comitio in Easilicam Lateranam, 
 cum nonnullis aliis antiquitatum reliquiis, atque hinc 
 in Capitolium postea relata sit, quamvis Marlianus 
 antiquamCapitolinamessemaluitaTuUiodescriptam, 
 cui ut in re nimis dubia, trepide adsentiraur." 
 
 tt+) "Lupa hodieque in capitolinis prostat fedibus, 
 cum vestigio fulminis quo ictam narrat Cicero." 
 
728 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 was placed, notfoiind, at the Ficus Rumiiialis by the Co- 
 mitium, by which he doesuot seem to alludetothechureh 
 of Saint Tlieodore. Kycquius was the first to make the 
 mistake, and Winkelmann followed Rycquius. 
 
 Flaminius Vacea tells quite a diflerent story, and says 
 he had heard the wolf witli the twins was found near the 
 arch of Septimius Severus. The commentator onWinkel- 
 mann is of the same opinion witn that learned person, and 
 is incensed atNardini for not having remarked tliat Cicero, 
 in speaking of the wolf struck with lightning in the Capi- 
 tol, makes use of the past tense. But, with the Abate's 
 leave, Nardini does not positively assert the statue to be 
 that mentioned by Cicero, and, if he had, the assumption 
 would not perhaps have been so exceedingly indiscreet. 
 The Abate himself is obliged to own that there are marks 
 very like the scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the 
 present wolf; and, to get rid of this, adds, that the wolf 
 seen by Dionysius might have been also struck by light- 
 ning, or otherwise injured. 
 
 Let us examine the subject by a reference to the words 
 of Cicero. The orator in two places seems to particularize 
 the Romulus and the Remus, especially the first, which 
 his audience remembered to have been in the Capitol, as 
 being struck with lightning. In his verses he records that 
 the twins and wolf both fell, and that the latter left behind 
 the marks of her feet. Cicero does not say that the wolf 
 was consumed: and Dion only mentions that it fell down, 
 without alluding, as the Abate has made him, to the force 
 of the blow, or the firmness with which it had been fixed. 
 The whole strength, therefore, of the Abate's argument 
 hangs upon the past tense: which, however, maybe some- 
 what diminished by remarking that the phrase only shows 
 that the statue was not then standing in its former position. 
 Winkelmann has observed , that the present twins are 
 modern ; and it is equally clear thatthere are marks of gild- 
 ing on the wolf, which might therefore be supposed to 
 make part of the ancientgroup. Itis known thatthesacred 
 images of the Capitol were not destroyed when injured by 
 time or accident, but were put into certain underground 
 depositaries called favissce. It may be thought possible 
 that the wolf had been so deposited, and had been replac- 
 ed in some conspicuous situation when the Capitol was 
 rebuilt by Vespasian. Rycquius, without mentioning his 
 authority, tells that it was transferred from the Comitium 
 to the Lateran , and thence brought to the Capitol. If it 
 was found near the arch of Severus, it may have been one 
 of the images which Orosius says were thrown down in 
 the Forum by lightning when Alaric took the city. Thai 
 it is of very high antiquity the workmanship is a decisive 
 proof; and that circumstance induced Winkelmann to 
 believe it the wolf of Dionysius. The Capitoline wolf, 
 however, may have been of the same early date as that 
 at the temple of Romulus. Lactantius*) asserts that in 
 his time the Romans worshipped a wolf; and it is known 
 that the Lupercalia held out to a very late period **) after 
 every other observance of the ancient superstition had 
 totally expired. This may account for the preservation of 
 the ancient image longer than the other early symbols of 
 Paganism. 
 
 It may be permitted, however, to remark that the wolf 
 wasaRoman symbol, but that the worship of thatsymbol 
 
 *) "Romulus nutrix Lupa honoribus est affecta di- 
 vinis,et ferrem si animal ipsum fuisset, cujus figuram 
 gcrit." That is to say, he would rather adore a wolf 
 than a prostitute. His commentator has observed, that 
 the opinion of Livy concerning Laurentia being figur- 
 ed ip this wolf was not universal. 
 
 **) To A. D. 496. Quis credere possit, says Baro- 
 nius, viguisse adhuc Romie ad Gelasii tempora, quas 
 fuere aijte exordia urbis allata in Italiam Lupercalia ? 
 Gelasjus wrote a letter to Andromachus, the senator, 
 and others, to slpaw that the rites should be given up. 
 
 is an inference drawn by the zeal of Lactantius. The early 
 Christian writers arenot to be trusted in thecharges which 
 they make against the Pagans. Eusebius accused the Ro- 
 mans to their faces of worshipping Simon Magus, and 
 raising a statue to him in the island of the Tyber. The 
 Romans had probably never heard of such a person before, 
 who came, however, to play a considerable, though scan- 
 dalous part in the church -history, and has left several 
 tokens of his aerial combat with St. Peter at Rome ; not- 
 withstanding that an inscription found in this very island 
 of the Tyber showed the Simon Magus of Eusebius to be 
 a certain indigenal god, called Semo Sangus or Fidius. 
 
 Even when the worship of the founder of Rome had 
 been abandoxied, it was thought expedient to humour the 
 habits of the good matrons of the city by sending them 
 with their sick infants to the church of St. Theodore, as 
 they had before carried them to the temple of Romulus. 
 The practice is continued to this day; and the site of the 
 above church seems to be thereby identified with that of 
 the temple : so that if the wolf had been really found there, 
 as Winkelmann says there would be no doubt of the pre- 
 sent statue being that seen by Dionysius. But Faunus, in 
 saying thatit was at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, 
 is only talking of its ancient position as recorded by Pliny ; 
 and even if he had been remarking where it was found, 
 would not have alluded to the church of St. Theodore, 
 but to a very diflerent place, near which it was then thought 
 the Ficus Ruminalis had been, and also the Comitium ; 
 that is, the three columns by the church of Santa Maria 
 Liberatrice, at the corner of the Palatine looking on the 
 Forum. 
 
 It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image was 
 actually dug up, and perhaps, on the wliole, the marks of 
 the gilding, and of the lightning, are a better argument in 
 favour of its being the Ciceronian wolf than any that can 
 be adduced for the contrary opinion. At any rate, it is 
 reasonably selected in the text of the poem as one of the 
 most interesting relics of the ancient city, and is certainly 
 the figure, if not the very animal to Which Virgil alludes 
 in his beautiful verses. 
 
 "Geminos huic ubera circum 
 CiUdere pendentes pueros et lambere matrem 
 Impavidos: illam tereti cervice reflexam 
 Mulcere alternos, et fingere corpora lingua." 
 
 For the Romanes mind 
 
 Was modelled in a less terrestrial mould. 
 
 [p. 40. St. 90. 
 
 It is possible to be a very great man and to be still very 
 inferior to Julius Ciesar, the most complete character, so 
 Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. Nature seems in- 
 capable of such extraordinary combinations as composed 
 his versatile capacity, which was the wonder even of the 
 Romans themselves. The first general — the only trium- 
 phant politician - inferior to none in eloquence — com- 
 parable to any in the attainments of wisdom, in an age 
 made up of the greatest commanders, statesmen,orators 
 and philosophers that ever appeared in the world — an 
 author who composed a perfect specimen of military 
 annals in his travelling-carriage — at one time in a con- 
 troversy with Cato, at another writing a treatise on pun- 
 ing, and collecting a set of good sayings-fighting *) and 
 making love at the same moment, and willing to abandon 
 both his empire and his mistress for a sight of the Fount- 
 
 *} la Ins tenth book, Lucan shows him sprinkled 
 
 with the blood of Pharsalia in the arms of Cleopatra: 
 
 Sanguine Thessalicte cladis perfusus adulter 
 
 Admisit Venerem curis, et miscuit armis. 
 
 After feasting with his mistress, he sits up all night 
 
 to converse with the Egyptian sages, and tells 
 
 Achoreus, 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 729 
 
 tains of the Nile. Such did Julius Caesar appear to his 
 cotemporaries and to those of the subsequent ages, who 
 were the most inclined to deplore and execrate his fatal 
 genius. 
 
 But we must not be so much dazzled ivith his surpass- 
 ing glory or with his magnanimous, his amiable qualities, 
 as to forget the decision of his impartial countrymen: 
 
 HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN. *) 
 
 Wliat from this barren being do we reap? 
 
 Our senses narrow, and our reason/rail. 
 
 [p. 40. St, 93. 
 " . . . . Omnes pene veteres, qui nihil cognosci, nihil 
 percipi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt ; angustos sensus; im- 
 becillos animos; brevia curricula vitie; in profundo veri- 
 tatem demersam; opiuionibus et institutis omnia teneri : 
 nihil veritati relinqui: deinceps omnia tenebris circum- 
 fusa esse dixerunt."**) The eighteen hundred years which 
 have elapsed since Cicero wrote this, have not removed 
 any of tlie imperfections of humanity : and the complaints 
 of tlie ancient philosophers may, without injustice or 
 affectation, be transcribed in a poem written yesterday. 
 
 Tliere is a stern round tower of other days. 
 
 [p. 41. St. 99. 
 Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called Capo 
 di iiove, in the Appian Way. 
 
 Prophetic of the doom 
 
 j Heaven gives its favourites — early death, 
 
 i ^ . . , [p. 41. St. 102. 
 
 i "Ov ol ■0-tol (pi,Xovaiv uno-&-vi']axet veoq' 
 
 To yuQ ■0-avilv ovx uio^Qoi', dkk' uiaxQwq -O-avtlv. 
 
 liRUNCK, Poetie Gnomici, p. 231. 
 
 Behold the Imperial Mount ! [p. 41 . St. 1 07. 
 The Palatine is one mass of ruins , particularly on the 
 dde towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is 
 ii)rmed of crumbled brick-work. Nothing has been told, 
 lothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but a Ro- 
 man antiquary. 
 
 There is the moral of all human tales; 
 
 'T\s but the same rehearsal of the past: 
 
 First Freedom, and then Glory. 
 
 [p. 41. St. 108. 
 The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the opi- 
 uon entertained of Britain by that orator and his cotem- 
 >orary Romans, has the following eloquent passage: 
 'From their railleries of this kind, on the barbarity and 
 aisery of our island, one cannot help reflecting on the 
 larprising fate and revolutions of kingdoms, how Rome, 
 •Qce the mistress of the world, the seat of arts, empire 
 lod glory, now lies sunk in sloth, ignorance and poverty, 
 
 Spes sit mihi carta videndi 
 Niliacos fontes, bellum civile relinquam. 
 
 Sic velut in tuta securi pace trahebant 
 Noctis iter medite. 
 Immediately afterwards, he is fighting again and 
 defending every position. 
 
 Sed adest defensor ubique 
 Caesar, et hos aditus gladiis, hos ignibus arcet 
 
 Caeca nocte cariuis 
 
 lusiluit CcBsar semper feliciter usus 
 Praecipiti cursu bellorum et tempore rapto. 
 
 *) Jure caesus existimetur, says Suetonius after a 
 fair estimation of his ciiaracter, and making use of a 
 plirase which was a formula in Livy's time. "Melium 
 jure cassum pronuntiavit, etiam si regni crimine in- 
 soas fuerit." 
 
 **) Academ. I. 13 
 
 enslaved to the most cruel as well as to the most con- 
 temptible of tyrants,superstition and religious imposture : 
 while this remote country, anciently the jest and contempt 
 of the polite Romans, is become the happy seat of liberty, 
 plenty, and letters; flourishing in all the arts and refine- 
 ments of civil life; yet running perhaps the same course 
 which Rome itself had run before it, from virtuous in- 
 dustry 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 falls a prey at last to some hardy 
 oppressor, and, with the loss of liberty, losing every thing 
 that is valuable, sinks gradually again into its original 
 barbarism." 
 
 And apostolic statues climb 
 
 To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime. 
 
 [p.42. St. 110. 
 The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter; 
 that of Aurelius by St. Paul. 
 
 Still we Trajan's name adore. 
 
 [p. 42. St. 1 1 1. 
 Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman prin- 
 ces: *) 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 emperor. "When 
 he mounted the throne," says the historian Dion, "he was 
 strong in body, he was vigorous in mind; age had im- 
 paired 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 so- 
 vereign; he was aflable with his people, respectful to the 
 senate, and universally beloved by both; he inspired 
 none witli dread but the enemies of his country." 
 
 Rienzi, last of Romans ! [p. 42. St. 114. 
 The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to 
 the reader of Gibbon. 
 
 Fgeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 
 As thine ideal breast. [p. 42. St. 115. 
 
 The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would 
 incline us to believe in the claims of the Egerian grotto. 
 He assures us that he saw an inscription in the pavement, 
 stating that the fountain was that of Egeria dedicated to 
 the nymphs. The inscription is not there at this day; but 
 Montfaucon quotes two lines **) of Ovid from a stone in 
 the Villa Giuatiniani, which he seems to think had been 
 brought from the seune 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 tlie 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 qualities are lost in the 
 
 *) Hujus tantum memoriae delatum est, ut, nsqne 
 ad nostram aetatem non aliter in Senatu principibus 
 acclamatur , nisi feucior augusto melior trajano. 
 £utr. VIII. 5. 
 
 **) In villa Justiniana exstat ingens lapis qua- 
 dratus solidus in quo sculpta hsec duo Ovidii car- 
 mina sunt : 
 
 fgeria est qtfae praebet aquas dea grata Camoenis, 
 
 Ilia Numae conjux consiliumque fuit. 
 Qui lapis videtur ex eodem Egeriae fonte, £iut ejus 
 vicinia isthuc comportatus. 
 
 4G* 
 
730 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 modern Aquataccio. The valley itself is called Valle di 
 Caflarelli, from the dukes of that name who made over 
 the fountain to the Pallavicini, with sixty ruhhia of ad- 
 joining land. 
 
 There can be little doubt that this long dell is the Ege- 
 rian valley of Juvenal , and the pausing-place of Um- 
 bricius, notwithstanding the generality of his commen - 
 tators have supposed the descent of the satirist and his 
 friend to have been into the Arician grove, where the 
 nymph met Hippolitus, and where she was more peculi- 
 arly worshipped. 
 
 The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, fif- 
 teen miles distant, would be too considerable, unless we 
 were to believe in the wild conjecture of Yossius, 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. The tufo, or pumice, which the 
 poet prefers to marble , is tlie substance composing the 
 bank in which the grotto is sunk. 
 
 The modern topographers 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 pal- 
 pably ratlier a male than a nymph, and has none of the 
 attributes ascribed to it at present visible. The nine Mu- 
 ses could hardly have stood in six niches; and Juvenal 
 certainly does not allude to any individual cave.*)Nothing 
 can be collected from the satirist but that somewhere 
 near tlie Porta Capena was a spot in which it was sup- 
 posed 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 this 
 spot there was a descent into the valley of Egeria, where 
 were several artificial caves. It is clear that the statues of 
 theMusesmade no partofthedecorationwhichthesatirist 
 thougiit misplaced in these eaves; for he expressly as- 
 signs other fanes (delubra) to these divinities above the 
 valley, and moreover tells us, that they had been ejected 
 to maice room for the Jews. In fact, the little temple, now 
 called that of Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong 
 to tlie ISIuses, and Nardini places them in a poplar-grove, 
 which was in iiis 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 wiiich, 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, graft- 
 ed upon the application of the epithet Egerian to these 
 nymphea in general, and which might send us to look for 
 tiie 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 — 
 
 Thence slowly winding down the vale we view 
 The Egerian yrots; oh, how unlike the true! 
 
 The valley abounds with springs , and over these 
 springs, w liich tlie Muses might haunt fi oiu 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. 
 
 *) Substitit ad veteres arcus madidamque Capenam, 
 Hie, ubi nocturna? Numa constitucbat aniica?, 
 Nunc sacri fontis nemus et delubra locantur 
 Judasis, quorum cophinus foenumque supellex. 
 Omnis enim populo mercedem pendere jussa est 
 Arbor, et ejectis mendicat silva Camoenis. 
 In vallem Egeriaj descendimus, et speluncas 
 Dissimiles veris: quanto pra^stantius csset 
 Numen aquae, viridi si margine clauderet undas 
 Herba, nee ingenuum violarent marmora tophum? 
 
 The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the 
 Egerian valley have received names at will, which have 
 been changed at will. Venuti owns he can see no traces 
 of the temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, and Diana 
 which Nardini found, or hoped to find. The mutatoriuni 
 of Caracalla's circus, the temple of Honour and Virtue, 
 the temple of Bacchus, and, above all, the temple of tht 
 god Rediculus, are the antiquaries' despair. 
 
 The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of thai 
 emperor cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which the reverse 
 shows a circus, supposed, however, by some to represen ; 
 the Circus Maximus. It gives a very good idea of tha { 
 place of exercise. The soil has been but little raised, i ) 
 we may judge from the small cellular structure at the en 
 of the Spina, which was probably the chapel of the goc 
 Consus. This cell is half beneath the soil, as it must havt 
 been in the circus itself; for Dionysius could not be per 
 suaded to believe that this divinity w as the Roman Nep 
 tune, because his altar was underground. 
 
 Yet let us ponder boldly. [p. 43. St. 127 
 "At all events ," says the author of the Academica 
 Questions, "I trust, whatever may be the fate of my owi 
 speculations, that philosophy will regain that estiniatio 
 which it ought to possess. The free and philosophic spiri 
 of our nation has been the theme of admiration to th 
 world. This was the proud distinction of Englishmen, an< 
 the luminous source of all their glory. Shall we then for 
 get the manly and dignified sentiments of our ancestors 
 to prate in the language of the mother or the nurse abou 
 our good old prejudices? This is not the way to defen» 
 the cause of truth. It was not thus that our fathers main 
 tained it in the brilliant periods of our history, Prejudic 
 may be trusted to guard the outworks for a short space c 
 time while reason slumbers in the citadel : but if the latte 
 sink into a lethargy, the former will quickly erect a standi 
 ard for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, and liberty, sup 
 port each other; he who will uotreason, is a bigot; he wh 
 cannot, is a fool; and he who dares not, is a slave." 
 
 Great Nemesis! 
 
 Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long. 
 
 [p. 43. St, 13 
 
 We read in Suetonius that Augustus, from a warnin 
 received in a dream, counterfeited, once a year, the beg 
 gar, sitting before the gate of his palace with his hand ho 
 lowed and stretched out for charity.*) A statue formerBfi 
 in the Villa Borghese, and which should be now at Pari; jjj 
 represents the Emperor in that posture of supplicatioi 
 The object of this self- degradation was the appeasemei 
 of Nemesis, the perpetual attendant on good fortune, ( 
 whose power the Roman conquerors were also reminde n 
 by certain symbols attached to their cars of triumph. Tl y 
 symbols were the whip and the crotalo, whicli were dii . ,, 
 covered in the Nemesis of the Vatican. The attitude < t 
 beggary made the above statue pass forthatof Belisariu) ^,[ 
 and until the criticism of Winkelmann had rectified tl ' 
 mistake, one fiction was called in to support another, f ' 
 was the same fear of the sudden termination of prosperii |p|' 
 that madeAmasis king ofEgypt warn his friendPolycrat< ^^ 
 of Samos, that the godsloved those whose lives were chi 
 quered with good and evil fortunes. Nemesis was suj 
 posed to lie in wait particularly for the prudent: thati 
 for those w hose caution rendered them accessible only 1 
 mere accidents : and her first altar was raised on the banlfl p 
 
 i 
 cl 
 
 ') Suetonius in vit, Augusti, cap, 91, Casaubon,i 
 the note, refers to Plutarch's Lives of Camillus an |j! 
 ^milius Pauius, and also to his apophthegms, for tl 
 character ofthis deity.Tlie iiollowed hand was reckonc 
 tlie last degree of degradation: and when the dead bo<i 
 of the prajfectRufinus was borne about in triumph b 
 the people, the indignity was increased by putting b 
 hand in that position. 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 731 
 
 of the Phrygian ^Esepus by^drastus, probablj' theprince 
 of that name who killed the sou of Croesus by mistake. 
 Hence the goddess was called Adrastea. 
 
 The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august; there was 
 a temple to her in the Palatine under the name of Rham- 
 nusia: so great indeed was the propensity of the ancients 
 to trust to the revolution of events, and to believe in the 
 divinity of Fortune, that in the same Palatine there was 
 a temple to the Fortune of the day. This is the last super- 
 stition which retains its hold over the human heart, and, 
 from concentrating in one object the credulity so natural 
 to man, has always appeared strongest in those unembar- 
 rassed by other articles of belief. The antiquaries have 
 'supposed tiiis goddess to be synonymous with Fortune 
 and withFate: but it was in her vindictive quality that she 
 was worshipped under the name of Nemesis. 
 
 Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy, 
 
 [p. 44. St. 136. 
 Between stanzas cxxxv. and cxxxvi. we find in the 
 original MS. the following; — 
 "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 
 Tlian, o'er the Titans crush'd, Olympus rose, 
 Or Athos soars, or blazing Etna glows : — 
 True they who stung were creeping things ; but what 
 Than serpents' teeth inflicts with deadlier throes? 
 Tlie Lion may be goaded by the Gnat. — [Bat." 
 
 Who sucks the slumberer's blood?— The Eagle?— No: the 
 
 I see be/ore me the Gladiator lie. 
 
 [p.44. St. 140 
 Whether the wonderful statue which suggested this 
 image bcalaquearian gladiator, which in spite of Winkel- 
 mann's criticism has been stoutly maintained, or whether 
 it be a Greek herald, as that great antiquary positively 
 asserted, *) or whether it is to be thouglit a Spartan or 
 barbarian shield- bearer , according to the opinion of his 
 Italian editor; it must assuredly seem a copy of that mas- 
 terpiece of Ctesilaus which represented "a wounded man 
 dying, who perfectly expressed what there remained of 
 life in him."**) Mountfaucon and Mallei thought it the 
 identical statue; but that statue was of bronze. The gla- 
 diator was once in the villa Ludovisi, and was bought by 
 Clement XII. The right arm is an entire restoration of 
 Michael Angelo. 
 
 He, their sire, 
 
 Butchered to make a Roman holiday. 
 
 [p. 44. St. 141. 
 Gladiators were oftwokinds,compelIed and voluntary ; 
 and were supplied from several conditions; from slaves 
 sold for that purpose; from culprits; from barbarian cap- 
 tives either taken in war, and, after being led in triumpli, 
 set apart for the games, or those seized and condemned 
 as rebels; also from free citizens, some lighting for hire 
 {auctorati), others from a depraved ambition: at last even 
 knights and senators were exhibited, a disgrace of which 
 the first tyrant wa.s naturally the first inventor.***) In 
 
 *) Either Polifontes, herald of Laius, killed by CEdi- 
 pus; or Cepreas, herald of Euritheus, killed by the 
 Athenians when he endeavoured to drag the Hera- 
 clidse from the altar of Mercy, and in whose honour 
 they instituted annual games, continued to the time 
 of Hadrian; or Anthemocritus , tJie Athenian herald, 
 killed by the Megarenses, who never recovered the 
 impiety. 
 
 **) Vulneratum deficientem fecit in quo possit intel- 
 ligi quantum restat animie. Pun. Nat. Hist, xxxiv. 8. 
 
 ***) Julius Ciesar, who rose by the fall of the aristo- 
 cracy, brought Furius Leptinus and A. Calenus upon 
 ^ the arena. 
 
 the end, dwarfs, and even womea, fought; an enormity 
 prohibited by Severus. Of these the most to be pitied 
 undoubtedly were the barbarian captives; and to this 
 species a Christian writer*) justly applies the epithet 
 " innocent " to distinguish tliem from the professional 
 gladiators. Aurelian and Claudius supplied great numbers 
 of these unfortunate victims ; the one after his triumph, and 
 the other on the pretext of a rebellion. No war, says Lip- 
 sius, was ever so destructive to the human race as these 
 sports. In spite of the laws of Constantine and Constans, 
 gladiatorial sliows survived the old established religion 
 more than seventy years ; but they owed their final extinc- 
 tion to the courage of a Christian. In the year 404, on the 
 kalends of January, they were exhibiting the shows in the 
 Flavian amphitheatre before the usual immense concourse 
 of people. AlmachiusorTelemachus, an eastern monk,who 
 had travelled to Rome intent on his holy purpose, rushed 
 into the midst of the area, and endeavoured to separate the 
 combatants. The prcetor Alypius, a person incredibly at- 
 tached to these games , gave instant orders to the gladia- 
 tors 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 ex- 
 ploit. Honorius immediately abolished the shows, which 
 were never afterwards revived. The story is told by Theo- 
 doret and Cassiodorus, and seems worthy of credit not- 
 withstanding its place in the Roman martyrology. Besides 
 the torrents of blood which flowed at the funerals, in the 
 amphitheatres, 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 de- 
 light and applause of theguests. Ycvi^ipsius permits him- 
 self to suppose the loss of courage, and the evident dege- 
 neracy of mankind, to be nearly connected with the abo- 
 lition of these bloody spectacles. **) 
 
 Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
 Was death or life, the play-things of a crowd. 
 
 [p.44. St. 142. 
 When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted "Ae 
 has it," "hoc habet," or "habet." The wounded comba- 
 tant dropped his weapon, and advancing to the edge of 
 the arena , supplicated the spectators. If he had fought 
 well, tlie people saved him; if otherwise, or as they hap- 
 pened to be inclined, they turned down their thumbs, and 
 lie 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 gene- 
 rally saved the vanquished: and it is recorded as an in- 
 stance of Caracalla's ferocity, that he sent those who sup- 
 plicated him for life, in a spectacle at Nicodemia, 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 presides; and after the horsemen and pic- 
 cadores have fought the bull, the matadore steps forward 
 and bows to him for permission to kill the animal. If the 
 bull has done his duty by killing two or three horses, or 
 a man, vvliich 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 accompa- 
 
 *) Tertullian , "certe quidem et innocentes gladia- 
 tores in ludum veniunt, ut voluptatis publicas hostias 
 fiant." 
 
 **) "Quod? non tu Lipsi momentum aliquod ha- 
 buisse censes ad virtutem ? Magnum. Tempora nostra, 
 nosqueipsos videamus. Oppidumecceunumalterum- 
 ve cap turn, direptum est; tumultus circa nos, non in 
 nobis ; et tamen concidimus et turbamur. Ubi robur, 
 ubi tot per annos meditata sapienti;e studia? ubiille 
 animus qui possit dicer e, si fractus illabatur orbis! 
 The prototype of Mr. W^indham's panegyric on bull- 
 baiting. 
 
732 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 nied with the loudest acclamations, and many gestures of 
 delight, especially from thefemaleportion of the audience, 
 including those of the gentlest blood. Every thing depends 
 on habit. The author of Childe Harold, the writer of this 
 note, and one or two other Englishmen, who have cer- 
 tainly in other days borne the sight of a pitched battle, 
 were, during the summer of 1809, in the governor's box 
 at the great ampliitheatre of Santa Maria, opposite to Ca- 
 diz. The death of one or two horses completely satisfied 
 their curiosity. A gentleman present, observing them shud- 
 der 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 own horns. He was saved by acclamations, which 
 were redoubled when itvvas known he belonged to a priest. 
 An Englishman who can be much pleased with seeing 
 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 spectacle and the spec- 
 tators with horror and disgust. 
 
 Like laurels on the hald first Ccesar's head. 
 
 [p. 44. St. 144. 
 Suetonius informs us that Julius Caesar was particu- 
 larly gratified by that decree of the senate, which enabled 
 him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. He was 
 anxious, not, to show that he was the conqueror of the 
 world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger at Rome 
 would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor should we 
 without the help of the historian. 
 
 While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand. 
 
 [p. 44. St. 145. 
 This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Roman 
 Empire. 
 
 Spared and blest by time. [p. 45. St. 146. 
 Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring which 
 was necessary to preserve the aperture above; though ex- 
 posed to repeated fires, though sometimes flooded by the 
 river, and always open to the rain, no monument of equal 
 antiquity is so well preserved as this rotundo. It passed 
 with little alteration from the pagan into the present wor- 
 ship; and so convenient were its niches for the Christian 
 altar, that Michael Angelo, ever studious of ancient beauty , 
 introduced their design as a model in the Catholic church. 
 
 And they who feel for genius may repose 
 Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them 
 close. , [p. 45. St. 147. 
 
 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 a numerous 
 assemblage of mortals, some one or two of whom have 
 been almost deified by the veneration of their countrymen. 
 
 There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light. 
 
 [p. 45. St. 148. 
 
 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 Saint Nicholas in carcere. 
 
 Turn to the Mole which Hadrian reared on high. 
 
 [p. 45. St. 152. 
 The castle of Saint Angelo. 
 
 [p. 45. St. 163. 
 This and the six next stanzas have a reference to the 
 church of St. Peter. 
 
 Tlie strange fate 
 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns. 
 
 • [p. 47. St. 171. 
 
 Mary died onthescaflold; Elizabeth of a broken heart; 
 
 Charles V. a hermit ; Louis XIV. a bankrupt in means 
 
 and glory ; Cromwell of anxiety ; and "the greatest is be- 
 
 hind," Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these sovereigns a 
 long but superfluous list might be added of names equally 
 illustrious and unhappy. 
 
 Lo, Nemi! navelled in the woody hills. 
 
 [p. 47. St. 173. 
 
 The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of 
 Egeria, and, from the shades whicli embosomed the temple 
 of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinctive appel- 
 lation of The Grove. Nemi is but an evening's ride from 
 the comfortable inn of A Ibano. 
 
 And afar 
 
 The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
 
 The Latian coast. [p. 47, St. 174. 
 
 The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 
 beauty, and from the convent on the higliest point, which 
 has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, the 
 prospect embraces all the objects alluded to in the cited 
 stanza; the Mediterranean, the whole scene of the latter 
 half of the ^neid, and the coast from beyond the mouth 
 of the Tiber to the headland of Circceum and the Cape of 
 Terracina. 
 
 The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at the 
 Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Lucian Buonaparte. 
 
 The former was thought some years ago the actual site, 
 as may be seen from Middleton's Life of Cicero. At pre- 
 sent 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 Rufinella, is on the summit 
 of the hill above Frascati, and many rich remains of Tus- 
 culum have been found there, besides -seventy two sta- 
 tues of diflerent merit and preservation, and seven busts. 
 
 From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, 
 embosomed in which lies the long valley of Rustica. 
 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 pronunced short, 
 not according to our stress upon "Usticacubantis." — It 
 is more rational to think that we are wrong than that the 
 inhabitants of this secluded valley have changed their 
 tone in this word. The addition of the consonant pre- 
 fixed 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 co- 
 vered 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 deno- 
 minated, and which may have taken its name from the 
 Digentia. Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. On a peak a 
 little way beyond is Civitella, containing 300. On the 
 banks of the Anio, a little before you turn up into Yalle 
 Rustica, to the left, about an hour from the villa, is a 
 town called Vico-varo, another favourable 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 Bardela. 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, whether in a metaphor- 
 ical or direct sense: 
 
 Me quoties reficit gelidus Digentia rivus, 
 Quem Mandela bibit rugosus 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 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 733 
 
 Sabiae victory was repaired bj' Vespasian. Whit tliese 
 helps, and a position corresponding exactly to everything 
 which the poet has told us of his retreat, we may feel tole- 
 rably 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 
 Gennaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of ploughed 
 land in the whole valley is on the knoll where this Ban- 
 dusia rises, 
 
 Tu frigus amabile 
 
 Fessis vomere tauris 
 
 Prajbes, et pecori vago. 
 
 The peasants show another spring near the mosaic pave- 
 ment, which they call "Oradina," and which flows down 
 the hills into a tank, or milldam, and thence trickles over 
 into the Digentia. But we must not hope 
 
 " 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 
 any one should have thought Bandusia a fountain of the 
 Digentia; Horace has not let drop a word of it; and this 
 immortal spring has in fact been discovered in possession 
 of the holders of many good things in Italy, the monks. 
 It was attached to the church of St. Gervais and Protais 
 near Venusia, where it was most likely to be found. We 
 shall not be so lucky as a late traveller in finding the oc- 
 casional pine still pendent on the poetic villa. There is 
 not a pine in the whole valley, but there are two cypress- 
 es, which he evidently took, or mistook, for the tree in 
 the ode. The truth is, that the pine is now, as it was in 
 the days of Virgil, a garden-tree, and it was not at all 
 likely to be found in the craggy acclivities of the valley of 
 Rustica. Horace probably had one of them in the orchard 
 close above his farm, immediately overshadowing his 
 villa, not on the rocky heights at some distance from his 
 abode. The tourist may have 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 displaced, were assuredly only acacias 
 and other common garden-shrubs. The extreme disap- 
 pointment experienced by choosing the Classical Tour- 
 ist 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 confirmed by every one who has 
 selected the same conductor through the same country. 
 This author is in fact one of the most inaccurate, unsatis- 
 factory writers that have in our times attained a tempo- 
 rary reputation, and is very seldom to be trused even 
 when he speaks of objects which he must be presumed 
 to have seen. His errors, from the simple exaggeration to 
 the downright misstatement, are so frequent as to induce 
 a suspicion that he had either never visited the spots de- 
 scribed, or had trusted to the fidelity of former writers. 
 Indeed the Classical Tour has every characteristic of a 
 mere compilation of former notices, stnmg 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 plough- 
 ing through the periods of the "Clasical 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 recommendatory 
 
 either in an author or his productions, is very conspicuous 
 throughout the Clasical Tour. But these generous qua- 
 lities are the foliage of such a performance, and may be 
 spread about it so prominently and profusely, as to em- 
 barrass those who wish to see and find the fruit at hand.The 
 unction of the divine and the exhortations of the moralist, 
 may have made this work something more and better than 
 a book of travels , but they have not made it a book of 
 travels; and this observation applies more especially to 
 that enticing method of instruction conveyed by the per- 
 petual 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 revo- 
 lution. An animosity 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 least, should be served up apart, and not so mixed 
 with the whole mass of information and reflexion, as to 
 give a bitterness to every page: for who would choose to 
 have the antipathies of any man, however just, for his 
 travelling conpanions? A tourist, unless he aspires to the 
 credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes 
 which may take place in the country which he describes; 
 but his reader may very fairly esteem all his political por- 
 traits and deductions as so much waste paper, the mo- 
 ment they cease to assist, and more particularly if they 
 obstruct, his actual survey. 
 
 Neither encomium nor accusation of any government 
 or governors, is meant to be here offered ; but it is stated 
 a-s an incontrovertible fact, that the change operated, 
 either by the address of the late imperial system, or by 
 the disappointment of every expectation by those who 
 have succeeded to the Italian thrones, has been so con- 
 siderable, and is so apparent, as not only to put Mr. 
 Eustace's Antjgallican philippics entirely out of date, but 
 even to throw some suspicion upon the competency and 
 candour of the author himself, A remarkable example 
 may be found in the instance of Bologna, over whose 
 papal attachments, and consequent desolation, the tourist 
 pours forth such strains of condolence and revenge, made 
 louder by the borrowed trumpet of Mr. Burke. Now Bo- 
 logna is at this moment, and has been for some years, 
 notorious amongst the states of Italy for its attachment 
 to revolutionary principles, and was almost the only city 
 which made any demonstrations in favour of the unfor- 
 tunate 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 pro- 
 jected stripping of the copper from the cupola ofSt.Peter's, 
 must be much relieved to find that sacrilege out of the 
 power of the French, or any other plunderers, the cupola 
 being covered with lead. *) 
 
 If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics had 
 not given considerable currency to the Classical Tour, it 
 would have been unneccessary 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 cotemporary 
 praises, and are perhaps more likely to be justinpro- 
 
 *) "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 out- 
 side." The story about the Jew s is positively denied 
 at Rome. 
 
734 
 
 NOTES TO THE GIAOUR. 
 
 portion as the causes of love and hatred are the farther 
 removed. This appeal had, in some measure, been 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 those on 
 their journey southwards, to reprint a cheap edition of 
 the Classical Tour, was, by the concurring advice of re- 
 
 turning travellers, induced to abandon his design, al- 
 though he liad already arranged liis types and paper, and 
 had struck ofl' 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. 
 
 NOTES TO THE GIAOUR. 
 
 TJiat tomh which, gleaming o'er the cliff. [p. 49. 
 A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some 
 supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 
 
 Sultana of the Nightingale. [p. 49. 
 
 The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well- 
 known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the "Bulbul of a 
 thousand tales" is one of his appellations. 
 
 Till the gay mariner's guitar, [p. 49. 
 
 The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek 
 
 sailor by nigiit; with a steady fair wind, and during a 
 
 calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often 
 
 by dancing. 
 
 WJiere cold Obstruction's apathy. [p. 60. 
 
 "Ay, but to die and go we know not where. 
 To lie in cold obstruction." 
 
 Measure for Measure, Act III. Sc. 1. 
 
 Tlie first, last look by death reveaVd. [p. 50. 
 I trust that few of my readers have ever had an oppor- 
 tunity of witnessing w hat is here attempted in description, 
 but those who have, will probably retain a painful re- 
 membrance of tliat singular beauty which pervades, with 
 few exceptions, the features of the dead 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 al- 
 ways that of languor, whatever the natural energy of the 
 sufferer's character ; but in death from a stab the coun- 
 tenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the 
 mind its bias, to the last. 
 
 Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave. [p. 50. 
 Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave of 
 the seraglio and guardian of the women) who appoints 
 the Waywode. A pander and eunuch — these are not 
 polite, yet true appellations — now governs ihe governor 
 of Athens! 
 
 In echoes of the far tophaike. [p. 61. 
 
 " Tophaike, " musquet. — The Bairam is announced 
 by the cannon at sunset ; the illumination of the Mos- 
 ques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded 
 with ball, proclaim it during the night. 
 
 Swift as the hurl'd on highjerreed. [p. 51. 
 
 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 1 know 
 not if it can be called a manly one, since the most expert 
 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. 
 
 He came, he went, like the Simoom. [p. 51. 
 
 The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, and 
 often alluded to in eastern poetry. 
 
 To bless the sacred "^bread and salt." [p. 62. 
 To partake of food , to break bread and salt with your 
 host, insures the safety of the guest; even though an ene- 
 my, his person from that moment is sacred. 
 
 Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre. 
 
 [p. 62. 
 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. 
 
 And silver-sheathed ataghan. [p. 52. 
 
 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. 
 
 An Emir by his garb of green. [p. 52. 
 
 Green is the privileged colour of the prophet's nume- 
 rous 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 in- 
 different brood. 
 
 Ho ! who art thou ? — this low salam. [p. 62. 
 
 Salam aleikoum ! aleikoum salam! peace be with you; 
 be with you peace — the salutation reserved for the faith- 
 ful: — to a Christian, "Urlarula," agood journey; or sa- 
 ban hiresem, sabau serula; good morn, good even; and 
 sometimes, "may your end be happy;" are the usual 
 salutes. 
 
 TTie insect-queen of eastern spring. [p. 52. 
 
 The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare 
 and beautiful of the species. 
 
 Or live like scorpion girt by fire. [p. 63. 
 
 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 scor- 
 pions are surely interested in a speedy decision of the 
 question: as, if oncie fairly established as insect-Catos, 
 they will probably be allowed to Uveas long as they think 
 proper, without being martyred for the sake of an hypo- 
 thesis. 
 
 When Rhamazan's last sun was set. 
 The cannons at sunset close the Rhamazan. 
 
 [p. 53. 
 
NOTES TO THE GIAOUR. 
 
 735 
 
 By pale Phinyan' s trembling light. [p. 53. 
 Phingari, the moon. 
 
 Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. [p. 53. 
 
 The celebrated fabuioiis ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
 the embellisher of Istakhar: from its splendour, named 
 Schebgerag, "the torch of night;" also, tlie "cup of the 
 sun." — In the first edition "Giamschid" was written as 
 a word of three syllables, so D'Herbelot has it ; but I am 
 told Richardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and writes 
 "Jamshid." I have left in the text the orthography of the 
 one with the pronunciation of the other. 
 
 Tliough on Al-Sirat's arch I stood. [p. 53. 
 
 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 onl} 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 cutdownwards for the Jews and Christians. 
 
 And keep that portion of his creed. [p. 53. 
 
 A vulgar error; the Koran allots at least a third of Pa- 
 radise to well-behaved women; butby far thegreater num- 
 ber 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 super- 
 seded by the Houris. 
 
 The young pomegranate's blossoms strew. 
 
 [p. 53. 
 An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly 
 fitolen, be deemed "plus Arabe qu'en Arabic." 
 
 Her hair in hyacinthinejlow. [p. 53. 
 
 Hyacinthine, in Arabic, "Sunbul," as common a thought 
 in the eastern poets as it was among the Greeks. 
 
 Tlie loveliest bird of Franguestan. [p. 53. 
 
 "Franguestan," Circassia. 
 
 Bismillah ! now the peril's past. [p. 54. 
 
 Bismillah— "In the name of God ;" the commencement 
 of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of prayer 
 and thanksgiving. 
 
 Then curl'd his very beard with ire. [p. 54. 
 A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussul- 
 man, lu 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers at a diplo- 
 matic audience were no less lively with indignation than 
 a tiger-cat's, to the horror of all the dragomans; the por- 
 tentous 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 pro- 
 bably saved more heads than they contained hairs. 
 
 Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! [p. 54. 
 "Amaun," quarter, pardon. 
 
 / know him by the evil eye. [p. 54. 
 
 The "evil eye," a common superstition in the Levant, 
 and of which the imaginary ellccts are yet very singular 
 on those who conceive themselves afl'ected. 
 
 A fragment of his palampore. [p. 55. 
 
 The flowered shawls generally worn by persons of rank. 
 
 His catpac rent — his caftan red. [p. 55. 
 
 The "Calpac" is the solid cap or centre-part of the head- 
 dress ; the shawl is wound round it, and forms the turban. 
 
 A turban carved in coarsest stone. [p. 55. 
 
 The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate the 
 tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery or the 
 wilderness. In tlie mountains you frequently pass simi- 
 lar mementos; andonenquiry you are informed that they 
 record some victim of rebellion, plunder, or revenge. 
 
 At solemn sound of "Alia Hu !" [p. 55. 
 
 "AlIaHu!" the concluding words of the Muezzin's call 
 to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of the 
 Minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a fine 
 voice, which is frequently the case, the effect is solemn 
 and beautiful beyond all the bells in Christendom. 
 
 TJiey come — their kerchiefs greeyi they wave. [p. 55. 
 
 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 : Come, 
 
 kiss me, for I love thee." 
 
 Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe. [p. 55. 
 Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, be- 
 fore whom the corpse undergoes a slight noviciate and 
 preparatory training for damnation. If the answers are 
 none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and 
 thumped down with a red hot mace till properly seasoned, 
 with a varietyof 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 always full. 
 
 To wander round lost Eblis' throne. 
 Eblis, the oriental Prince of Darkness. 
 
 [p. 56. 
 
 But first, on earth as Vampire sent. [p. 66. 
 
 The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. 
 Honest Tourncfort tells a long story, which Mr.Southey, 
 in the notes on Thalaba, quotes about these "Vroucolo- 
 chas," as he calls them. The Romaic term is "Vardou- 
 lacha." 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 "Broucolokas" is an old legi- 
 timate Hellenic appellation— at least is so applied to Ar- 
 senius, who, according to the Greeks, was after his death 
 animated by the Devil. The moderns, however, use the 
 word I mention. 
 
 Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. [p. 56, 
 The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip witli 
 blood are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. The sto- 
 ries told in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeders are 
 singular, and some of them most incredibly attested. 
 
 It is as if the desert-bird — [p. 57. 
 
 The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the im- 
 putation of feeding her chickens with her blood. 
 
 Deep in whose darkly-boding ear, [p. 58. 
 
 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 Cape Co- 
 lonna, early in 1811, as we passed through the defile that 
 leads from the hamlet between Keratia andColonna,! ob- 
 served Dervish Taliiri 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, Messolunghi, or Lepanto; there are plenty of 
 us, well armed, and the Choriates have not courage to be 
 thieves." — "True, Eflendi; but nevertheless the shot is 
 ringing in my ears." — "The shot! — not atophaike has 
 been fired this morning."— "I hear it notwithstanding— 
 Bom — Bom — as plainly as I hear your voice." — "Psha!" 
 —As you please, Eflendi; if it is written, so will it be." — 
 I left this quick -eared predestinarian , 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 Colonna, remained some hours, and re- 
 turned leisurely , saying a variety of brilliant things , in 
 more languages than spoiled the building of Babel, upon 
 the mistaken seer; Romaic, Arnaut, Turkish, Italian, and 
 English were all exercised, in various conceits, upon the 
 untbrtunate Mussulman. While we were contemplating 
 the beautiful prospect, Dervish was occupied about the 
 columns. I thought be was deranged into an antiquarian, 
 
736 
 
 NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 and asked liim 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 atleast evinced 
 his own belief in his troublesome faculty oi forehcaring. 
 On our return to Athens, we heard from Leone (a prison- 
 er 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 ac- 
 curately, that, with other circumstances, we could not 
 doubt of his having been in "villanous company," and 
 ourselves in a badneighbourhood.Dervish became a sooth- 
 sayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more mus- 
 quetry than ever will be fired , to the greaj refreshment of 
 the Arnauts of Berat, and his native mountains. — I shall 
 mention one trait more of this singular race. In March 
 1811 a remarkably stout and activ-p Arnaut came (I be- 
 lieve the 60th on the same errand) to offer himself as an 
 attendant, which was declined: "Well, Ett'endi," 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 timehe will join theKleph- 
 tes" (robbers), which was true to the letter. — If not cut 
 oft", they come down in the winter, and pass it unmolested 
 in some town, where they are often as well known as their 
 exploits. 
 
 Looks not to priesthoodfor relief. [p. 59. 
 
 The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had 
 so little effect upon the patient, that it could have no ho- 
 pes from the reader. It may he sufficient to say that it 
 was of a customary length (as may be perceived from the 
 interruptions and uneasiness of the patient) , and was 
 delivered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers. 
 
 And shining in her white symar. [p. 60. 
 
 "Symar" — sh roud. 
 
 This broken tale was all we knew 
 
 Of her he loved or him he slew. [p. 60. 
 
 The circumstance to which the above story relates w as 
 not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago the wife 
 ofMuchtar Pacha complained to his father of his sou's 
 supposed infidelity ; he asked with whom, and she had the 
 barbarity to give in a list of the twelve handsomest women 
 in Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and 
 drowned the same night! One of the guards who was pre- 
 sent informed me, that not one of the victims uttered a 
 cry, or showed asymptom of terror at so sudden a "wrench 
 from all we know, from all we love." Thefate of Phrosine, 
 the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Ro- 
 maic and Arnaut ditty. The story in the text is one told 
 of a j'oung Venetian many years ago, and now nearly for- 
 gotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the cof- 
 fee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, and 
 sing or recite their narratives. The additions and interpo- 
 lations by the translator will be easily distinguished from 
 the rest by the want of Eastern imagery; and I regret that 
 my memory has retained so few fragments of the original. 
 For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted 
 partly toD'HerbeIot,and partly to thatmost eastern, and, 
 as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, "sublime tale," the "Ca- 
 liph Vathek." 1 do not know from what source the author 
 of that singular volume may have drawn his materials ; 
 some of his incidents are to befoundinthe "Bibliotiieque 
 Orientale ;" but for correctness of costume, beauty of de- 
 scription, 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 diffi- 
 culty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an 
 Eastern taleRasselas must bow before it;his"Happy Val- 
 ley" will not bear a comparison with the "Hall of Eblis." 
 
 NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens ofGulin her bloom. 
 
 [p. 61. 
 "Gul," the rose. 
 
 Ca7i he smile on such deeds as his children have done? 
 
 [p. 61. 
 Souls made of fire, and children of the Sun, 
 With whom Revenge is Virtue. 
 
 Young's Revenge. 
 
 With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song. [p. 62. 
 Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East 
 Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 
 
 Till I, who heard the deep tambour. [p. 62. 
 Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, 
 noon, and twilight. 
 
 He is an Arab to my sight. [p. 62. 
 
 The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compli- 
 ment a hundredfold) even more than they hate the 
 Christians. 
 
 The mind, the Music breathing from her face. 
 
 [p. 62. 
 This expression has met with objections. I will not 
 refer to "Him who hath not Music in his soul," but mere- 
 ly 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, I 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 comparison excited 
 by that analogy) between "painting andmusic."seevol.iii. 
 chap. 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 countenance whose speaking harmony 
 suggested the idea; for this passage is not drawn from 
 imagination but memory, that mirror which Affliction 
 dashes to tlie earth, and, looking down upon the frag- 
 ments, only beholds the reflection multiplied! 
 
NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 737 
 
 \But yet the line of Carasman. [p. 63. 
 
 ^'a^maii Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou , is the prin- 
 cipal laiidliolder iu Turkey; he governs Magnesia: those 
 who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on condition 
 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. 
 
 And teach the messenger what fate, [p. 63. 
 
 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 sometimes 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 Sultan's respectable signature, 
 and is bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, se- 
 veral of these presents were exhibited in the niche of the 
 Seraglio-gate; among others, the head of the Pacha of 
 Bagdad, a brave young man, cut off by treachery, after 
 a desperate resistance. 
 
 Thrice clapped his hands, and called his steed, [p. 63. 
 Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks 
 hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have 
 no bells. 
 
 Resigned his gem-adorned Chibouque. [p. 63. 
 
 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 possession of 
 
 the wealthier orders. 
 
 With Maugrahee and Mamaluhe, [p. 63. 
 
 Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. 
 
 His way amid his Delis took. [p. 63. 
 
 ' Deli, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry 
 and always begin the action. 
 
 Careering cleave the folded felt. [p. 63. 
 
 A twisted fold oi felt is used for scimitar-practice by 
 tlie Turks, and few butMussulman arms can cut through 
 it at a single stroke : sometimes a tougli turban is used 
 for the same purpose. Thejerreed is a game of blunt ja- 
 velins, animated and graceful. 
 
 Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud — [p. 63. 
 "Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the "Leilics," as the Spanish 
 poets call them, the sound is Ollah; a cry of which the 
 Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, parti- 
 cularly during thejerreed, or in the chase, but mostly in 
 battle. Their animation in the field, and gravity in the 
 chamber, with their pipes and comboloios, form an amu- 
 sing contrast. 
 
 TJie Persian Atar-gul's perfume. [p. 63. 
 
 ; "Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest. 
 
 The pictured roof and marble foor. [p. 63. 
 
 The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mus- 
 salman apartments are generally painted, in great houses, 
 with one eternal and highly coloured view of Constan- 
 itinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble contempt 
 i of perspective; below, arms, scimitars, are in general 
 ifancifully and not inelegantly disposed. 
 
 A message from the Bulhul bears, [p. 63. 
 
 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 con- 
 troversy 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," rf Mr. Fox was 
 I mistaken. 
 
 Even Azrael,from his deadly quiver. [p. 64. 
 Azrael — the angel of death. 
 
 Within the caves of Istakar. [p. 64. 
 
 The treasures of the Preadamite Sultans. SccD'Her- 
 BELOT, article Istakar. 
 
 Holds not a Musselim's control. [p. 64. 
 
 Musselim, a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha; 
 a Way w ode is the tliird ; and then come the Agas. 
 
 Was he not bred in Egripo? [p. 64. 
 
 Egripo — the Negropont. According to the proverb, 
 the Turks of Egripo, theJews ofSalonica, and the Greeks 
 of Athens, are the worst of their respective races. 
 
 Ah! yonder see the Tchocadar. [p. 65. 
 
 "Tchocadar" — one of the attendants who precedes a 
 man of authority. 
 
 Tliine own "broad Hellespont" still dashes, [p. 65. 
 The wrangling about this epithet, "the broad Helles- 
 pont" 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 
 tlie 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 "a.Tftjo;:" probably Homer 
 had the same notion of distance that a coquette has of 
 time, and when he talks of boundless, means half a mile; 
 as the latter, by a like figure, when she says eternal attach- 
 ment, simply specifies three weeks. 
 
 Wliich Ammon's son ran proudly round. [p. 66. 
 Before his Persian invasion; he crowned the altar with 
 laurel. He^was afterwards imitated by Caracalla in his 
 race. It is believed that the last also poisoned a friend, 
 named Festus, for the sake of new Patrocleau games. I 
 have seen the sheep feeding on the tombs of ^Esietes and 
 Antilochus; the first is in the centre of the plain. 
 
 O'er which her fairy fingers ran. [p. 66 
 
 When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, 
 which is slight, but not disagreeable. 
 
 Her mother's sainted amulet, [p. 66. 
 
 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 universal in the East. 
 The Koorsee- (throne) verse in the second chapter of 
 the Koran describes the attributes of the most High, and 
 is engraved in this manner, and worn by tlie pious, as the 
 most esteemed and sublime of all sentences. 
 
 And by her Comboloio lies. [p. 66. 
 
 "Comboloio" — a Turkish rosary. The MSS., parti- 
 cularly 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 accom- 
 plished, though not actually qualified for a Christian co- 
 terie; perhaps some of our own "blues" might not be the 
 worse for bleaching. 
 
 In him was some young Galiongee. fp. ^Q- 
 
 "Galiongee" — or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turkish 
 sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the guns. 
 Their dress is picturesque; and I have seen the Capitan 
 Pacha more than once wearing it as a kind of incog. I'heii 
 legs, however, are generally naked. The buskins de- 
 scribed in the text as sheathed behind withsilver,are those 
 of an Arnaut robber, who was my host (he had quitted 
 the profession), at hisPyrgo, nearGastouni in theMorea; 
 they were plated in scales one over the other, like the 
 back of an armadillo. 
 
 So may the Koran verse displayed. [p. 67. 
 
 The chpracters 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 one 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 
 
 47 
 
738 
 
 NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 
 
 it, wliat possible use such a figure could add; he said, in 
 Italian, that he did not know ; but the Mussulmans had 
 an idea that those of this form g-ave a severer wound; 
 and liked it because it was "piii feroce." I did not much 
 admire the reason, but bought it for its peculiarity. 
 
 But like the nephew of a Cain. [p. 67. 
 
 It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing or 
 personage in the Old Testament, sucli as the Ark, or Cain, 
 is equally tlie privilege of Mussulman and Jew ; indeed 
 the former profess to be much better acquainted widi the 
 lives, true and fabulous, of the patriarchs, than is war- 
 ranted by our own Sacred Writ, and not content with 
 Adam, they have a biography of Pre -Adamites. Solo- 
 mon 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 lan- 
 guage. It is therefore no violation of costume to put the 
 names of Cain, or Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem. 
 
 And Paswan's rebel hordes attest. [p. 67. 
 
 Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widdin, who for the last 
 years of liis life set the whole power of the Porte at 
 defiance. 
 
 Tlicy gave their horsetails to the wind. [p. 67. 
 Horsetail, the standard of a Pacha. 
 
 He drank one draught, nor needed more ! [p. 67. 
 Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not 
 sure wliicli, was actually taken oft" by the Albanian Ali, 
 in the manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while I 
 was in the country, married the daughter of his victim, 
 some years after the event had taken place at a bath in 
 Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was mixed in the cup 
 of coft'ee, which is presented before the sherbet by the 
 bath-keeper, after dressing. 
 
 I sought ly turns, and saw them all. [p. 68. 
 The Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined 
 to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 
 
 The last ofLambro's patriots there. [p. 68. 
 Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts in 
 1789— OOforthe independence of his country: abandoned 
 by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the Archipelago 
 was the scene of his enterprises. He is said to be still 
 alive at Petcrsburgh, He and Riga are the two most ce- 
 lebrated of the Greek revolutionists. 
 
 To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. [p. 68. 
 "Rayahs" all who pay the capitation tax , called the 
 "Haratch." 
 
 Ay! let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. [p. 68. 
 This first of voyages is one of the few with whicli the 
 Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 
 
 Or only know on land the Tartarus home. [p. 68. 
 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 can- 
 not be denied. A young French renegado confessed to 
 Chateaubriand, that henever found himself alone, gallop- 
 ing in the desert, without a sensation approaching to rap- 
 ture, which was indescribable. 
 
 Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. [p. 69. 
 "Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussul- 
 man Paradise. 
 
 And mourned above his turban-stone. [p. 70. 
 A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men 
 only. 
 
 The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant earl 
 
 fp.70. 
 The death - song of the Turkish women. The "silent 
 slaves" are the men whosenotions of decorum forbid com- 
 plaint in public. 
 
 " Where is my child?" — an Echo answers — " Where?" 
 
 [p. 71. 
 
 "I came to the place of my birth, and cried, "the friends 
 of my youth, where are they?" and an Echo answered, 
 "Where are they?" (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 annotations to "The Pleasures of Memory," 
 a poem so well known as to render a reference almost su- 
 perfluous; but to whose pages all will be delighted to 
 recur. 
 
 Into Zuleika' s name. [P'''!- 
 
 "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 Lyttleton's 
 ghost-story , the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that 
 George I, flew into her window in the shape of a raveu 
 (see Orford's Reminiscences), and many other instances 
 bring this superstition nearer home. Tlie most singular 
 was the whira of a Worcester lady, who, believing her 
 daughter to exist in theshapeof 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 beautify- 
 ing the church , no objection was made to her harmless 
 folly. 
 
 NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 
 
 The time in this poem may seem too short for the oc- 
 currences, but the whole of the ^Egean isles are within a 
 few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be 
 kind enough to take the tvind as I have often found it. 
 
 Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. [p. 76. 
 
 Orlando, Furioso, Canto 10. 
 
 Around the waves' phosphoric brightness broke, [p. 78. 
 
 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. 
 
 — the sober berry's juice. [p. 78. 
 
 Coffee. 
 
 While dance the Almas to wild minstrelsy, [p. 78. 
 Dancing girls. 
 
 A captive Dervise , from the pirate's nest 
 Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest. 
 
 [p. 78. 
 
 It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised 
 as a spy is out of nature.— Perhaps so.— I find something 
 not unlike it in history. 
 
NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 
 
 739 
 
 .' "Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the 
 Vandals, Majorian ventured , after disguising' the colour 
 of his liair, to visit Carthage in the cliaracter of his own 
 ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by 
 the discovery , that he had entertained and dismissed tlie 
 Emperor of the Romans. Such an anecdote may be re- 
 jected as an improbable iiction; but it is a fiction which 
 would not have been imagined unless in the life of a hero." 
 Gibbon, Decl. and Fall, vol. vi. p. 180. 
 
 That Conrad is a character not altogether out of nature 
 I shall attempt to prove by some historical coincidences 
 which I have met with since writing "The Corsair." 
 
 "Eccelin prisonnicr," dit Rolandini,"s'eufermoit dans 
 un silence mena<;ant, il fixoit surlaterre son visage fe- 
 roce, et ne donnoit point d'essor k sa profonde indigna- 
 tion. — De toutes parts cependant les soldats et les peup- 
 les accouroient; ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis si 
 puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de toutes parts." 
 ********* 
 
 "Eccelin ctoit d'une petite taille; mais tout I'aspect de 
 sa personne, tous ses raouvemens indiquoient un soldat. 
 Son langage etoit amer, son deportement superbe, et par 
 son seul regard, il faisoit trembler les plus hardis." Sis- 
 MONDi, tome III. p. 219. 
 
 "Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the conque- 
 ror of both Carthage and Rome ), statura mediocris, et 
 equicasuclaudicans, animo profundus, sermone rarus, 
 luxuriie contemptor , ira turbidus, habendi cupidus, ad 
 solieitandas gentes providentissimus." Jornandes de Re- 
 bus Geticis, c. 33. 
 
 I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in 
 countenance my Giaour and Corsair. 
 
 And my stern vow and order's laws oppose. 
 
 [p. 79. 
 
 The Dervises are in colleges, and of diiferent orders, 
 as tlie monks. 
 
 They seize that Dervise! — seize on Zatanai! 
 
 [p. 79. 
 • Satan. 
 
 He tore his heard, and foaming fled thefl^ht, 
 
 [p. 80. 
 A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman an- 
 ger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs p. 24. "TheSeraskier 
 received a wound in the thigli ; he plucked up his beard 
 by the roots, because he was obliged to quit the field." 
 
 Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare. 
 
 [p. 80. 
 Gulnare, a female name: it means, literally, the flower 
 of the Pomegranate. 
 
 Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest! 
 
 [p. 82. 
 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 heads- 
 man much." During one part of the French Revolution, 
 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 considerable 
 size. 
 
 Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run . . . 
 Thatfrown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 
 
 [p. 83. 
 The opening lines of Canto III. have, perhaps, little bu- 
 siness here, and were annexed to an unpublished (though 
 printed), poem; but they were written on the spot in the 
 springof I811,and — I scarce know why — thereadermust 
 excuse their appearance here if he can. (See "Curse of 
 Minerva.") 
 
 Tliat closed their murder'd sage's latest day! 
 
 [p. 83. 
 Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset 
 (the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties 
 of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 
 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign, 
 
 [p. 83. 
 The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own 
 country ; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of 
 shorter duration. 
 
 T/ie gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk. [p. 83. 
 The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; the palm is 
 without the present walls of Athens, not far from the tem- 
 ple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall inter- 
 venes. — Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus 
 has no stream at all. 
 
 His only bends in seeming o'er his beads. [p. 84. 
 
 The Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary; the beads are 
 in number niuety-niue. 
 
 And the coldflowers her colder hand contain' d. 
 
 [p. 88. 
 
 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. 
 
 Link' d with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 
 
 [p. 89. 
 
 That the point of honour which is represented in one 
 instanceof Conrad'scharacterhas not been carried beyond 
 the bounds of probability, may perhaps be in some de- 
 gree confirmed bythefollovvinganecdote of a brother buc- 
 caneer in the present year, 1814. 
 
 Our readers have all seen the account of the enterprise 
 against the pirates of Barrataria; but few, we believe, were 
 informed of the situation , history, or nature of that esta- 
 blishment. For the information of such as were unac- 
 quainted with it we have procured from a friend the fol- 
 lowing interesting narrative of the main facts, of which 
 he has personal knowledge, and which cannot fail to in- 
 terest some of our readers. 
 
 Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the gulf of Mex- 
 ico; it runs through a rich but very flat country, until it 
 reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, fifteen miles 
 below the city of New-Orleans. The bay has branches 
 almost inrmmerable, in whicli persons can lie concealed 
 from the severest scrutiny. It communicates with three 
 lakes which lie on the southwest side, and these with the 
 lake of the same name, 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'is- 
 land were fortified in the year 1811, by a band of pirate.", 
 under the command of one Mr. LaFitte. A large ma- 
 jority of these outlaws are of that class of the population 
 of the state of Louisiana who fled from the island of St. 
 Domingo during the troubles there, and took refuge in 
 the island of Cuba: and vThen the last war between France 
 and Spain commenced, they were compelled to leave that 
 island with the short notice of a few days. Without cere- 
 mony, they entered the United States, the most of them 
 the State of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had pos- 
 sessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Governor of 
 that State of the clause in the constitution which forbade 
 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 general Government for 
 their retaining this property. 
 
 The island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29. deg. 
 15 min. long 92. 30. and is as remarkable for its health as 
 for the superior scale and shellfish with which its waters 
 abound. The chief of this horde , like Charles Moor, had 
 mixed with his many vices some virtues. In the year 1813 
 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 500 dollars for the 
 head of Mr. La Fitte, who was well known to the inhabi- 
 tants of the city of New-Orleans, from Jiis immediate con- 
 nexion, and liis once having been a fencing-master in that 
 city of great reputation, which art he learnt in Buona- 
 parte's army, where he was a Captain. The reward whiclr 
 
740 
 
 NOTE TO LARA. 
 
 was offered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was 
 answered by the offer of a reward from the latter of 15,000 
 for the head of the Governor. The Governor ordered out 
 a company to march from the city to La Fitte's island, 
 and to burn and destroy all the property, and to bring to 
 the city of New-Orleans all his banditti. This company, 
 under the command of a man who had been 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 Moor deve- 
 loped 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 for the remainder of liis 
 days , which was indignantly refused. He then , with the 
 approbation of his captor, returned to the city. This cir- 
 cumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that 
 this band of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our na- 
 val force having always been small in that quarter, exer- 
 tions 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 autliorised an 
 attack, one was made; the overthrow of this banditti has 
 been the result; and now this almost invulnerable 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 Newspaper. 
 
 In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical 
 Dictionary, there is a singular passage in his account of 
 archbishop Blackbourne, and as in some measure con- 
 nectetl with the profession of the hero of the foregoing 
 poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it. 
 
 "Tliere is something mysterious in the history and 
 character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but imper- 
 fectly known ; and report has even asserted he was a 
 buccaneer, and that one of his brethren in that profession 
 
 having asked, on his arrival in England , what had be- 
 come of his old chum, Blackbourne, was answered, he is 
 Archbishop of York. We are informed , that Black- 
 bourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter in 1694, wiiich 
 office he resigned in 1702: but after his successor's, 
 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 consecrated 
 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 
 Munster. This, ho wever,appears to have been an unfound- 
 ed calumny. As archbishop he behaved with great pru- 
 dence, and was equally respectable as the guardian of the 
 revenues of the see. Rumour whispered 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 by seventy witnesses, he does not 
 appear to have been directly criminated by one. In short, 
 I look upon these aspersions as the effects of mere malice. 
 How is it possible a buccaneer should have been so good 
 a sciiolar as Blackbourne certainly was ? he who had so 
 perfect a knowledge of the clasics (particularly of tlie 
 Greek tragedians), 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 then 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 2d, 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 irreparable loss, and to 
 meditate on the vanity of human life." Gibbon. 
 
 NOTE TO LARA. 
 
 The event in the latter part of Canto 2d was suggested 
 by the description of the death, or rather burial, of the 
 Duke of Gandia. 
 
 The most interesting andparticular account of this my- 
 sterious event is given by Burchard, and is in substance 
 as follows: "On the eighth day of June the Cardinal of 
 Valenza, and the Duke of Gandia , sons of the Pope, 
 supped with their mother, Vanozza, near the church of 
 5'. Pietro advinciila; several other persons being present 
 at the entertainment. A late hour approaching, and the 
 Cardinal having reminded his brother, tliat it was time 
 to return to the apostolic palace, they mounted their 
 horses or mules, with only afew attendants, and proceeded 
 together as far as the palace of Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, 
 when the Duke informed the Cardinal, that before he 
 returned home, he had to pay a visit of pleasure. Dis- 
 
 missing therefore all his attendants, excepting his staf- 
 fiero, or footman, and a person in a mask, who had paid 
 "him a visit whilst at supper, and who, during the space 
 of a month, or thereabouts, previous to this time, had 
 called upon him almost daily, at the apostolic palace; 
 he took this person behind him on his mule , and pro- 
 ceeded to tlie street of the Jews, where he quitted his ser- 
 vant, directing him to remain tliere until a certain hour; 
 when, if he did not return, he might repair to the palace. 
 The Duke then seated the person in the mask behind him, 
 and rode, I know not whither; but in that night he was as- 
 sassinated, and thrown into the river. The servant, after 
 having been dismissed, was also assaulted and mortally 
 wounded; and although he was attended with great care, 
 yet such was his situation, that he could give no intelli- 
 gible account of what had befallen his master. In the 
 
NOTES TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 741 
 
 morning:, the Duke not having returned to the palace, his 
 servants began to be alarmed; and one of them informed 
 the Pontiff" of tlie evening-excursion of his sons, and that 
 the Duke had not yet made his appearance. This gave 
 the Pope no small anxiety; but he conjectured that tlie 
 Duke had been attracted by some courtesan to pass the 
 night with her, and not choosing to quit the house in open 
 da3% had waited till the following evening to return home. 
 When, liovvever, the evening arrived, and he found him- 
 self disappointed in his expectations, he became deeply 
 aillicted, and began to make inquiries from different 
 persons, whom he ordered to attend him for that purpose. 
 Amongst these was a man named Giorgio Sohiavoni, 
 wlio, having discharged some timber from a bark in the 
 river, had remained on board the vessel to watch it, and 
 being interrogated whether he had seen any one thrown 
 into the river, on the night preceding, he replied, that he 
 saw two men on foot, who came down the street, and 
 looked diligently about, to observe whether any person 
 was passing. That seeing no one, they returned, and a 
 short time afterwards two others came, and looked around 
 in tlie samemanneras the former; no person still appear- 
 ing, they gave a sign to their companions, when a man 
 came, mounted on a white horse, having behind him a 
 dead body, the head and arms of wJiich hung on one side, 
 and the feet on the other side of the horse; the two per- 
 sons on foot supporting the body, to prevent its falling. 
 They thus proceeded towards that part, where the filth 
 of the city is usually discharged into the river, and turn- 
 ing the horse, with his tail towards the water, the two 
 persons took the dead body by the arms and feet, and 
 with all their strength ffung it into the river. The person 
 
 on horseback then asked ifthey had thrown it in, to which 
 they replied, Signer, si (yes, Sir). He then looked 
 towards the river, and seeing a mantle floating on the 
 stream, he inquired what it was that appeared black ; to 
 which they answered, it was a mantle; and one of them 
 threw stones upon it, in consequence of which it sunk. 
 The attendants of the Pontiff' then inquired from Giorgio, 
 why he had not revealed this to the governor of the city ; 
 to which he replied, that he had seen in his time a hun- 
 dred dead bodies thrown into the river at the same place, 
 without any inquiry being made respecting them, and 
 that he had not, therefore, considered it as a matter of 
 any importance. The fishermen and seamen were then 
 collected, and ordered to search the river ; where, on the 
 following evening, they found the body of the Duke, with 
 his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his purse. He was 
 pierced with nine wounds, one of which was in his throat, 
 the others in his head, body, and limbs. No sooner was 
 the Pontiff" informed of the death of his son, and that he 
 had been thrown, like filth, into the river, than giving 
 way to his grief, he shut himself up in a chamber and 
 wept bitterly. The Cardinal of Segovia, and other attend- 
 ants, on the Pope, went to the door, and after many hours 
 spent in persuasions and exhortations, prevailed upon 
 him to admit them. From the evening of "VN'ednesday, till 
 the following Saturday, the Pope took no food; nor did 
 he sleep from Thursday morning till the same hour on 
 the ensuing day. At length, however, giving way to the 
 entreaties of his attendants , he began to restrain his 
 sorrow, and to consider the injury which his own health 
 might sustain, by .the further indulgence of his grief." — 
 Roscoe's Leo Tenth, Vol. 1, p. 265. 
 
 NOTES TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 The Turcoman hath left his herd. [p. 102. 
 The life of the Turcomans is wandering and patri- 
 rchal: they dwell in tents- 
 
 Coumonrgi — he whose closing scene. [p. 103. 
 Ali Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans , and 
 Grand Vizier to Achmet III., after recovering the Pelo- 
 ponnesus from the Venetians in one compaign, was mor- 
 tally wounded in the next, against the Germans, at the 
 battle of Peterwaradin (in the plain of Carlowitz), in 
 Hungary, endeavouring to rally his guards. He died of 
 his wounds next day. His last order w as the decapitation 
 of General Brenner, and some other German prisoners ; 
 and his last words, " Oh that I could thus serve all the 
 Christian dogs ! " a speech and act not unlike one of Ca- 
 ligula. He was a young man of great ambition and un- 
 bounded presumption : on being told thatPrince Eugene, 
 then opposed to him, "was a great general," he said "I 
 shall become a greater, and at his expense." 
 
 There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea. [p. 105. 
 
 The reader need hardly be reminded that there are no 
 perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 
 
 And their white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull. 
 
 [p. 105. 
 
 This spectacle I have seen, such as described, beneath 
 
 the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the little 
 
 cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a narrow 
 terrace of which projects between the wall and the water. 
 I think the fact is also mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. 
 The bodies were probably those of some refractory Jani- 
 zaries. 
 
 And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair. 
 
 [p. 106. 
 This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that 
 Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. 
 
 Was it the wind, through some hollow stone ... . 
 
 [p. 106. 
 I must here acknowledge a close, though unintentional, 
 resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an un- 
 published poem of Mr. Coleridge, called "Christabel." It 
 was not till after these lines were written that I heard that 
 wild and singularly original and beautiful poem recited; 
 and the MS. of tliat production I never saw till very 
 recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, 
 I hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful plagia- 
 rist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains to Mr. Co- 
 leridge, whose poem has been composed above fourteen 
 years. Let me conclude by a hope tliat he will not longer 
 delay the publication of a production, of which I can only 
 add my mite of approbation to tlie applause of far more 
 competent judges. ("Christabel" was published in 1816.) 
 
742 
 
 NOTES TO PARISINA. 
 
 Tliere is a light cloud hy the moon — 
 'Tis passing and tvill pass full soon — 
 If, hy the time its vapoury sail .... [p. 107. 
 I have been told that the idea expressed iu these lines 
 
 has been admired by those whose approbation is valuable. 
 
 I am glad of it: but it is not original — at least not mine ; 
 
 it may be found much better expressed in "Vathek" a 
 
 work to which I have before referred, and never recur to, 
 
 or read, without a renewal of gratification. 
 
 The horsetails are pluck' d from the ground, and 
 
 the sword — [p. 107. 
 
 The horsetail, fixed upon a lance, a Pacha's standard. 
 
 And since the day, when in the strait — 
 
 [p. 108. 
 In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, 
 between the Venetians and the Turks. 
 
 The jackal's troop, in gathered cry, 
 
 [p. 111. 
 I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant 
 the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard 
 these animals; but among tlie ruins of Ephesus I have 
 heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruins, and follow 
 armies. 
 
 NOTES TO PARISINA. 
 
 It is the hour when from the houghs 
 Tlie nightingale's high note is heard. 
 
 As twilight melts heneath the moon away. [p. 112. 
 These fourteen lines were printed as set to music some 
 time since, but belonged to the poem where they now ap- 
 pear, the greater part of which was composed prior to 
 "Lara," and other compositions since published. 
 
 Tliat should have won as haught a crest. 
 
 [p. 114. 
 Haught — haughty. — "Away, haught man, thou art in- 
 sulting me." Skakspeare, Richard II. 
 
 Her life began and closed in woe. [p. 1 1 7. 
 
 •'This turned out a calamitous year for the people of 
 Ferrara, for there occurred a very tragical event in the 
 court of their sovereign. Our annals, both printed and 
 in manuscript, with the exception of the unpolished and 
 negligent work of Sardi, and one other, have given the 
 following relation of it, from which, however, are rejected 
 many details, and especially the narrative of Bandelli, who 
 wrote a century after war ds,and who does not accord with 
 the cotemporary historians. 
 
 "By the above mentioned Stella dell' Assassino , the 
 Marquis, in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, a beau- 
 tiful and ingenious youth. Parisina Malatesta, second 
 wifeof Niccolo, like the generality of stepmothers, treated 
 him with little kindness , to the infinite regret of the Mar- 
 quis, who regarded him with fond partiality. One day 
 she asked leave of her husband to undertake a certain 
 journey, to which he consented, but upon condition that 
 Ugo should bear her company; for he hoped by these 
 means to induce her, in the end, to lay aside the obstinate 
 aversion which she had conceived against him. And in- 
 deed this intent was accomplished but too well, since, dur- 
 ing the journey, she not only divested herself of all her 
 hatred, but fell iuto the opposite extreme. After their re- 
 turn , the Marquis had no longer any occasion to renew 
 his former reproofs. It happened one day that a servant 
 of the Marquis, named Zoese,or, as some call him, Gior- 
 gio, passing before the apartments of Parisina, saw going 
 out from them one of her chambermaids, all terrified and 
 in tears. Asking the reason , she told him that her mis- 
 tress, for some slight ofleuce, had been beating her; and. 
 
 giving vent to her rage , she added, that she could easily 
 be revenged , if she chose to make known the criminal 
 familiarity which subsisted between Parisina and her 
 step-son. The servant took note of the words, and related 
 them to his master. He was astounded thereat,but scarce- 
 ly believing his ears, he assured himself of the fact, alas! 
 too clearly, on the 18th of May, 1425, by looking through 
 a hole made in the ceiling of his wife's chamber. Instantly 
 he broke into a furious rage, and arrested both of them, 
 together with Aldobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her 
 gentleman, and also, as some say, two of the women of 
 her chamber, as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered 
 them to be brought to a hasty trial, desiring the judges 
 to pronounce sentence, in the accustomed forms, upon 
 the culprits. This sentence was death. Some there were 
 that bestirred themselves in favour of the delinquents, and, 
 amongst others, Ugoccion Contrario, who was all-power- 
 ful with Niccolo, and also his aged and much deserving 
 minister Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, their tears flow- 
 ing down their cheeks, and upon their knees, implored 
 him for mercy: adducing whatever reasons they could 
 suggest for sparing the oftenders, besides those motives 
 of honour and decency which might persuade him to con- 
 ceal from the public so scandalous a deed. But his rage 
 made him inflexible , and , on the instant, he commanded 
 that the sentence should be put in execution. 
 
 "It was , then , in the prisons of the castle, and exactly 
 in those frightful dungeons which are seen at this day be- 
 neath the chamber called the Aurora, at the foot of the 
 Lion's tower, at the top of the street Giovecca, that on the 
 night of the twenty-first of May were beheaded, first, Ugo, 
 and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he that accused her, con- 
 ducted the latter under his arm to the place of punishment. 
 She, all along, fancied, that she was to be thrown into a 
 pit, and asked at every step, whether she was yet come 
 to the spot.!" She was told that her punishment was the 
 axe. She inquired what was become of Ugo, and received 
 for answer, that he was already dead; at thewhich, sighing 
 grievously, she exclaimed. "Now, then, I wish not myself 
 to live;" and being come to the block , she stripped her- 
 self with her own hands of all her ornaments, and wrap- 
 ping a cloth round her head, submitted to the fatal stroke 
 which terminated the cruel scene. The same was done 
 with Rangoni, who, together with the others, according 
 to two calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was bu- 
 
NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 743 
 
 riedinthecemeteryof that convent. Nothing' else is known 
 respecting the women. 
 
 'The Marquis kept watch the whole of that dreadful 
 night, and, as he was walking backwards and forwards, 
 inquired of the Captain of the castle if Ugo was dead yet? 
 who answered him, Yes. He then gave himself up to the 
 most desperate lamentations, exclaiming, "Oh! that I too 
 were dead, since I have been hurried on to resolve thus 
 against my own Ugo 1" And then gnawing with his teeth 
 a cane which he had in his hand , he passed the rest of the 
 night in sighs and tears , calling frequently upon his own 
 dear Ugo. On the following day, calling to mind that it 
 would be necessary to make public his j ustification, seeing 
 that the transaction could not be kept secret, he ordered 
 the narrative to be drawn out upon paper, and sent it to 
 all the courts of Italy. 
 
 "On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Fran- 
 cesco Foscari , gave orders , but without publishing his 
 
 reasons, that stop should be put to the preparations for a 
 tournament, which under the auspices of the Marquis, 
 and at the expense of the city of Padua, was about to take 
 place, in the square of St. Mark, in order to celebrate his 
 advancement to the ducal chair. 
 
 "The Marquis, in additionto what hehad already done, 
 from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, commanded 
 that as many of the married women as were well known 
 to him to be faithless, like his Parisina, should, like her, 
 be beheaded. Amongst others, Barbarina, or as some call 
 her, Laodamia Romei, wife of the court-judge, underwent 
 this sentence, at the usual place of execution, that is to 
 say, in the quarter of St. Giacomo, opposite the present 
 fortress, beyond St. Paul's. It cannot be told how strange 
 appeared this proceedingin a prince, who, considering his 
 own disposition, should , as it seemed, have been in such 
 cases most indulgent. Some , however, there were, who 
 did not fail to commend him." Faizzr, History of Ferrara. 
 
 NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 By Bonnivard! — May none those marks efface ! 
 
 [p. 118. 
 
 Francois de Bonnivard, fds deLouis deBonnivard, ori- 
 ginaire de Scyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, naquit en 1496; 
 il fit ses ctudesaTurin. En 1510 Jean Aime deBonnivard, 
 son onclc, lui resigna le Prieure de St. Victor, qui aboutis- 
 sait aux murs de Geneve, et qui formait un benefice con- 
 siderable. 
 
 Ce grand homme ( Bonnivard merite ce titre par la 
 force de son anie, la droiture de son coeur, la noblesse de 
 ses intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage de 
 ses demarches , I'ctendue de ses connaissances et la viva- 
 cite de son esprit), ce grand homme, qui excitera I'admi- 
 ration de tons ceux qu'une vertu heroique pent encore 
 cmouvoir , inspirera encore la plus vive reconnaissance 
 dans les coeurs des Genevois qui aiment Geneve. Bonni- 
 vard en fut toujours un des plus fermes appuis : pour as- 
 surer la liberte de notre Rcpublique, il ne craignit pas de 
 perdre souvent la sienne; il oubliason rcpos ; il meprisa 
 ses ri(;hesses ; il ne negligea rien pour allermir le bonheur 
 d'une patrie qu'il honora de son choix : des ce moment 
 il la cherit eomme le plus zele de ses citoyens; il la servit 
 avec rintrcpidite d'un heros,et il ecrivitson histoire avee 
 }a naivete d'un philosophe et la chaleur d'un patriote. 
 
 II dit dans le commencement de son histoire de Ge- 
 neve, que, des qu'il eut commence de lire V histoire des na- 
 tions, il sesentitentraine par son gout pour les Republiques, 
 dont il epousa toujours les intercts: c'est ce gout pour la 
 liberte qui lui fit sans doute adopter Geneve pour sa 
 patrie. 
 
 Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annon9ahautementcomme 
 le defenseur de Geneve contre le Due de Savoye et 
 I'Eveque. 
 
 En 1519, Bonnivard devint le martyr de sa patrie : le 
 Due de Savoye etant entre dans Geneve avec cinq -cents 
 horames, Bonnivard craignit le ressentiment du Due; il 
 voulut se retirer k Fribourg pour en eviter les suites ; mais 
 11 fut trahi par deux hommes qui I'accompagnaient, et con- 
 
 duit par ordre du Prince k Grolee, oii il resta prisonnier 
 pendant deux ans. Bonnivard etait malheureux dans ses 
 voyages; comme ses malheurs n'avaient point ralcnti 
 son zele pour Geneve, il etait toujours un ennemi redou- 
 table pour ceux qui la mena9aient, et par consequent il 
 devait etre expose a leurs coups^ II fut rencontre enl530 
 sur le Jura, par des voleurs, qui le depouillerent, et qui 
 le mirent encore entre les mains du Due de Savoye: ce 
 Prince le fit enfcrmer dans le Chateau de Chillon, ou il 
 resta sans etre interroge jusqu'en 1536; il futalors deli- 
 vre par les Bernois, qui s'emparerent du Pays de Vaud. 
 
 Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivite, cut le plaisir dc 
 trouver Geneve libre et reformee: la republique s'em- 
 pressa de lui tcmoigner sa reconnaissance et dele dedom- 
 mager des maux qu'il avait soufferts ; elle le recut Bour- 
 geois de la ville au mois de Juin 1536; elle lui donna la 
 maison habitee autrefois par le Vicaire- General, et elle 
 lui assigna unepension dc 200 ecus d'or tant qu'il sejour- 
 nerait a Geneve. II fut admis dans le Conseil de Deux- 
 Cents en 1537. 
 
 Bonnivard n'a pas flni d'etre utile: apres avoir travaille 
 arendreGcncve libre, ilreussitMarendretolerante. Bon- 
 nivard engagea le Conseil k accorder aux ecclesiastiqucs 
 et aux paysans un tempssuffisant pour examiner les pro- 
 positions qu'on leur faisait; il reussit par sa douceur : on 
 preche toujours le Christianisme avec succes quand on 
 le preche avec charite. 
 
 Bonnivard fut savant; ses manuscrits, qui sont dans la 
 bibliotheque publique, prouvent qu'il avait bien lu les 
 auteursclassiques latins, et q'uilavaitapprofondilatheo- 
 logie et riiistoire. Ce grand homme aimait les sciences, 
 et il croyait qu'elles pouvaient faire la gloire de Geneve; 
 aussi il ne negligea rien pour les fixer dans cette ville nais- 
 sante;en 1551 il donna sa bibliotheque au public; elle fut 
 le commencement de notre bibliotheque publique; et ces 
 livres sont en partie les rares et belles editions du quin- 
 zi^me si6cle qu'on voit dans notre collection. Enfin, pen- 
 dant la mcme annee, ce bon patriote institua la Rcpubli- 
 
744 
 
 NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 que son heriti^re, k condition qu'elleemploieraitses biens 
 a entretenir le college dont on projetait la foudation. 
 
 II parait que Bonnivard mourut en 1570; mais on ne 
 peut I'assurer, parcequ'il y a une lacune dans le Necro- 
 loge depuis le mois de Juillet 1570 jusqu'en 1571. 
 
 In a single night. [p. 118. 
 
 Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is asserted 
 of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI., though not 
 in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the same 
 effect: to such, and not to fear, tliis change in her's was 
 to be attributed. 
 
 From Chillon^s snow-white battlement, [p.l 19. 
 
 The Chateau de Chillon is situated between Clarens 
 and Villeneuve, which last is atone extremity of the Lake 
 of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the Rhone, and 
 opposite are the heights of Meillerie and the range of Alps 
 above Boveiet and St. Gingo. 
 
 Near it, on a hill beliind,is a torrent; below it, washing 
 its walls , the lake has been fathomed to the depth of 800 
 feet (French measure) ; within it are a range of dungeons, 
 in which the early reformers, and subsequently prisoners 
 of state, were confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam 
 black with age , on which we were informed that the con- 
 demned were formerly executed. In the cells are seven 
 pillars, 01 , rather, eight, one being half merged in the wall, 
 
 in some of tliese are rings for the fetters and the fettered; 
 ill the pavement the steps of Bonnivard have left their tra- 
 ces — he was confined here several years. 
 
 It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the ca- 
 tastrophe of his Heloise, in the rescue of one of her cliil- 
 dren by Julie from the water; theshock of which, and 
 tiie illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of her 
 death 
 
 The chateau is large, and seen along the lak«for agreat 
 distance. The walls are white. 
 
 And then there was a little isle. [p. 121. 
 
 Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, 
 not far from Chillon, is a very small island : the only one 
 I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, 
 within its circumference. It contains a few trees (I tijink 
 not above three),and from its singleness and diminutive 
 size has a peculiar effect upon the view. 
 
 When the foregoing poem was composed I was not suf- 
 ficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should 
 have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an attempt to 
 celebrate his courage and his virtues. Some account of his 
 life will be found in the above note to the "Sonnet on 
 Chillon," with which I have been furnished by the kind- 
 ness of a citizen of that Republic which is still proud of 
 the memory of a man worthy of the best age of ancient 
 freedom. 
 
 NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 SOME OBSERYATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOODS 
 
 MAGAZINE, 
 
 AUGUST, 1819. 
 
 "Why, how now, Hecate? you look angrily." 
 
 Macbeth. 
 
 J. DISRAELI, ESQ. 
 
 THE AMIABLE AND IKGENIOUS AUTHOR 
 
 OP 
 
 "THE calamities" AND "QUARRELS OF AUTHORS;" 
 
 Tins ADDITIONAL QUARREL AND CALAMITY IS INSCRIBED 
 
 BY 
 
 ONE OF THE NUMBER. 
 
 Ravenna, March 15, 1820. 
 
 "The life of a writer" has been said, by Pope, I believe, 
 to be "a warfare vpon earth." As far as my own expe- 
 rience has gone, I have nothing to say against the pro- 
 
 position; and, like the rest, having once plunged into 
 this state of hostility, must, however reluctantly, carry it 
 on. An article has appeared in a periodical work, entitled 
 "Remarks on Don Juan," which has been so full of this 
 spirit, on the part of the writer, as to require some obser- 
 vations on mine. 
 
 In the first place, I am not aware by what right the 
 writer assumes this work, which is anonymous, to be 
 my production. He will answer, that there is internal 
 evidence: that is to say, that there are passages whicli 
 appear to be written in my name, or in my manner. But 
 might not this have been done on purpose by another? 
 He will say, why not then deny it? To this I could answer, 
 that of all the things attributed to me within the last five 
 years, — Pilgrimages to Jerusalem, Deaths upon Pale 
 
NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 745 
 
 Horses, Odes to the Land of the Gaul, Adieus to Eng- 
 land, Songs to Madame Lavalette, Odes to St. Helena, 
 Vampires, and what not,— of which, God knows, I 
 never composed nor read a syllable beyond tlieir titles 
 in advertisements, — I never thought it worth while to 
 disavow any, except one w hich came linked with an ac- 
 count of my "residence in the Isle of Mitylene," where I 
 never resided , and appeared to be carrying the amuse- 
 ment of those persons, who think my name can be of any 
 use to them, a little too far. 
 
 1 should hardly, therefore, if I did not take the trouble 
 to disavow these things published in my name , and yet 
 not mine, go otit of my way to deny an anonymous work : 
 which might appear an act of supererogation. With re- 
 gard to Don Juan, I neither deny nor admit it to be mine 
 — every body may form their own opinion ; but, if there 
 be any who now, or in the progress of that poem, if it is 
 to be continued, feel or should feel themselves so ag- 
 grieved as to require a more explicit answer, privately 
 and personally, they shall have it. 
 
 I have never shrunk form the responsibility of what I 
 have written, and have more than once incurred obloquy 
 by neglecting to disavow what was attributed to my pen 
 without foundation. 
 
 The greater part, however, of the "Remarks on Don 
 Juan" contain but little on the work itself, which receives 
 an extraordinary portion of praise as a composition. 
 With the exception of some quotations , and a few inci- 
 dental remarks, the rest of the article is neither more nor 
 less than a personal attack upon the imputed author. It 
 is not the first in the same publication: for I recollect to 
 have read, some time ago, similar remarks upon "Beppo" 
 (said to have been written by a celebrated northern 
 preacher); in which theconclusion drawn was,that"Cliilde 
 Harold, Byron, and the Count in Beppo were one and 
 the same person;" thereby making me turn out to be, as 
 Mrs. Malaprop says , " like Cerberus, three gentlemen at 
 once." That article was signed " Presbyter Anglicanus;" 
 w hich, I presume, being interpreted, means Scotch Pres- 
 byterian. I must here observe, — and it is at once ludi- 
 crous and vexatious to be compelled so frequently to 
 repeat the same thing, — that my case, as an author, is 
 peculiarly hard, in being everlastingly taken, or mistaken, 
 for my own protagonist. It is unjust and particular. 1 
 never heard t hat my friend Jitfoa te was set down for a 
 fire- worshipper on ac count of his Guebre; that Scott was 
 identi fiedw itli KoclerFck Dhu, or with Balfour of Burley ; 
 or ihat, notwithstanding alTthe magicians in Thalaba, 
 any body has ever taken Mr. Southey for a conjuror; 
 whereas I liave had some difiiculty in extricating me even 
 from Manfred, who, as Mr. Southey slily observes in one 
 of his articles in the Quarterly, "met the devil on the 
 Jungfrau, and bullied him:" and I answer Mr. Southey, 
 who has apparently, in his poetical life, not been so suc- 
 cessful against the great enemy, that, in this, Manfred 
 exactly followed the sacred precept, — "Resist the devil, 
 and he will fiee from you." — I shall have more to say on 
 the subject of this person — not the devil, but his most 
 humble servant Mr. Southey — before I conclude; but, 
 for the present, I must return to the article in the Edin- 
 burgh Magazine. 
 
 In the course of this article, amidst some extraordinary 
 observations, there occur the following words: — "It 
 appears, in short, as if this miserable man, having ex- 
 hausted every species of sensual gratification, — having 
 drained the cup of sin even to its bitterest dregs, were 
 resolved to show us that he is no longer a human being 
 even in his frailties, — but a cool, unconcerned fiend, 
 laughing with a detestable glee over the whole of the 
 better and worse elements of which human life is com- 
 posed." In another place there appears, "the lurking- 
 place of his selfish and polluted exile." — "By my troth, 
 tiiese be bitter words!" — With regard to the first sen- 
 tenoe, I shall content myself with observing, that it ap- 
 pears to have been composed for Sardauapalus, Tiberius, 
 
 I the Regent Duke of Orleans, or Louis XV. ; and that I 
 I have copied it with as much indiflerence as I would a 
 passage from Suetonius, or from any of the private me- 
 moirs of the regency,conceiving it to be amply refuted by 
 the terms in w hich it is expressed, and to be utterly inap- 
 plicable to any private individual. On the words, "lurking- 
 place," and "selfish and polluted exile," I have some- 
 thing more to say. — How far the capital city of a govern- 
 ment, which survived the vicissitudes of thirteen hundred 
 years, and might still have existed but for the treachery 
 of Buonaparte, and the iniquity of his imitators, — a city, 
 which was the emporium of Europe when London and 
 Edinburgh were dens of barbarians, — may be termed 
 a "lurking-place," I leave to those who have seen or 
 heard of Venice to decide. How far my exile may have 
 been "polluted," it is not for me to say, because the word 
 is a wide one, and, with some of its branches, may chance 
 to overshadow the actions of most men ; but that it has 
 been "■selfish" I deny. If, to the extent of my means and 
 my power, and my information of their calamities, to have 
 assisted many miserable beings, reduced by the decay of 
 the place of their birth, and their consequent loss of sub- 
 stance — if to have never rejected an application which 
 appeared founded on truth — if to have expended in this 
 manner sums far out of proportion to my fortune,there and 
 elsewhere, be selfish, then have 1 been selfish. To have 
 done such things I do not deem much; but it is hard indeed 
 to be compelled to recapitulate them in my own defence, 
 by such accusations as that before me, like a panel before a 
 jury calling testimonies to his character, or a soldier re- 
 cording his services to obtain his discharge. If the person 
 who has made the charge of "selfishness" wishes to in- 
 form himself further on the subject, he may acquire, not 
 what he would wish to find, but what will silence and 
 shame him, by applying to the Consul - General of our 
 nation, resident in the place, w ho will be in the case either 
 to confirm or deny what I have asserted. 
 
 I neither make, nor have ever made, pretensions to 
 sanctity of demeanour, nor regularity of conduct; but my 
 means have been expended principally on my own gra- 
 tification, neither now nor heretofore, neither in England 
 nor out of it; and it wants but a word from me, if I 
 thought that word decent or necessary, to call forth the 
 most willing witnesses, and at once witnesses and proofs, 
 in England itself, to show that there are those who have 
 derived not the mere temporary relief of a wretched boon, 
 but the means which led them to immediate happiness 
 and ultimate independence, by my want of that very 
 "selfishness," as grossly as falsely now imputed to my 
 conduct. 
 
 Had I been a selfish man — had 1 been a grasping 
 man — had I been, in the worldly sense of the word, even 
 a prudent man, — I should not be where I now am; I 
 should not have taken the step which was the first that 
 led to the events which have sunk and swoln a gulf be- 
 tween me and mine; but in this respect the truth will one 
 day be made known: in the mean time, as Durandearte 
 says, in the Cave of Montesinos, "Patience, and shuflle 
 the cards." 
 
 I bitterly feel the ostentation of this statement, tlie first 
 of the kind I have ever made : I feel the degradation of 
 being compelled to make it; but I also feel its tmth , and 
 I trust to feel it on my death-bed, should it be my lot to 
 die there. I am not less sensible of the egotism of all this; 
 but, alas! Avho have made me thus egotistical in my own 
 defence, if not they, who by perversely persisting in refer- 
 ring fiction to truth,and tracing poetry to life,and regard- 
 ing characters of imagination as creatures of existence, 
 have made me personally responsible for almost every 
 poetical delineation which fancy, and a particular bias of 
 thought, may have tended to produce? 
 
 The writer continues : — " Those who are acquainted, 
 as who is not? with the main incidents of the private life 
 of Lord B.," etc. Assuredly, whoever may be acquainted 
 with these "main incidents," the writer of the "Remarks 
 
 47* 
 
746 
 
 NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 on Don Juan" is not, or he would use a very different 
 language. That whicli I believe he alludes to as a "main 
 incident," happened to be a very subordinate one, and 
 the natural and almost inevitable consequence of events 
 and circumstances long prior to the period at which it 
 occurred. It is the last drop which makes the cup run 
 over, and mine was already full. — But, to return to this 
 man's charge: he accuses Lord Ji. of "an elaborate satire 
 on the character and manners of his wife." From what 
 parts of Don Juan the writer has inferred this he himself 
 best knows. As far as I recollect of the female characters 
 in that production, there is but one who is depicted in 
 ridiculous colours , or that could be interpreted as a satire 
 upon any body. 13ut here my poetical sins are again 
 visited upon me, supposing that the poem be mine. If I 
 depict a corsair , a misanthrope , a libertine, a chief of 
 insurgents, or an infidel, he is set down to the author; 
 and if, in a poem by no means ascertained to be my pro- 
 duction, there appears a disagreeable, casuistical, and by 
 no means respectable female pedant, it is set down for my 
 wife. Is there any resemblance? If there be, it is in those 
 who make it: I can see none. In my writings I have 
 rarely described any character under a fictitious name: 
 those of whom I have spoken have had their own — in 
 many cases a stronger satire in itself than any which could 
 be appended to it. But of real circumstances I have avail- 
 ed myself plentifully, both in the serious and the ludi- 
 crous — they are to poetry what landscapes are to the 
 painter; but vny Jii/ures are not portraits- It may even 
 have happened, that I have seized on some events that 
 have occurred under my own observation, or in my own 
 family, as 1 would paint a view from my grounds, did it 
 harmonise with my picture; but I never would introduce 
 the likenesses of its living members, unless their features 
 could be made as favourable to themselves as to the effect ; 
 which, in theaboveinstance, would be extremely difficult. 
 
 My learned brother proceeds to observe, that "it is in 
 vain for Lord B. to attempt in any way to justify his own 
 behaviour in that affair; and now that he has so openly 
 and audaciously invited enquiry and reproach, we do not 
 see any good reason why he sliould not be plainly told 
 so by the voice of his countrymen." How far the "open- 
 ness" of an anonymous poem, and the "audacity" of an 
 imaginary character, which the writer supposes to be 
 meant for Lady B., may be deemed to merit this formi- 
 dable denunciation from their "most sweet voices," I 
 neither know nor care; but when he tells me that I can- 
 not "in any way justify my own behaviour in that affair," 
 I acquiesce, because no man can "Justify" himself until 
 he knows of what he is accused; and I have never had — 
 and , God knows, my whole desire has ever been to ob- 
 tain it — any specific charge, in a tangible shape, sub- 
 mitted to me by the adversary, nor by others, unless the 
 atrocities of public rumour and the mysterious silence of 
 the lady's legal advisers may be deemed such. But is not 
 the writer content with what has been already said and 
 done? Has not "the general voice of his countrymen" 
 long ago pronounced upon the subject — sentence without 
 trial, and condemnation without a charge? Have I not 
 been exiled by ostracism, except that the shells which 
 proscribed me were anonymous? Is the writer ignorant of 
 the public opinion and the public conduct upon tliat oc- 
 casion? If he is, I am not: the public will forget both, long 
 before I shall cease to remember either. 
 
 The man who is exiled by a faction has the consola- 
 tion of thinking that he is a martyr; he is upheld by hope 
 and the dignity of his cause, real or imaginary: he who 
 withdraws from the pressure of debt may indulge in the 
 tliought that time and prudence will retrieve his circum- 
 stances : he who is condemned by the law, has a term to 
 his banishment, or a dream of its abbreviation; or, it may 
 be, the knowledge or the belief of some injustice of tlie 
 law, or of its administration in his own particular; but 
 he who is outlawed by general opinion, without the inter- 
 vention of hostile politics,iUegaljudgment,or embarrassed 
 
 circumstances, whether he be innocent or guilty, must 
 undergo all the bitterness of exile, without hope, without 
 pride, without alleviation. This case was mine. Upon 
 what grounds the public founded their opinion, I am not 
 aware ; but it was general, and it was decisive. Of me 
 or of mine they knew little, except that I had written 
 what is called poetry, was a nobleman, had married, be- 
 came a father, and was involved in differences with my 
 wife and her relatives, no one knew why, because the per- 
 sons complaining refused to state their grievances. The 
 fashionable world was divided into parties, mine con- 
 sisting of a very small minority : the reasonable world 
 was naturally on the stronger side, which happened to 
 be the lady's, as was most proper and polite. The press 
 was active and scurrilous; and such was the rage of the 
 day, that the unfortunate publication of two copies of 
 verses , rather complimentary than otherwise to the sub- 
 jects of both, was tortured into a species of crime, or con- 
 structive petty treason. I was accused of every mon- 
 strous vice by public rumour and private rancour: my 
 name, which had been a knightly or a noble one since my 
 fathers helped to conquer the kingdom for William the 
 Norman, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, 
 and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for 
 England; if false, England was unfit for me. I withdrew : 
 but this was not enough. In other countries, in Switzer- 
 land, in the shadow of the Alps, and by the blue depth of 
 the lakes, I was pursued and breathed upon by the same 
 blight. 1 crossed the mountains, but it was the same; so 
 I went a little farther, and settled myself by the waves of 
 the Adriatic, like the stag at bay , who betakes him to the 
 waters. 
 
 If I may judge by the statements of the few friends who 
 gathered round me , the outcry of the period to which I 
 allude was beyond all precedent, all parallel, even in those 
 cases where political motives have sharpened slander 
 and doubled enmity, I was advised not to go to the thea- 
 tres, lest I should be hissed, nor to my duty in parliament, 
 lest I should be insulted by the way; even on the day ot 
 my departure, my most intimate friend told me afterwards, 
 that he was under apprehensions of violence from the 
 people who might be assembled at the door of the carriage. 
 However, I was not deterred by thesecounsels from seeing 
 Kean in his best characters, nor from voting according 
 to my principles ; and with regard to the third and last ap- 
 prehensions of my friends , I could not share in them, not 
 being made acquainted with their extent till some time 
 after I had crossed the Channel. Even if I had been so, I 
 am not of a nature to be much affected by men's anger, 
 though I may feel hurt by their aversion. Against all in- 
 dividual outrage, I could protect or redress myself ; and 
 against thatof acrowd, I should probably have been ena- 
 bled to defend myself, with the assistance of others, as has 
 been done on similar occasions. 
 
 I retired from thecountry, perceiving that I was the ob- 
 ject of general obloquy; I did not indeed imagine, like 
 Jean Jacques Rousseau, that all mankind was in a con- 
 spiracy against me, tiiough I had perhaps as good grounds 
 for such a chimera as ever he had: but I perceived that I 
 had to a great extent become personally obnoxious in 
 England, perhaps through my own fault, but the fact was r 
 indisputable; tlie public in general would hardly have 
 been so much excited against a more popular character, 
 without at least an accusation or a charge of some kind 
 actually expressed or substantiated , for I can hardly 
 conceive that the common and every-day occurrence of 
 a separation between man and wife could in itself i 
 produce so great a ferment. I shall say nothing of the 
 usual complaints of "being prejudged ," "condemned ' 
 unheard," "unfairness," "partiality," and so forth, 
 the usual changes rung by parties who have had, or are | 
 to have, a trial; but I was a little surprised to find my-! 
 self condemned without being favoured with the act of; 
 accusation, and to perceive in the absence of this portent- 
 ous charge or charges, whatever it or they were to be. 
 
NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 Ul 
 
 that every possible or impossible crime was rumoured 
 to supply its place, and taken for granted. This could only 
 occur in the case of a person very much disliked, and I 
 knew no remedy, having already used to their extent 
 whatever little powers I might possess of pleasing in so- 
 ciety. I had no party in fashion, though I was afterwards 
 told that there was one— but it was not of my formation, 
 nor did I then know of its existence — none in literature; 
 and in politics I had voted with the Whigs , with precisely 
 that importance which a Whig vote possesses in these 
 Tory days, and with such personal acquaintance with 
 the leaders in both houses as the society in which I lived 
 sanctioned, but without claim or expectation of any thing 
 like friendship from any one, except a few young men of 
 my own age and standing, and afew others more advanc- 
 ed in life, which last it had been my fortune to serve in cir- 
 cumstances of difficulty. This was, in fact, to standalone: 
 and I recollect, some time after, Madame de Staelsaidto 
 main Switzerland, "You should not have warred with the 
 world— it will not do — it is too strong always for any in- 
 dividual: I myself once tried it in early life, but it will not 
 do." I perfectly acquiesce in the truth of this remark; but 
 the world had done me the honour to begin the war; and, 
 assuredly, if peace is only to be obtained by courting and 
 paying tribute to it, I am not qualified to obtain its coun- 
 tenance. I thought, in the words of Campbell, 
 "Then wed thee to an exiled lot; 
 And if the world hath loved thee not, 
 Its absence may be borne." 
 
 I recollect, however, that, having been much hurt by 
 Romilly's conduct, (he, having a general retainer for me, 
 had acted as adviser to the adversary, alleging, on being 
 reminded of his retainer , that he had forgotten it, as his 
 clerk had so many,) I observed that some of those who 
 were now eagerly laying the axe to my roof-tree, migiit 
 see their own shaken, and feel a portion of what tliey had 
 inllicted.— His fell, and crushed him. 
 
 I have heard of, and believe, that there are human beings 
 so constituted as to be insensible to injuries; but 1 believe 
 that the best mode to avoid taking vengeance is to get out 
 of the way of temptation. I hope that I may never have 
 the opportunity, for 1 am not quite sure that I could re- 
 sist it, having derived from my mother something of the 
 "perj'ervidum ingcnium Scoforum." I have not sought, 
 and shall not seek it, and perhaps it may never come in 
 my patli, 1 do not in this allude to the party, who might 
 be right or wrong; but to many who made her cause the 
 pretext of their own bitterness. She, indeed, must have 
 long avenged me in her own feelings; for whatever her 
 reasons may have been (and she never adduced them to 
 me at least), she probably neither contemplated nor con- 
 ceived to what she became the means of conducting the 
 father of her child, and the husband of her choice. 
 
 So much for "the general voice of his countrymen :" I 
 will now speak of some in particular. 
 
 In the beginning of the year 1817, an article appeared 
 in the Quarterly Review, written, I believe, by Walter 
 Scott, doing great honour to him , and no disgrace to me, 
 , thougii both poetically and personally more than suffi- 
 ciently favourable to the work and the author of whom it 
 treated. It was written at a time when a selfish man would 
 not, and a timid one dared not, have said a word in favour 
 of either; it was written by one to whom temporary pub- 
 lic opinion had elevated me to the rank of a rival— a proud 
 distinction, and unmerited; but which has not prevented 
 me from feeling as a friend, nor him from more than cor- 
 responding to that sentiment. Tiie article in question was 
 written upon the Third Canto of Childe Harold; and after 
 many observations, which it would as ill becomeme to re- 
 peat as to forget, concluded with "a hope that I might yet 
 return to England." How this expression was received in 
 England itself I am not acquainted, but it gave great oflence 
 at Rome to the respectable ten or twenty thousand Englisli 
 travellers theuand there assembled. I did not visit Home 
 till some time after, so that I haduo opportujuty of know ing 
 
 the fact ; but I was informed,long afterwards, that the great- 
 est indignation had been manifested in the enlightened 
 Anglo -circle of that year, which happened to comprise 
 within it — amidst a considerable leaven of Welbeck Street 
 and Devonshire Place, broken loose upon their travels — 
 several really well-born and well-bred families, who did 
 not the less participate in the feeling of the hour. "IFAy 
 should he return to England J" was the general exclama- 
 tion — I answer whi/? It is a question I have occasionally 
 asked myself, and I never yet could give it a satisfactory 
 reply. I had then no thoughts of returning, and if I have 
 any now, they areof business, and not of pleasure. Amidst 
 the ties that have been dashed to pieces , there are links 
 yet entire, though the chain itself be broken. There are 
 duties, and connections, which may one day require my 
 presence — and I am a father. I have still some friends 
 whom I wish to meet again, and it may be, an enemy. 
 These things, and those minuter details of business, which 
 time accumulates during absence, in every man's aflairs 
 and property, may, and probably will, recall me to Eng- 
 land; but I shall return with the same feelings with which 
 I left it, in respect to itself, though altered with regard to 
 individuals, as I have been more or less informed of their 
 conduct since my departure ; for itwas only aconsiderable 
 time after it that I was made acquainted with the real 
 facts and full extent of some of their proceedings and lan- 
 guage. My friends, like other friends, from conciliatory 
 motives, withheld from me much that they could, and 
 somethings which they should have unfolded ; however, 
 that which is deferred is not lost— but it has been no fault 
 of mine that it has been deferred at all. 
 
 1 have alluded to what is said to have passed at Rome, 
 merely to show that the sentiment which I have described 
 w as not confined to the English in England and, as form- 
 ing part of my answer to the reproach cast upon what has 
 been called my "selfish exile," and my "voluntary exile." 
 "Voluntary" it has been; for who would dwell among a 
 people entertaining strong hostility againsthim? How far 
 it has been "selfish" has been already explained. 
 
 I have now arrived at a passage describing me as having 
 vented my "spleen against the lofty-minded and virtuous 
 men," men "whose virtues few indeed can equal;" mean- 
 ing, 1 humbly presume, the notorious triumvirate known 
 by the name of "Lake Poets" in their aggregate capacity, 
 and by Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, when taken 
 singly. I wish to say a word or two upon the virtues of 
 one of those persons, public and private, for reasons which 
 will soon appear. 
 
 When I left England in April, 1816, ill in mind, in body, 
 and in circumstances, I took up my residence at Coligny, 
 by the lakeof Geneva. The sole companion of my journey 
 was a young physician, who had to make his way in the 
 world, and having seen very little of it, was naturally and 
 laudably desirous of seeing more society than suited my 
 present habits or my past experience. I therefore present- 
 ed him to those gentlemen of Geneva for whom I had let- 
 ters of introduction ; and having thus seen him in a situa- 
 tion to make his own way , retired for my own part en- 
 tirely from society, with the exception of one English fa- 
 mily, living at about a quarter of a mile's distance from 
 Diodati,and with the further exception of some occasional 
 intercourse with Coppet,at the wish of Madame de Sta'el. 
 The English family to which I allude consisted of two la- 
 dies, a gentleman and his son, a boy of a year old. 
 
 One of "these lofty -minded and virtuous men," in the 
 words of the Edinburgh Magazine, made, I understand, 
 about this time, or soon after, a tour in Switzerland. On 
 his return to England he circulated — and for any thing I 
 know , invented — a report, that tlie gentleman to whom 
 I have alluded and myself were living in promiscuous in- 
 tercourse with two sisters, "having formed a league of in- 
 cest" (I quote the words as they were stated to me) , and 
 indulged himself in tiie natural comments upon such a 
 conjunction, which are said to have been repeated public- 
 ly, with great complacency, by another of that poetical 
 
748 
 
 NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 fraternity, of whom I shall say only, that even had the 
 story been true , he should not have repeated it, as far as 
 it regarded myself, except in sorrow- The tale itself re- 
 quires but a word in answer— the ladies were not sisters, 
 nor in any degree connected, except by the second mar- 
 riage of their respective parents, a widower witha widow, 
 both being the olfspring of former marriages ; neither of 
 them were, in 1816, nineteen years old. "Promiscuous 
 intercourse" could hardly have disgusted the great pa- 
 tron of pantisocracy, (does Mr. Southey remember such 
 a scheme?) but there was none. 
 
 How far this man, who, as author of Wat Tyler, has 
 been proclaimed by the Lord Chancellor guilty of a trea- 
 sonable and blasphemous libel, and denounced in the 
 House of Commons , by the upright and able member for 
 Norwich, as a "rancorous renegado," be fit for sitting 
 as ajudge upon others, let others judge. Hehassaid that 
 fortius expression "he brands William Smith on the fore- 
 head as a calumniator," and that "the mark will outlast 
 his epitaph." How long William Smith's epitaph will 
 last, and in what words it will be written, I know not; but 
 William Smith's words form the epitaph itself of Robert 
 Southey. He has written Wat Tyler, and taken the office 
 of poet laureate— he has, in the Life of Henry Kirke White, 
 denominated reviewing "the ungentle craft," and has be- 
 come a reviewer— he was one of theprojectorsofascheme, 
 called "pantisocracy," for having all things, including 
 women, in common, (jquery, common women?) and he 
 sets up as a moralist — he denounced the battle of Blen- 
 heim , and he praised the hattle of Waterloo— he loved 
 Mary WoUstoncraft, and he tried to blast tlie character of 
 her daughter (one of the young females mentioned)— he 
 wrote treason, and serves the king— he was the butt of the 
 Anti-jacobin, and he is the prop of the Quarterly Review; 
 licking the hands that smote him , eating the bread of his 
 cnemies,and internally writhing beneath his own contempt, 
 — he would fain conceal, under anonymous bluster, and 
 a vain endeavour to obtain the esteem of others, after hav- 
 ing for ever lost his own, his leprous sense of his own degra- 
 dation. What isthere in suchaman to "envy?" Whoever 
 envied the envious? Is it his birth, his name, his fame, or 
 his virtues, that I am to "envy?" I was born of the aristo- 
 cracy, which he abhorred; and am sprung, by my mother, 
 from the kings who preceded those whom he has hired him- 
 self to sing. It cannot, then, be his birth. As a poet, I have, 
 for the past eight years, had nothing to appprehend from a 
 competition; and for the future, "that life to come in every 
 poet's creed," it is open to all. I will only remind Mr. 
 Southey, in the words of a critic, who, if still living, would 
 haveannihilatedSouthey's literary existence now and here- 
 after, as the sworn foe of charlatans and impostors , from 
 Macpherson downwards, that"those dreams were Settle's 
 once and Ogilby's;" and, for my own part, I assure him, 
 that whenever he and his sect are remembered , I shall be 
 proud to be "forgot." That he is not content with his suc- 
 cess as a poet may reasonably be believed — he has been 
 thenine-pinof reviews; the Edinburgh knocked him down, 
 and the Quarterly set him up; the government found him 
 useful in the periodical line, and made a point of recom- 
 mending his works to purchasers, so that he is occasional- 
 ly bought, (I mean his books, as well as the author,) and 
 may be found on the same shelf, if not upon the table, of 
 most of the gentlemen employed in the diflerent offices. 
 With regard to his private virtues, I know nothing — of 
 his principles, I have heard enough. As far as having been, 
 to the best of my power, benevolent to others, I do not fear 
 the comparison ; and for the errors of the passions , was 
 Mr. Southey always so tranquil and stainless? Did he 
 never covet his neighbour's wife? Did he never calum- 
 niate his neighbour's wife's daughter, the ofispring of 
 her he coveted? So much for the apostle of pantisocracy. 
 
 Of the "lofty -minded, virtuous" Wordswortii, one 
 anecdote will suffice to speak his sincerity. In a conver- 
 sation with Mr. upon poetry, heconcluded with, "Af- 
 ter all, I would not give five shillings for all that Southey 
 
 has ever written." Perhaps this calculation might ratlier 
 show his esteem for five shillings than his low estimate of 
 Dr. Southey ; but considering that when he was in his 
 need, and Southey had a shilling, Wordsworth is said to 
 have had generally sixpence out of it , it has an awkward 
 sound in the w ay of valuation. This anecdote was told 
 me by persons who, if quoted by name, would prove that 
 its genealogy is poetical as well as true. I can give my 
 authority for this ; and am ready to adduce it also for 
 Mr. Southey's circulation of the falsehood before men- 
 tioned. 
 
 Of Coleridge, I shall say nothing— wAy, he may divine. 
 
 I have said more of these people than I intended in this 
 place, being somewhat stirred by the remarks wliich in- 
 duced me to commence upon the topic. I see nothing in 
 these men as poets, or asindividuals — little in their talents, 
 and less in tlieir characters, to prevent honest men from 
 expressing for them considerable contempt, in prose or 
 rhyme, as it may happen. Mr. Southey has the Quarterly 
 for his field of rejoinder, and Mr. Wordsworth his post- 
 scripts to "Lyrical Ballads," where the two great instan- 
 ces of the sublime are taken from himself and Milton. 
 "Over her ownsweetvoice the stockdove broods;" that is 
 to say, she has the pleasure of listening to herself, in com- 
 mon with Mr. Wordsworth upon most of his public ap- 
 pearances. "What divinity doth hedge" these persons, 
 that we should respect them? Is it Apollo? Are Ihey not 
 of those who called Dryden's Ode "adrunken song?" who 
 have discovered that Gray's Elegy is full of faults, (see 
 Coleridge's Life, vol. i. note, for Wordsworth's kindness 
 in pointing this out to him,) and have published what is 
 allowed to be the very worst prose that ever was written, 
 to prove that Pope was nopoet, and that William Words- 
 worth is? 
 
 >' In other points, are they respectable, or respected? Is 
 it on the open avowal of apostasy, on the patronage of 
 government, that tiieir claim is founded? Who is there 
 w ho esteems those parricides of their own principles ? They 
 are, in fact, well aware that the reward of their change has 
 been any thing but honour. The times have preserved a 
 respect for political consistency, and, even though change- 
 able, honour the unchanged. Look at Moore: it will be 
 long ere Southey meets with such a triumph in London 
 as Moore met with in Dublin, even if the government sub- 
 scribe for it, and set the money down to secret service. It 
 was not less to tiie man than to the poet, to the tempted 
 but unshaken patriot, to the not opulent but incorruptible 
 fellow-citizen, that the warm hearted Irish paidtheproud- 
 est of tributes. Mr. Southey may applaud himself to the 
 world, but he has his own heartiest contempt; and the 
 fury with which he foams against all who stand in the pha- 
 lanx w hich he forsook, is, as William Smith described it, 
 "the rancour of the renegado," the bad language of the 
 prostitute who stands at the corner of the street, and 
 showers her slang upon all except those who may have 
 bestowed upon her her "little shilling." 
 
 Hence his quarterly overflowings, political and literary, 
 in what he has himself termed "the ungentle craft," and 
 his especial wrathagainstMr.LeighHunt,notvvithstand- 
 ing that Hunt has done more for Wordsworth's reputa- 
 tion, as a poet (such as it is), than all the Lakers could in 
 their interchange of self-praises for the last twenty-five 
 years. 
 
 And here I wish to say a few words on the present state of 
 English poetry, Thatthisis the ageof the decline of Eng- 
 lisii poetry will be doubted by few who have calmly consi- 
 dered thesubject. That therearemen of genius amongthe 
 present poets makes little against the fact , because it has 
 been well said, that "next to him who forms the taste of 
 his country, the greatest genius is he who corrupts it." 
 No one has ever denied genius to Marino, who corrupted 
 not merely the taste of Italy, but that of all Europe for 
 nearly a century. The great cause of the present deplo- 
 rable state of English poetry is to be attributed to that ab- 
 surd and systematic depreciation of Pope, in which, for 
 
NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 749 
 
 the last few years, there has been a kind of epidemical con- 
 currence. Men of the most opposite opinions have united 
 upon this topic. Warton and Ciiurchill began it, having 
 borrowed the hint probably from the lieroes of the Dun- 
 ciad, and their own internal conviction that their proper 
 reputation can be as nothing till tiiemost perfect and har- 
 monious of poets— he who, having no fault, has had rea- 
 son made liis reproach — was reduced to what they con- 
 ceived to be his level ; but even they dared not degrade 
 bim below Dry den. Goldsmitli , and Rogers, and Camp- 
 bell, his most successful disciples; and Hay ley, who, how- 
 ever feeble, has left one poem "that will not be willingly 
 let die" (the Triumphs of Temper), kept up the reputa- 
 tion of that pure and perfect style; and Crabbe , the first 
 of living poets, has almost equalled the master. Then came 
 Darwin, who was put down by a single poem in the Anti- 
 jacobin; and the Cruscans, from Merry to Jerningham, 
 wlvo were annihilated (if Nothing can be said to be anni- 
 hilated) by Gilford, the last of the wholesome satirists. 
 
 At the same timeMr.Southey was favouring the public 
 with Wat Tyler and Joan of Arc, to the great glory of the 
 Drama and Epos. I beg pardon, Wat Tyler, with Peter 
 Bell, was still in MS., and it was not till after Mr. Southey 
 had received his Malmsey butt, and Mr. Wordsworth be- 
 came qualified to gauge it, that the great revolutionary 
 tragedy came before the public and the Court of Chancery. 
 Wordsworth was peddling his lyrical ballads, and brood- 
 ing a preface , to be succeeded in due course by a post- 
 script; both couched in such prose as must give peculiar 
 delight to those who have read tlie prefaces of Pope and 
 Dryden; scarcely less celebrated for the beauty of their 
 prose, than for the charms of their verse. Words vvortii is 
 the reverse of Moliere's gentleman who had been "talking 
 prose all his life, without knowing it;" for he thinks that 
 he has been all his life writing both prose and verse , and 
 neither of what he conceives to be such can be properly 
 said to be either one or the other. Mr. Coleridge, the future 
 vates, poet and seer of the Morning Post, (an honour also 
 claimed by Mr. Fitzgerald, of the "Rejected Addresses," 
 who ultimately prophesied the downfall of Buonaparte, 
 to which he himself mainly contributed, by giving him the 
 nickname of "Me Cor«Jc«n,"was then employed in predi- 
 cating the damnation of Mr. Pitt, and the desolation of 
 England , in the two very best copies of verses he ever 
 wrote: to wit, the infernal eclogue of "Fire, Famine, and 
 Slaughter," and the "Ode to tlie departing Year." 
 
 These three personages, Southey, Wordsworth, and 
 Coleridge, had all of them a very natural antipathy to 
 Pope; and I respect them for it, as the only original feeling 
 or principle which they have contrived to preserve. But 
 they iiave been joined in it by those who have joined them 
 in nothing else: by the Edinburgh Reviewers, by the 
 wholeheterogeneousmass of living English poets, except- 
 ing Crabbe, Rogers, Giflord, and Campbell, who, both 
 by precept and practice, have proved their adherence; and 
 by me, whohave shamefully deviated in practice, but liave 
 ever loved and honoured Pope's poetry with my whole 
 soul, and hope to do so till my dying day. I would rather 
 see all I have ever written lining the same trunk in which 
 I actually read the eleventh book of a modern epic poem 
 at Malta, in 1811, (I opened it to take out a change after 
 the paroxysm of a tertian, in the absence of my servant, 
 and found it lined with the name of the maker, Eyre, Cock- 
 spur Street, and with the epic poetry alluded to,) than sa- 
 crifice what I firmly believe in as the Christianity of Eng- 
 lish poetry, the poetry of Pope. 
 
 But tlie Edinburgh Reviewers, and the Lakers, and 
 Hunt and his school, and every body else with their 
 school, and even Moore without a school, and dilettanti 
 lecturers at institutions , and elderly gentlemen who 
 translate and imitate, and young ladies who listen and 
 repeat, baronets who draw indifterent frontispieces for 
 bad poets, and noblemen who let them dine with them in 
 the country, the small body of the wits and the great body 
 of the blues, have latterly united in a depreciation, of 
 
 which their fathers would have been as much ashamed 
 as their children will be. In the mean time, \Yhat have 
 we got instead? The Lake school, which begun with 
 an epic poem, "written in six weeks" (so Joan of Arc 
 proclaimed herself), and finished with a ballad composed 
 in twenty years, as "Peter Bell's" creator takes care to 
 inform the few who will enquire. What have we got in- 
 stead ? A deluge of flimsy and unintelligible romances, 
 imitated from Scott and myself, who have both made the 
 best of our bad materials and erroneous system. What 
 have we got instead? Madoc, which is neither an epic nor 
 any thing else; Thalaba, Kehama, Gebir, and such gib- 
 berish, written in all metres and in no language. Hunt, 
 who had powers to have made "the Story of Rimini" as 
 perfect as a fable of Dryden , has thought fit to sacrifice 
 iiis genius and his taste to some unintelligible notions of 
 Wordsworth, which 1 defy him to explain. Moore has — 
 - But why continue ? — All , with the exception of 
 Crabbe, Rogers , and Campbell , who may be considered 
 as having taken their station, will, by the blessing of God, 
 survive their own reputation, without attaining any very 
 extraordinary period of longevity. Of course there must 
 be a still further exception in favour of those who, having 
 never obtained any reputation at all, unless it be among 
 provincial literati , and their own families, have none to 
 lose; and of Moore, who, as the Burns of Ireland^ pos- 
 sesses a fame which cannot be lost. 
 
 The greater part of tlie poets mentioned, however, have 
 been able to gatiier together a few followers. A paper of 
 the Connoisseur says, that "it is observed by the French, 
 that a cat, a priest, and an old woman, are sufficient to 
 constitute a religious sect in England." The same num- 
 ber of animals, witij some ditferencie in kind, will suffice 
 for a poetical one. If we take Sir George Beaumont in- 
 stead of the priest, and Mr. Wordsworth for the old wo- 
 man, we shall nearly complete the quota required; but I 
 fear that Mr. Southey will but indiflerently represent the 
 CAT, having shown himself but too distinctly to be of a 
 species to w hich that noble creature is peculiarly hostile. 
 
 Nevertheless, I will not go so far as Wordsworth in his 
 postscript, who petends that no great poet ever had im- 
 mediate fame; which being interpreted, means that 
 William Wordsworth is not quite so much read by his 
 cotemporaries as might be desirable. This assertion is as 
 false as it is foolish. Homer's glory depended upon his 
 present popularity: he recited, — and, witliout the 
 strongest impression of the moment, who would have 
 gotten the Iliad by heart, and given it to tradition? En- 
 nius, Terence, Plautus, Lucretius, Horace, Virgil, /Eschy- 
 lus, Sophocles, Euripides, Sappho, Anacreon, Theo- 
 critus, ail the great poets of antiquity , were the delight 
 of their cotemporaries. The very existence of a poet,pre- 
 vious to the invention of printing, depended upon his 
 present popularity; and how often has it impaired his 
 future fame? Hardly ever. History informs us, that the 
 best have comedown tons. The reason is evident: the 
 most popular found the greatest number of transcribers 
 for their MSS. ; and that the taste of their cotemporaries 
 was corrupt can hardly be avouched by the moderns, the 
 mightiest of whom have but barely approached them. 
 Dante,Pelrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso, were all the darlings 
 of the cotemporary reader. Dante's Poem was celebrated 
 long before his death; and, not long after it, States ne- 
 gotiated for his ashes, and disputed for the sites of the 
 composition of the Divina Commedia. Petrarch was 
 crowned in the Capitol. Ariosto was permitted to pass 
 free by the public robber who had read the Orlando Fu- 
 rioso. I would not recommend Mr. Wordsworth to try 
 the same experiment with his Smugglers. Tasso, not- 
 withstanding the criticisms of the Cruseanti, would have 
 been crowned in the Capitol, but for his death. 
 
 It is easy to prove tlie immediate popularity of the chief 
 poets of the only modern nation in Europe that has a 
 poetical language, the Italian. In our own, Siiakspeare, 
 Spenser, Jonson , Waller, Dryden, Congreve, Pope, 
 
750 
 
 NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 Younjr, Shcustonc, Tliomsoii, Johnson, Goldsmith, Gray, 
 were all as popular in their lives as since. Gray's Elegy 
 pleased instantly, and eternally. His Odes did not, nor 
 yet do they, please like his Eleg-y, Milton's politics kept 
 him down, liut the Epigram of iJryden, and the very 
 sale of his work, in proportion to the less reading time of 
 its publication, prove him to have been honoured by his 
 rotemporaries. t will venture to assert, that the sale of 
 the Paradise Lost was greater in the first four years after 
 its publication, than that of "The Excursion" in the same 
 number, with the diflerence of nearly a century and a half 
 between them of time, and of thousands in point of general 
 readers. Notwithstanding Mr. Wordsworth's having 
 pressed Milton into his service as one of those not pre- 
 sently popular, to favour his own purpose of proving that 
 our grandchildren will read him (thesaid William Words- 
 worth), I would recommend him to begin first with our 
 grandmothers. But he need not be alarmed; he may yet 
 live to see all the envies pass away , as Darwin and 
 Seward, and Hoole, and Hole, and Hoyle have passed 
 away; but their declension will not be his ascension: 
 he is essentially a bad writer, and all the failures of 
 others can never strengthen him. He may have a sect, 
 but he will never have a public; and liis " audiance" 
 will always be "few," without being "Jit," — except 
 for liedlam. 
 
 It may be asked, why, having tliis opinion of the pre- 
 sent state of poetry in England, and having had it long, 
 as my friends and others well knew — possessing,or having 
 possessed too, as a writer, the ear of the public for the 
 time being — I have not adopted a different plan in my 
 own compositions, and endeavoured to correct rather 
 than encourage the taste of the day. To this I would an- 
 swer,that it is easier to perceive the wrong than to pursue 
 the right, and that I have never contemplated the prospect 
 "of filling (with Peter Bell, see its Preface) permanently 
 a station in the literature of the country." Those who 
 know me best, know this, and that I have been consider- 
 ably astonished at the temporary success of my works, 
 having flattered no person and no party, and expressed 
 opinions which are not those of thegeneral reader. Could 
 I have anticipated the degree of attention which has been 
 accorded me, assuredly I would have studied more to 
 deserve it. But I liave lived in far countries abroad, or in 
 the agitating world at home, which was not favourable to 
 study or reflection; so that almost all I have written has 
 been mere passion, — passion, it is true, of different kinds, 
 but always passion; for in me (if it be not an Irishism to 
 say so) my indifference was a kind of passion, the result 
 of experience, and not the piiilosophy of nature. Writing 
 grows a habit, like a woman's gallantry: there are wo- 
 men who have had no intrigue, but few who have had but 
 one only ; so there are millions of men w ho have never 
 written a book, but few who have written only one. And 
 thus, having written once, I wrote on; encouraged no 
 doubt by the success of the moment, yet by no means an- 
 ticipating its duration, and I will venture to say, scarcely 
 even wishingit. But then I did other things besides write, 
 which by no means contributed either to improve my 
 writings or my prosperity. 
 
 I have thus expressed publicly upon the poetry of the 
 day the opinion I have long entertained and expressed 
 of it to all who have asked it, and to some who would 
 rather not have heard it: as I told Moore not very long 
 ago, "we are all wrong except Rogers, Crabbe, and Camp- 
 bell." Without being old in years, I am old in days, and 
 do not feel the adequate spirit within me to attempt a 
 work which should show what I think right in poetry, 
 and must content myself with having denounced what is 
 wrong. There are, I trust, younger spirits rising up in 
 England, who, escaping the contagion which has swept 
 away poetry from our literature, will recall it to their 
 country, such as it once was and may still be. 
 
 In the mean time, the best sign of amendment will be 
 
 repentance, and new and frequent editions of Pope and 
 Dryden. 
 
 There will be found as comfortable metaphysics, and 
 ten times more poetry, in the "Essay on Man," than in 
 the "Excursion." If you search for passion, wliereisit 
 to be found stronger than in the epistle from Eloisa to 
 Abelard, or in Palamon and Arcite? Do you wish for in- i 
 vention, imagination, sublimity, character? seek them J 
 in the Rape of the Lock, the Fables of Dryden, the Ode 
 on Saint Cecilia's Day, and Absalom and Aehitophel : you 
 will discover in these two poets only, alitor which you 
 must ransack innumerable metres, and God only knows 
 how many writers oi the day, without finding a tittle of 
 the same qualities, — with the addition, too, of wit, of 
 which the latter have none. I have not,however, forgotten 
 Thomas Brown the Younger, nor the Fudge Family, nor 
 Whistlecraft; but that is not wit — it is humour. I will 
 say nothing of the harmony of Pope and Dryden in com- 
 parison , for tiiere is not a living poet (except Rogers, 
 Giflord, Campbell, and Crabbe), who can write an heroic 
 couplet. The fact is, that the exquisite beauty of their 
 versification has withdrawn the public attention from their 
 other excellences, as the vulgar eye will rest more upon 
 the splendour of the uniform than tlie quality of the 
 troops. It is this very harmony , particularly in Pope, 
 which has raised the vulgar and atrocious cant against ^ 
 him : — because his versification is perfect, it is assumed 
 that it is his only perfection ; because his truths are so 
 clear, it is asserted that he has no invention; and be- 
 cause he is always intelligible, it is taken for granted 
 that he has no genius. We are sueeringly told that he 
 is the "Poet of Reason ," as if this was a reason for his 
 being no poet. Taking passage for passage, I will 
 undertake to cite more lines teeming with imagination 
 from Pope than from any two living poets, be they 
 who they may. To take an instance at random from 
 a species of composition not very favourable to imagi- 
 nation — Satire : set down the character of Sporus, w ith 
 all the wonderful play of fancy which is scattered over it, 
 and place by its side an equal number of verses , from 
 any two existing poets, of the same power and the .same 
 variety — where will you find them? 
 
 I merely mention one instance of many, in reply to the 
 injustice done to the memory of him who harmonised our 
 poetical language. The attorneys' clerks, and other self- 
 educated genii, found it easier to distort themselves to the 
 new models, than to toil after the symmetry of him who 
 had enchanted their fathers. They were besides smitten 
 by being told that the new school were to revive the lan- 
 guage of Queen Elizabeth, the true English; as every 
 body in the reign of Queen Anne wrote no better than 
 French, by a species of literary treason. 
 
 Blank verse, which, unless in the drama, no one except 
 Milton ever wrote who could rhyme, became the order of 
 the day, — or else such rliyme as looked still blanker than 
 the verse without it, I am aware that Johnson has said, 
 after some hesitation, that he conld not "prevail upon 
 himself to wish that Milton had been a rhymer." The 
 opinions of that truly great man, whom it is also the pre- 
 sent fashion to decry, will ever be received by me with 
 that deference which time will restore to him from all; 
 but, with all humility, I am not persuaded that the Pa- 
 radise Lost would not have been more nobly conveyed to 
 posterity, not perhaps in heroic couplets, although even 
 they could sustain the subject if well balanced, but in tlie 
 stanza of Spenser or of Tasso, or in the terza rima of 
 Dante, which the powers of Milton could easily have 
 grafted on our language. The Seasons of Tiiomson would 
 have been better in rhyme, although still inferior to his 
 Castle of Indolence; and Mr. Southcy's Joan of Arc no 
 worse, although it might have taken up six months in- 
 stead of weeks in the composition. I recommend also to 
 the lovers of lyrics the perusal of the present laureate's 
 Odes by the side of Dry den's on Saint Cecilia, but let him 
 be sure to read first those of Mr. Southey, 
 
NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 751 
 
 To the heaven -born genii and inspired young scri- 
 veners of the day much of this will appear paradox : it 
 will appear so even to the higher order of our critics; but 
 it was a truism twenty years ago, and it will be a re-ac- 
 knowledged truth in ten more. In the mean time, I will 
 conclude with two quotations, both intended for some 
 of my old classical friends who have still enough of Cam- 
 bridge about them to think, themselves honoured by liav- 
 ing had John Dryden as a predecessor in tlieir college, 
 and to recollect that their earliest English poetical plea- 
 sures were drawn from the "little nightingale" of T wicken- 
 ham. The first is from the notes to the Poem of the 
 "Friends." 
 
 "It is only within the last twenty or thirty years that 
 those notable discoveries in criticism have been made 
 whichhavetaughtour recent versifiers to undervalue this 
 energetic, melodious, and moral poet The consequences 
 of this want of due esteem for a writer whom the good 
 sense of our predecessors had raised to his proper station 
 have been numerous and degrading enough. This is not 
 the place to enter into the subject, even as far as it affects 
 our poetical numbers alone, and there is matter of more 
 importance that requires present reflection." 
 
 The second is from the volume of a young person learn- 
 ing to write poetry, and beginning by teaching the art. 
 Hear him: 
 
 "But ye were dead 
 To things ye knew not of — were closely wed 
 To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 
 And compass vile; so that ye taught a school 
 Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and chip, and /jV, 
 Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit. 
 Their verses tallied. Easy was the task: 
 A thousand liandicraftsmen wore the mask 
 Of poesy. Ill-fated, impious race. 
 That blasphemed the bright lyrist to liis face 
 And did not know it; no, they went about 
 Holding a poor decrepit standard out 
 Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large 
 The name of one lioileau ! 
 
 A little before, the manner of Pope is termed, 
 
 "A seism, 
 Nurtured by foppery and barbarism. 
 Made great Apollo blush for this his land." 
 
 I thought "foppery" was a consequence oi refnament'. 
 but n'importe. 
 
 The above will suffice to show the notions entertained 
 by the new performers on the English lyre of him who 
 made it most tuneable, and the great improvements of 
 their own "variazioni." 
 
 The writer of this is a tadpole of the Lakes, a young 
 ■^isciple of the six or seven new schools, in which he has 
 learnt to write such lines and such sentiments as the 
 above. He says "easy w as the task" of imitating Pope, 
 or it may be of equalling him, I presume. I recommend 
 him to try before he is so positive on the subject, and then 
 compare what he will have then written, and what he has 
 now written, with the humblest and earliest compositions 
 of Pope, produced in years still more youthful than those 
 of Mr. Keats when he invented his new "Essay on Cri- 
 ticism," entitled "Sleep and Poetry" (an ominous title), 
 from whence the above canons are taken. Pope's was 
 written at nineteen, and published at twenty-two. 
 
 Such are the triumphs of the new schools, and such 
 their scholars. The disciples of Pope were Johnson, 
 Goldsmith, Rogers, Campbell, Crabbe, Gifl'ord, Matthias, 
 Hay ley, and the author of the Paradise of Coquettes; to 
 whom may be added Richards, Heber, Wrangham, Bland, 
 Hodgson, Merivale, and others who have not had their 
 full fame, because "the race is not always to the swift, 
 nor the battle to the strong," and because there is a for- 
 tune in fame as in all other things. Now, of all the new 
 schools — I say all, for, "like Legion, they are many" — 
 
 has there appeared a single scholar who has not made his 
 master ashamed of him ? unless it be Sotheby, who has 
 imitated every body, and occasionally surpassed his mo- 
 dels. Scott found peculiar favour and imitation among 
 the fair sex: there was Miss Holford, and Miss Mitford, 
 and Miss Francis; but, with the greatest respect be it 
 spoken,none of his imitators did much honour to the ori- 
 ginal, except Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd, until the ap- 
 pearance of "The Bridal of Triermain," and "Harold the 
 Dauntless," which in the opinion of some equalled if not 
 surpassed him; and lo! after three or four years they 
 turned out to be the Master's own compositions. Have 
 Southey, or Coleridge, or t'other fellow, made a follower 
 of renown? Wilson never did well till he set up for him- 
 self in the "City of the Plague." Has Moore, or any other 
 living writer of reputation, had a tolerable imitator, or 
 rather disciple? Now, it is remarkable, that almost all the 
 followers of Pope, whom I have named, have produced 
 beautiful and standard works; and it was not the num- 
 ber of his imitators who finally hurt his fame, but the de- 
 spair of imitation, and the ease otnot imitating him sufli- 
 ciently. This, and the same reason which induced the 
 Athenian burgher to vote for the banishment of Aristides, 
 "because he was tired of always hearing him called the 
 Just," have produced the temporary exile of Pope from 
 the State of Literature. But the term of his ostracism 
 will expire, and the sooner the better, not for him, but for 
 those who banished him, and for the coming generation, 
 who 
 
 "Will blusli to find their fathers were his foes." 
 
 I will now return to the writer of the article which has 
 drawn forth tliese remarks, whoml honestly take to be 
 John Wilson, a man of great powers and acquirements, 
 well known to the public as the author of the "City oHhe 
 Plague," "Isle of Palms ," and other productions. I take 
 the liberty of naming him, by the same species of courtesy 
 which has induced him to designate me as the author of 
 Don Juan. Upon the score of the Lake Poets, he may per- 
 haps recall to mind that I merely express an opinion long 
 ago entertained and specified in a letter to Mr. James 
 Hogg, which he the said James Hogg, some what contrary 
 to the law of pens, showed to Mr. John Wilson, in the 
 year 1814, as he himself informed me in his answer, tell- 
 ing me by way of apology, that "he'd bed d if he 
 
 could help it;" and I am not conscious of any thing like 
 "envy" or "exacerbation" at this moment which induces 
 me to think better or worse of Southey, Wordsworth,and 
 Coleridge as poets than I do now, although I do know one 
 or two things more which have added to my contempt for 
 them as individuals. And , in return for Mr. Wilson's in- 
 vective , I shall content myself with asking one question ; 
 Did he never compose, recite, or sing any parody or pa- 
 rodies upon the Psalms (of what nature this deponent 
 saith not),in certain jovial meetings of the youth of Edin- 
 burgh? It is not that I think any great harm if he did; be- 
 cause it seems to me that all depends upon the intention 
 of such a parody. If it be meant to throw ridicule on the 
 sacred original , it is a sin ; if it be intended to burlesque 
 the profane subject, or to inculcate a moral truth, it is 
 none. If it were, the Unbelievers' Creed, the many politi- 
 cal parodies of various parts of the Scriptures and liturgy, 
 particularly a celebrated one of the Lord's Prayer, and 
 the beautiful moral parable in favour of toleration by 
 Franklin, Avhich has often been taken for a real extract 
 from Genesis, would all be sins of a damning nature. But 
 I wish to know if Mr. Wilson ever has done this, and if 
 he has , why he should be so very angry with similar por- 
 tions of Don Juan? — Did no "parody profane" appear in 
 any of the earlier numbers of Blackwood's Magazine? 
 
 I will now conclude this long answer to a short article, 
 repenting of having said so much in my own defence, and 
 so little on the "crying, left-hand fallings off" and national 
 defections" of the poetry of the present day. Having said 
 this, I can hardly be expected to defend Don Juan, or any 
 
752 
 
 NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 other "livincf" poetry, and shall not make the attempt. 
 And although 1 do notthinktiiat Mr. John Wilson has in 
 this instance treated me witli candour or consideration, 
 I trust that die tone I have used in speaking of him per- 
 sonally will prove that I bear him as little maliceas I real- 
 ly believe at the bottom of his heart he bears towards me; 
 but tlie duties of an editor, like those of a tax-gatherer, 
 are paramount and peremptory. I have done. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO I. 
 
 Brave men were living before Agamemnon. 
 
 [p. 141. St. 5. 
 "Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona." Horace. 
 
 Save thine ^'incomparable oil" Macassar ! 
 
 [p. 142. St. 17. 
 "Description des vertus incomparables de I'buile de 
 Macassar." — See the advertisement. 
 
 77iei/ only add them all in an appendix. 
 
 [p. 144. St. 44. 
 Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with all the 
 obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by themselves at 
 the end. 
 
 The hard I quote from does not sing amiss. 
 
 [p. 148. St. 88. 
 Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming j it is the opening of 
 Canto ILL 
 
 Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
 Who took Algiers, declares lused him vilely? 
 
 [p. 153. St. 148. 
 
 Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count O'Reilly did 
 
 not take Algiers — but Algiers very nearly took him ; he 
 
 and liis army and fleet retreated with great loss, and not 
 
 much credit, from before that city. 
 
 My days of love are over; me no more — 
 
 [p. 159. St. 216. 
 Me nee femina, nee puer 
 Jam, nee spes animi credula mutui, 
 Nee certare juvat mero, 
 Nee vincire novis tempora floribus. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO III. 
 
 For none likes more to hear himself converse — 
 
 [p. 181. St. 45. 
 Rispose allor' Margatte, a dirtel tosto, 
 
 lo non credo piu al nero ch' all azzurro; 
 Ma nell cappone, o lesso, o vuogli arrosto, 
 
 E credo alcuua volta anco nel burro; 
 Nella cervogia, e quando io n'ho nell mosto, 
 
 E molto piu neir espro che il mangurro; 
 Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fede, 
 E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede. 
 
 PuLCl, Morgante Maggiore, 18, 151. 
 
 Tliat e'er by precious metal was held in. 
 
 [p. 184. St. 71. 
 
 This dress is Moorish , and the bracelets and bar are 
 
 worn in the manner described. The reader will perceive 
 
 hereafter, that, as the mother of Haidee was of Fez, her 
 
 daughter wore the garb of the country. 
 
 A like gold bar, above her instep roll'd. 
 
 [p. 184. St. 72. 
 The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sovereign 
 rank in the Avomen of the families of the Deys, and is worn 
 as such by their female relatives. 
 
 Her person if allowed at large to run. 
 
 [p. 184. St. 73. 
 This is no exaggeration ; there were four women, wliom 
 I remember to have seen, who possessed tlieir hair in this 
 profusion ; of these, three were English, the other was a 
 Levantine. Their hair was of tiiat length and quantity, 
 that when let down, it almost entirely shaded tlie person, 
 so as nearly to render dress a superfluity. Of these, only 
 one had dark hair ; the Oriental's had^ perhaps, the light- 
 est colour of the four. 
 
 Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart. 
 
 [p. 188. St. 108. 
 Era gik la ora che volge il disio 
 
 A' naviganti, e intenerisce il cuore; 
 Lo di ch' ban dctto a' dolci amici a dio; 
 
 E che lo nuovo peregrin' d' amore 
 Punge, se ode squilla di lontano, 
 
 Che paja '1 giorno pianger che si muore." 
 
 Dante's Purgatory. C. 8. 
 This last line is the first of Gray's Elegy, taken by him 
 without acknowledgment. 
 
 Some hands unseen strew' d flowers upon his tomb. 
 
 [p. 188. St. 109. 
 See Suetonius for this fact. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO IV. 
 
 A vein had burst. [p. 193. St. 59. 
 
 This is no very uncommon effect of the violence of 
 conflicting and different passions. The Doge Francis 
 Foscari, on his deposition, in 1457, hearing the bell of 
 St. Mark announce the election of his successor, "mourut 
 subitement d'une hemorrhagic causee par une veine qui 
 eclata dans sa poitrine," (see Sismondi and Daru,) at tlie 
 age of eighty years, when ^'^ Who would have thought the 
 old man had so much blood in him?" Before I was sixteen 
 years of age, I was witness to a melancholy instance of 
 the same effect of mixed passions upon a young person; 
 who, however, did not die in consequence, at that time, 
 but fell a victim some years afterwards to a seizure of the 
 same kind, arising from causes intimately connected 
 with agitation of mind. 
 
 But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 
 
 [p. 195. St. 80. 
 This is a fact. A few years ago a man engaged a com- 
 pany for some foreign tlieatre, embarked them at an 
 Italian port, and, carrying them to Algiers, sold them all. 
 One of the women, returned from her captivity, I heard 
 sing, by a strange coincidence, in Rossini's opera of 
 "L'ltaliana in Algeri," at Venice, in the beginning of 1 8 1 7. 
 
 From all the pope makes yearly 'twould perplex 
 To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. 
 
 [p. 195. St. 86. 
 
 It is strange that it should be the Pope and the Sultan 
 
 who are the chief encouragers of this branch of trade — 
 
 women being prohibited as singers at St. Peter's, and 
 
 not deemed trustworthy as guardians of the haram. 
 
 While weeds and ordure rankle round the base. 
 
 [p. 197. St. 103. 
 The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna is about 
 two miles from the city , on the opposite side of the river 
 to the road towards Forli. Gaston deFoix, who gained 
 the battle, was killed in it; there fell on both sides twenty 
 tiiousand men. The present state of the pillar and its site 
 is described in the text. 
 
NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 753 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO V. 
 
 The ocean stream. [p. 198. St. 3. 
 
 This expression of Homer has been much criticised. 
 
 It hardlj' answers to our Atlantic ideas of the ocean, but 
 
 is sufficiently applicable to the Hellespont, and the Bos- 
 
 phorus, with the ^gean intersected with islands. 
 
 The Giant's Grave. [p. 198. St. 6. 
 
 "The Giant's Grave" is a height on the Asiatic shore 
 of the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday parties : 
 like Harrow and Highgate. 
 
 And running out as fast as I was able. 
 
 [p. 201. St. 33. 
 
 The assassination alluded to took place on the eighth 
 
 of December, 1820, in the streets of R — , not a hundred 
 
 pace§ from tlieresidenceof the writer. The circumstances 
 
 were as described. 
 
 Kill'd hyfive bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
 
 [p.201.St. 34. 
 
 There was found close by him an old gun-barrel, sawn 
 
 half oil': it had just been discharged, and was still warm. 
 
 Preparedfor supper with a glass of rum. 
 
 [p. 202. St. 53. 
 In Turkey nothing is more common than for the 
 Mussulmans to take several glasses of strong spirits by 
 way of appetizer. I have seen them take as many as six 
 of raki before dinner, and swear that they dined the better 
 for it; I tried the experiment, but was like the Scotch- 
 man, wlio having heard that the birds called kittiewiaks 
 were admirable whets, ate six of them, and complained 
 that "he was no hungrier than when he began." 
 
 A marble-fountain echoes, [p. 203. St. 55. 
 A common furniture — I recollect being received by 
 Aii Pacha, in a room containing a marble basin and 
 fountain. 
 
 The gate so splendid was in all its features. 
 
 [p. 205. St. 87. 
 Features of a gate — a ministerial metaphor ; " the 
 feature upon which this question hinges." — See the 
 "Fudge Family," or hear Castlereagh. 
 
 Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers. 
 
 [p,207. St. 106. 
 There is perhaps nothing more distinctive of birth than 
 the hand: it is almost the only sign of blood which aristo- 
 cracy can generate. 
 
 Save Solyman, the glory of their line, 
 
 [p. 210. St. 147. 
 
 It may not be unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in his 
 essay "on Empire," hints that Solyman was the last of 
 his line; on what authority, I know not. These are his 
 words: "Tiie destruction of Mustapha was so fatal to 
 Solyman's line, as the succession of the Turks from Soly- 
 man, until this day, is suspected to be untrue, and of 
 strange blood; for that Solymus the Second was tliought 
 to be supposititious." But Bacon, in his historical autho- 
 rities, is often inaccurate. I could give half a dozen in- 
 stances from his apophthegms only. 
 
 Being in the humour of criticism, I shall proceed, after 
 having ventured upon the slips of Bacon, to touch on one 
 or two as trifling in the edition of the British poets, by the 
 justly-celebrated Campbell. — But I do this in good will, 
 and trust it will be so taken. — If any tiling could add to 
 my opinion of the talents and true feeling of that gentle- 
 man, it would be his classical, honest, and triumpiiant 
 defence of Pope, againt the vulgar cant of the day, and its 
 existing Grub-strcct. 
 
 The inadvertencies to which I allude are: 
 
 Firstly, in speaking of Anstey, whom he accuses of 
 having taken "his leading characters from Smollett." 
 Anstey's Bath Guide was published in 1766. Smollett's 
 IIumphryCIinker(the only work ofSmollett's from which 
 
 Tabitha could liave been taken) was written during 
 Smollett's last residence at Leghorn, in 1770. — ''Argal" 
 if there has been any borrowing, Anstey must be the 
 creditor, and not the debtor. I refer Mr. Campbell to his 
 own data in his lives of Smollett and Anstey. 
 
 Secondly, Mr. Campbell says in the life of Cowper that 
 "he knows not to whom Cowper alludes in these lines: 
 Nor he who, for the bane of thousands born. 
 Built God a church, and laugh'd his word to scorn. 
 
 The Calvinist meant Voltaire, and the church ofFeruey, 
 with its inscription, "Deo erexit Voltaire." 
 
 Thirdly, in the life of Burns, Mr. C. quotes Shakespeare 
 thus, — 
 
 To gild refined gold, to paint the rose, 
 Or add fresh perfume to tiie violet. 
 This version by no means improves the original, wliich 
 is as follow s : 
 
 To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 
 To throw a perfume on the violet. 
 
 King John. 
 A great poet quoting another should be correct; he 
 should also be accurate when he accuses a Parnassian 
 brother of that dangerous charge "borrowing:" apoet 
 had better borrow any tiling (excepting money) than tlie 
 tiiouglits of another — they are always sure to be re- 
 claimed: but it is very hard, having been the lender, to 
 be denounced as the debtor, as in the case of Anstey 
 versus Smollett. 
 
 As tiiere is "honour amongst thieves," let there be some 
 amongst poets, and give each his due; — none can aflord 
 to give it more than Mr. Campbell himself, who, witli a 
 high reputation for originality, and a fame which cannot 
 be shaken, is tiie only poet of the times (except Rogers) 
 wlio can be reproached (and m A am it is indeed a reproach) 
 with iiaving written too little. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO YIII. 
 
 All sounds it pierceth, "Allah! Allah ! Hu!" 
 
 [p. 231. St. 8. 
 "Allah! Hu!" is properly the war-cry of the Mussul- 
 mans, and they dwell long on the last syllable, which 
 gives it a very wild and peculiar eflect. 
 
 "Carnage" {so Wordsworth tells you) is God's daughter. 
 
 [p. 231. St. 9. 
 "But thy*) most dreaded instrument 
 In working out a pure intent. 
 Is man array'd for mutual slaughter; 
 Yea, Carnage is thy daughter !" 
 
 Wordsworth's Thanksgiving Ode. 
 
 Was printed Grove^ although his name was Grose. 
 
 [p.232. St. 18. 
 A fact; see the "Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect remark- 
 ing at the time to a friend : — " There is fame ! a man is 
 killed,his name isGrose,and tliey print itGrove." I was at 
 college with the deceased, who was a very amiable and 
 clever man, and iiis society in great request for his wit, 
 gaiety, and "chansons k boire." 
 
 'Tispily "that such meanings should pave Hell." 
 
 [p. 232. St. 25. 
 The Portuguese proverb says that "Hell is paved with 
 good intentions." 
 
 *) To wit, the Deity's. This is perhaps as pretty a 
 pedigree for Murder, as ever was found out by Gar- 
 ter-King-at-Arrns. — Wliat would have been said had 
 any free-spoken people discovered such a lineage? 
 
 48 r 
 
754 
 
 NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO IX. 
 
 Humanitu would rise, and thunder "Nay .'" 
 
 [p. 242. St. 1. 
 Query, Nei/? Printer's Devil. 
 
 And send (he sentinel before your gate 
 A slice or two from your luxurious meals. 
 
 [p. 243. St. 6. 
 "I at this time got a post, being sick for fatigue, with 
 four others.— We were sent to break biscuit, and make 
 a mess for Lord Wellington's hounds. I was very hungry, 
 and thought it a good job at tiie time, as we got our own 
 fill while we broke the biscuit, — a thing I had not got for 
 some days. When thus engaged, the Prodigal Son was 
 never once out of my mind; and I sighed, as I fed the dogs, 
 over my humble situation and my ruined hopes." — Jour- 
 nal of a Soldier of the llstRegt. during the War in Spain. 
 
 Because he could no more digest his dinner. 
 
 [p. 245, St 33. 
 He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper had been 
 exasperated, by his extreme costivity, to a degree of in- 
 sanity. 
 
 And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. 
 
 [p. 246. St. 47. 
 He was the "grande passion" of thegrande Catherine. — 
 See her Lives, under the head of "Lanskoi." 
 
 Sid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show 
 His parts of speech. [p. 246. St. 49. 
 
 Tliis was written long before the suicide of that person. 
 
 Tour "fortune" was in a fair way "to swell 
 A jnan," as Giles says. [p. 248. St. 63. 
 
 'His fortune swells him, it is rank, he's married." — 
 Sir (liles Overreach. Massinger. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO X. 
 
 Would scarcely join again the "reformadoes." 
 
 [p.25LSt. 13. 
 "Reformers," or rather "Reformed." The Baron Brad- 
 wardine, in Waverley, is authority for the word. 
 
 The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper 
 Than can be hid by altering his shirt. 
 
 [p. 251. St. 15. 
 Query mf.'— Printer's Devil. 
 
 Balgounie's Brig's black wall. 
 
 [p. 251. St. 18. 
 The brig of Don, near the "auld toun" of Aberdeen, 
 with its one arch and its black deep salmon stream below, 
 is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, though 
 perhaps I may misquote , tlieawful proverb which made me 
 pause to cross it, and yet lean over it with a childish de- 
 light, being an only son, at least by the mother's side. The 
 saying as recollected by me was this — but I have never 
 heard or seen it since I was nine years of age : — 
 "Brig of Balgounie, black's your wa'; 
 Wi' a wife's ae son and a mear's aefoal, 
 Doun ye shall fa'!" 
 
 Oh, for a forty-parson-power to chaitnt 
 Thy praise. Hypocrisy ! [p. 252. St. 34. 
 
 A metaphor taken from the "forty-horse-power" of a 
 steam-engine. That mad wag, the Reverend S. S., sitting 
 by a brother - clergyman at dinner, observed afterwards 
 that his dull neighbour had a "twelve-parson-power" of 
 conversation. 
 
 To strip the Saxons of their liydes, like tanners. 
 
 [p. 253. St. 36. 
 "Hyde."— I believe a hyde of land to be a legitimate 
 word, and as such subject to the tax of a quibble. 
 
 Was given to her favourite, and now bore his. 
 
 [p. 254. St. 49. 
 
 The Empress went to the Crimea , accompanied by the 
 
 Emperor Joseph, in the year— I forget whicii. (It was 1787.) 
 
 Which gave her dukes the graceless name of"Biron." 
 
 [p. 254. St. 58. 
 
 In the Empress Anne's time, Biren, her favourite, as- 
 sumed the name and arms of the "Birons" of France,- 
 which families are yet extant with that of England. There 
 are still the daughters of Courland of that name; one of 
 them I remember seeing in England in the blessed year of 
 the Allies — the Duchess of S. — to whom the English 
 Duchess of S — t presented me as a namesake. 
 
 Eleven thottsand maidenheads of bone, 
 The greatest number flesh hath ever known, 
 
 [p. 255. St. 62. 
 St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins were still 
 extant in 1816, and may be so yet as much as ever. 
 
 Who butcher' d half the earth, and bullied t'other. 
 
 [p. 256. St. 81. 
 India. America. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO XI. 
 
 Who on a lark , with blach-eycd Sal (/t/s blowing"), 
 So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? 
 
 [p. 259. St. 19. 
 The advance of science and of language has rendered 
 it unnecessary to translate the above good and true Eng- 
 lish , spoken in its original purity by the select nobility 
 and their patrons. The following is a stanza of a song 
 which was very popular, at least in my early days : — 
 "On the high toby spice flash the muzzle, 
 
 In spite of each gallows old scout; 
 If you at the spellken can't hustle. 
 You'll be hobbled in making a Clout 
 
 Then your Blowing will wax gallows haughty, 
 
 Wlien she hears of your scaly mistake, 
 She'll surely turn snitch for the forty, 
 That her Jack may be regular weight." 
 If there be any gem'man so ignorant as to require a 
 traduction, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal pas- 
 tor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Professor of Pugi- 
 lism ; who I trust still retains the strength and symmetry 
 of his model of a form, together with his good humour, 
 and athletic as well as mental accomplishments. 
 
 St. James's Palace and St James's "Hells" 
 
 [p. 260. St. 29. 
 "Hells," gaming-houses. What their number may now 
 be in this life, I know not. Before I was of age 1 knew 
 them pretty accurately, both "gold" and "silver." I was 
 once nearly called out by an acquaintance, because when 
 he asked me, where I thought that his soul would be found 
 hereafter, I answered, "In Silver Hell.',' 
 
 And therefore even I won't anent 
 
 Tliis subject quote. [p. 261 . St. 43. 
 
 "Anent" was a Scotch phrase, meaning "concerning" 
 
 — "with regard to." It has been made English by the 
 
 Scotch Novels; and, as the Frenchman said — "If it be not, 
 
 ought to be English." 
 
 The milliners who furnish "drapery misses." 
 
 [p. 261. St. 49. 
 "Drapery misses" — This term is probably any thing 
 now but a mystery. It was however almost so tome when 
 I first returned from the East in 181 1 — 1812. It means a 
 pretty, a higliborn , a fashionable young female, well in- 
 structed by lier friends, and furnished by her milliner with 
 a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid , when married by 
 
NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 755 
 
 the husband. The riddle was first read to me by a young 
 and pretty heiress, on ray praising the "drapery" of an 
 "untochered" but "pretty virginities" (like Mrs. Anne 
 Page) of the then day, whicli has now been some years 
 yesterday: — she assured me tliat the thing was common 
 in London; and as her own thousands, and blooming 
 looks, and rich simplicity of array, put any suspicion in 
 her own case out of the question, I confess I gave some 
 credit to the allegation. If necessary, authorities might be 
 cited, in wliich case I could quote both "drapery" and the 
 wearers. Let us hope, however, that it is now obsolete. 
 
 ' Tis strange the mind, that very fieri/ particle, 
 Should let itself be snvjfd out by anarticle. 
 
 [p. 262. St. 59. 
 "Divina; particulam aurae." 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO XII. 
 
 Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. 
 
 [p. 266. St. 19. 
 
 See Mitford's Greece. "Gragcia Verax," His great 
 pleasure consists in praising tyrants, abusing Plutarch, 
 spelling oddly, and writing quaintly; and what is strange 
 after all, his is the best modern history of Greece in any 
 language, and he is perhaps the best of all modern histo- 
 rians whatsoever. Having named his sins, it is but fair 
 to-state his virtues — learning, labour, research, wrath, 
 and partiality. I call the latter virtues in a writer, because 
 they make him write in earnest. 
 
 A hazy widower turn'd of forty's sure. 
 
 [p. 268. St. 37. 
 This line may puzzle the commentators more than the 
 present generation. 
 
 hike Russians rushing from hot baths to snows. 
 
 [p. 271. St. 73. 
 The Russians, as is well known, run out from their hot 
 baths to plunge into the Neva; a pleasant practical antithe- 
 sis, which it seems does them no harm. 
 
 T%e world to gaze upon those northern lights. 
 
 [p. 272. St. 82. 
 For a description and print of this inhabitant of the po- 
 lar region and native country of the Aurora borealis, see 
 Parry's Voyage in search of a North- West Passage. 
 
 As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. 
 
 [p. 272. St. 86. 
 A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a statue 
 of Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, I believe, a ri- 
 ver in his pocket, with various other similar devices. But 
 Alexander's gone, and Athos remains, I trust ere long to 
 look over a nation of freemen. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO XIII. 
 
 Also there bin another pious reason. 
 
 [p. 275. St 26. 
 With every thing that pretty bin, 
 My Lady sweet arise. — Shakspeare. 
 
 His bell-mouth' d goblet makes me feel quite Danish. 
 
 [p. 279. St. 72. 
 If I err not, "Your Dane" is one of lago's Catalogue ot 
 Nations "exquisite in their drinking." 
 
 Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura. 
 
 [p. 279, St. 78. 
 In Assyria. 
 
 That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies. 
 
 [p. 281. St. 96. 
 "Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blasphe- 
 mous to talk of Scripture out of church." This dogma was 
 broached to her husband — the best Christian in any book. 
 See Joseph Andrews, in the latter chapters. 
 
 The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
 Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. 
 
 [p. 281. St. 106. 
 
 It would have taught him humanity at least. This sen- 
 timental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (amongst the 
 novelists) to show their sympathy for innocent sports and 
 old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and break their 
 legs by way of experiment, in addition to the art of ang- 
 ling, the cruellest, the coldest, and the stupidest of pre- 
 tended sports. They may talk about the beauties of na- 
 ture, but the angler merely thinks of his dish offish; he 
 lias no leisure to take his eyes from off the streams , and 
 a single bite is worth to him more than all the scenery 
 around. Besides, some fish bite best on a rainy day. The 
 whale, the shark, and the tunny fishery have somewhat of 
 noble and perilous in them; even net-fishing, trawling, 
 are more humane and useful — but angling! — No angler 
 can be a good man. 
 
 "One of the best men I ever knew — as humane, deli- 
 cate-minded , generous, and excellent a creature as any 
 in the world — was an angler: true, he angled with paint- 
 ed flies, and would have been incapable of the extra- 
 vagances of I. Walton." 
 
 The above addition was made by a friend in reading 
 over the MS. — "Audi alteram partem." — I leave it to 
 counterbalance my own observation. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO XIV. 
 
 And never craned, and made but few "faux pas." 
 
 [p. 285. St. 33 
 Craning. — "To crane" is, or was, an expression used 
 to denote a gentleman's stretching out his neck over a 
 hedge, "to look before he leaped:" — a pause in his 
 "vaulting ambition," wliich in the field doth occasion 
 some delay and execration in those who may be imme- 
 diately behind the equestrian sceptic. "Sir, if you don't 
 choose to take the leap, let me" — was a phrase whicli 
 generally sent the aspirant on again; and to good pur- 
 pose: for tiiougii "the horse and rider" might fall, they 
 made a gap, through which, and over him and his steed, 
 the field might follow. 
 
 Go to the coffee-house, and take another. 
 
 [p. 286. St. 48. 
 
 In Swift's or Horace Walpole's Letters 1 think it is 
 mentioned, that somebody regretting the loss of a friend, 
 was answered by an universal Pylades: "When Hose 
 one, I go to the Saint James's Coiiee-house, and take 
 another." 
 
 I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same kind. 
 Sir W. D. was a great gamester. Coming in one day to 
 the club of which he was a member, he was observed to 
 look melancholy. "Wiiat is the matter. Sir William?" 
 cried Hare, of facetious memory. "Ah! "replied Sir W. 
 "I have just lost poor Lady D." "Lost! Wliat at — 
 Quinze or Hazard? " was the consolatory rejoinder of 
 the querist. 
 
 And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. 
 
 [p. 287. St. 59. 
 The famous Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his son, on 
 tlie latter expressing his surprise upon the great effects 
 arising from petty causes in the presumed mystery of 
 politics: "You see by this, my son, with how little wis- 
 dom the kingdoms of the world are governed." 
 
756 
 
 NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO XV. 
 
 And thou. Diviner still. 
 Whose lot it is hy man to be mistaken. 
 
 [p. 292. St. 18. 
 As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, I 
 say, that I mean, by "Diviner still," CimrsT. If ever God 
 was Man — or Man God — he was both. I never ar- 
 raigned his creed,but the use-or abuse -made of it. Mr. 
 Canning one day quoted Ciiristiauity to sanction Negro- 
 Slavery, aud Mr. Wilbcrforce had little to say in reply. 
 And was Christ crucified , that black men might be 
 scourged? If so, he had better been born a Mulatto, to 
 give both colours an equal chance of freedom, or at least 
 salvation. 
 
 When Rapp, the Harmonist, embargoed marriage 
 In his harmonious settlement. [p. 294. St. 35. 
 
 This extraordinary and flourishing German colony in 
 America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the 
 'Shakers" do; but lays such restrictions upon it as pre- 
 vent more than a certain quantum of births within a cer- 
 tain number of years ; wliich births (as Mr. Hulme ob- 
 serves) generally arrive ''in a little flock like those of a 
 farmer's lambs, all within the same montli perhaps." 
 These Harmonists (so called from the name of their set- 
 tlement) are represented as a remarkably flourisliing, 
 pious,and quiet people. See the various recent writers on 
 America. 
 
 ISor canvass tvhat "so eminent a hand" meant 
 
 [p. 294. St. 38. 
 Jacob Tonson, according to Pope, was accustomed to 
 call his writers ''able pens" — persons of honour," and 
 especially "eminent hands." 
 
 While great Lucullus' robe triomphale muffles — 
 ( There's Fame ) — young partridge -flllets, deck'd with 
 truffles. [p. 296. St. 66. 
 
 A dish "k la Lucullus." Tliis hero, who conquered tlie 
 East, lias left his more extended celebrity to the trans- 
 plantation of cherries (which he first brought into Europe) 
 and the nomenclature of some very good dishes ; — and 
 I am not sure that (barring indigestion) he has not done 
 more service to mankind by his cookery than by his con- 
 quests. A cherry-tree may weigh against a bloody laurel : 
 besides, he has contrived to earn celebrity from both. 
 
 Hut even sans ^'confitures," it no less true is. 
 There' s pretty picking in those "petits putts." 
 
 [p. 296. St. 68 
 "Petits puitsd'amourgarnis de confitures," a classical 
 and well-known disii for part of the flank of a second 
 course. 
 
 For that with me's a "sine qua." 
 
 [p. 298. St. 86. 
 Subauditur "Non;" omitted for the sake of euphony. 
 
 In short, upon that subject Pve some qualms very 
 Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury. 
 
 [p. 299. St. 96. 
 Hobbes : who, doubting of his own soul, paid that com- 
 pliment to the souls of other people as to decline their 
 visits, of which he had some apprehension. 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO XVI. 
 
 If from a shell-flsh or from cochineal. 
 
 [p. 300. St. 10. 
 
 The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether 
 
 from a shell-fis!i, or from cochineal, or from kermes, is 
 
 still an article of dispute; and even its colour — some 
 
 say purple, others scarlet; I say nothing. 
 
 For a spoii'd carpet — but the "Atllc Bee" 
 Was much consoled by his own repartee. 
 
 [p. 303. St. 43. 
 I think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes trod, 
 with — "Thus I trample on the pride of Plato !" — "W ith 
 greater pride," as the other replied. But as carpets are 
 meant to be trodden upon, my memory probably mis- 
 gives me, and it might be a robe, or tapestry, or a table 
 cloth, or some other expensive and uncynical piece of 
 furniture. 
 
 With "Tkmi chamases" from Portingale, 
 To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail. 
 
 [p. 304. St. 45. 
 I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, 
 somewhat surfeited with a similar display from foreign 
 parts , djd ratlier indecorously break through tlie ap- 
 plauses of an intelligent audience — intelligent, I mean, 
 as to music, — for tlie words, besides being in recondite 
 languages (it was some years before the peace, ere all the 
 world had travelled, and while I was a collegian) — were 
 sorely disguised by the performers ; — this mayoress, I 
 say, broke out with, "Rot your Italiauos! for my part, 
 I love a simple ballad !" Rossini will go a good way to 
 bring most people to the same opinion, some day. Who 
 would imagine that he was to be tlie successor of Mozart? 
 However, I state this with diffidence, as a liege and loyal 
 admirer of Italian music in general, and of much of Ros- 
 sini's : but we may say , as the connoisseur did of paint- 
 ing, in the Vicar of Wakefield, "that the picture would 
 be better painted if the painter had taken more pains." 
 
 For Gothic daring shown in English money. 
 
 [p. 305. St. 59. 
 "Ausu Romano, aexe Veneto" is the inscription (and 
 well inscribed in this instance) on the sea-walls between 
 the Adriatic and Venice. The walls were a republican 
 work of the Venetians; the inscription, 1 believe, impe- 
 rial ; and inscribed by Napoleon. 
 
 " Untying" squires "to fight against the churches." 
 
 [p. 305. St. 60. 
 Though ye untie the winds and bid them light 
 Against the churches. — Macbeth. 
 
 Tliey err — 'tis merely what is call'd mobility. 
 
 [p. 308. St. 97 
 In French "mobilite." I am not sure that mobility is 
 English ; but it is expressive of a quality which rather be- 
 longs to other climates, though it is sometimes seen to a 
 great extent in our own. It may be defined as an excessive 
 susceptibility of immediate impressions — at the same 
 time witiiout /o«m^ the past; and is, though sometimes 
 apparently useful to the possessor, a most painful and 
 unhappy attribute. 
 
 Draperied her form with curious felicity. 
 
 [p. 308. St. 102. 
 "Curiosa felicitas." — Petronius. 
 
 A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass. 
 
 [p.309. St. 114. ' 
 See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince 
 Charles of Saxony raised by Schroepfer — "Karl — Karl 
 — was wollst du mit raich ?" 
 
 How odd, a single hobgoblin's non-entity 
 
 Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity! 
 
 [p. 310. St. 12a 
 "Shadows to-night 
 Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard 
 Than can the substance often thousand soldiers." 
 
 Richard IIL 
 
757 
 
 NOTES TO THE ISLAND. 
 
 The foundation of the Story will be found partly in the 
 account of the Mutiny of the Bounty in the South Seas 
 (in 1789) , and partly in „ Mariner's Account of the 
 Tonga Islands." 
 
 How pleasant were the songs of Toohonai. 
 
 [p. 313. 
 The first three sections are taken from an actual song 
 of the Tonga Islanders, of which a prose translation is 
 given in Mariner's ^ccown^ o/</te Tonga Islands. Too- 
 bonai is not, however, one of them; but was one of those 
 where Christian and the mutineers took refuge. I have 
 altered and added, but have retained as much as possible 
 of the original. 
 
 Beyond itself, and must retrace its way. [p. 315. 
 Lucullus, when frugality could charm, 
 Had wasted turnips in his Sabine farm. Pope. 
 
 Had form' d his glorious namesake's counterpart. 
 
 [p. 315. 
 The Consul Nero, who made the unequalled march 
 which deceived Hannibal, and defeated Asdrubal ; thereby 
 accomplishing an achievement almost unrivalled in mi- 
 litary annals. The first intelligence of his return, to Han- 
 nibal, was the sight of Asdrubal's head thrown into his 
 camp. When Hannibal saw this, he exclaimed, with a 
 sigh, that "Rome would now be the mistress of the world." 
 And yet to this victory of Nero's it might be owing that 
 his imperial namesake reigned at all ! But the infamy of 
 the one has eclipsed the glory of the other. When the 
 name of "Nero" is heard, who thinks of the Consul? But 
 sucli are human things. 
 
 And Loch-na-gar with Ida looh'd o'er Troy, 
 
 [p. 315. 
 When very young, about eight years of age, after an 
 attack of the scarlet-fever at Aberdeen, I was removed 
 by medical advice into the Highlands, Here I passed oc- 
 casionally some summers, and from this period 1 date 
 my love of mountainous countries. I can never forget the 
 eft'ect a few years afterwards in England, of the only thing 
 I had long seen, even in miniature, of a mountain, in the 
 Malvern Hills. After I returned to Cheltenham, I used to 
 watch them every afternoon at sunset, with a sensation 
 which I cannot describe. This was boyish enough ; but 
 I was then only thirteen years of age, and it was in the 
 holidays. 
 
 But deem him sailor or philosopher, [p. 317. 
 Hobbes, the father of Locke's and other philosophy, 
 was an inveterate smoker, — even to pipes beyond com- 
 putation. 
 
 "Right," quoth Ben, "that will do for the marines." 
 
 [p. 318. 
 
 "That will do for the Marines but the sailors won't 
 believe it," is an old saying, and one of the few fragments 
 of former jealousies which still survive (in jest only) 
 between these gallant services. 
 
 No less of human bravery than the hrave, 
 
 [p. 318. 
 Archidamus, King of Sparta, and son of Agesilaus, 
 when he saw a machine invented for the casting of stones 
 and darts, exclaimed that it was the "Grave of Valour." 
 The same story has been told of some knights on the first 
 application of gunpowder ; but the original anecdote is in 
 Plutarch. 
 
 Whose only portal was the keyless wave, [p. 321 . 
 Of this cave (which is no fiction) the original will be 
 found in the 9th chapter of Marinkr's Account of the Ton- 
 ga Islands. I have taken the poetical liberty to transplant 
 it to Toobonai, the last island where any distinct account 
 is left of Christian and his comrades. 
 
 The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave. [p. 321. 
 This may seem too minute for the general outline (iu 
 Mariner's ^ccoM?i<) from which it is taken. But few men 
 have travelled without seeing something of the kind— on 
 land, that is. Without adverting to Ellora, in Mungo 
 Park's last journal (if my memory do not err, for there 
 are eight years since I read the book) he mentions having 
 met with a rock or mountain so exactly resembling a 
 Gothic cathedral, that only minute inspection could con- 
 vince him that it was a work of nature. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE VOYAGE BY CAPTAIN 
 BLIGH. 
 
 On the 27th of December 1 787 it blew a severe storm 
 of wind from the eastward, in the courseof whicii we suf- 
 fered greatly; it was not without great risk and difficulty 
 that we were able to secure the boats from being washed 
 away. A great quantity of our bread was also damaged 
 and rendered useless, for the sea had stove in our stern, 
 and filled the cabin with water. On the 5th of January, 
 1788, we saw the island of Teuerifl'e about twelve leagues 
 distant, and next day, being Sunday, came to an anchor 
 in the road of Santa-Cruz. There we took in the neces- 
 sary supplies, and, having finished our business, sailed 
 on the 10th, I now divided the people into three watches, 
 and gave the charge of the third watch to Mr, Fletcher 
 Christian, one of the mates, I have always considered 
 this a desirable regulation when circumstances will admit 
 of it, audi am persuaded that unbroken rest notonly con- 
 tributes much towards the health of the ship's company, 
 but enables them more readily to exert themselves in ca- 
 ses of sudden emergency. As I wished to proceed to Ota- 
 heite without stopping, I reduced the allowance of bread 
 to two-thirds, and caused the water for drinking to be fil- 
 tered through drip -stones, bought at Tenerifle for that 
 purpose. I now acquainted the ship's company of the ob- 
 ject of the voyage, and gave assurances of certain promo- 
 tion to every one whose endeavours should merit it. On 
 Tuesday the 26th of February, we bent new sails, and 
 made other necessary preparations for encountering the 
 weather that was to be expected in a high latitude. Our 
 distance from the coa^t of Brazil was about 100 leagues. 
 
758 
 
 NOTES TO THE ISLAND, 
 
 Oo the forenoon of Sunday the 2d of March, after seeing 
 that everj' person vvasclean.divineservice was performed, 
 according to my usual custom on this day: I gave to Mr. 
 Fletcher Christian, whom I had before directed to take 
 charge of the third watch, a written order to act as lieute- 
 nant. The change of temperature soon began to be sen- 
 sibly felt, and, that the people might not sutler from their 
 own negligence, I supplied tliem with thicker clothing, as 
 better suited to the climate. On a complaint made to me 
 by the Master, I found it necessary to punish Matthew 
 Quintal, one of the seamen, with two dozen of lashes, for 
 insolence and mutinous beiiaviour, which was the firsttime 
 that there was any occasion for punishment on board. 
 
 We were off Cape St. Diego, the eastern part of tlie Terra 
 deFuego, and, the wind being unfavourable, I tliought 
 itmore advisable to go round to the eastward of Staaten- 
 land than to attempt passing through Straits le Maire. 
 Storms , attended with a great sea , prevailed until 
 the 12th of April. The ship began to leak, and required 
 pumping every hour, which was no more than we had 
 reason to expect from such a continuance of gales of wind 
 and high seas. The decks also became so leaky that it 
 was necessary to allot the great cabin, of which J made 
 little useexceptin fine weather, to those people who had 
 not births to hang their hammocks in, and by this means 
 the space between decks was less crowded. With all this 
 bad weather, we had the additional mortification to find, 
 at the end of every day, that we were losing ground; for, 
 notwithstanding our utmost exertions, and keeping on 
 the most advantageous tacks , we did little better tlian 
 drift before the wind. On Tuesday the 22d of April, we 
 had eight down on the sick list, and the rest of the people, 
 though in good health, were greatly fatigued; but I saw, 
 with much concern, that it was impossible to make a pas- 
 sage this way to the Society-Islands, for we had now been 
 thirty days in a tempestuous ocean. Thus the season was 
 too far advanced for us to expect better weather to enable 
 us to double Cape Horn; and, from these and other con- 
 siderations, I ordered the helm to be put a-weather, and 
 bore away for the Cape of Good Hope, to the great joy of 
 every one on board. 
 
 We came to an anchor on Friday the 23d of May, in 
 Simon's Bay, at the Cape, after a tolerable run. The 
 ship required complete caulking, for slie had become so 
 leaky , that we were obliged to pump hourly in our pas- 
 sage from Cape Horn. The sails and rigging also requir- 
 ed repair, and, on examining the provisions, a consi- 
 derable quantity was found damaged. 
 
 Having remained thirty -eight days at this place, and 
 my people having received all the advantage that could be 
 derived from refreshments of every kind that could be 
 met with, we sailed on the 1st of July. 
 
 A gale of wind blew on the 20th, with a high sea; it in- 
 creased after noon with such violence, that the ship was 
 driven almost forecastle under, before we could gvt the 
 sails clewed up. The lower yards were lowered, and the 
 top-gallant-mast got down upon deck, which relieved her 
 much. We lay to all night, and in the morning bore away 
 under a reefed foresail. The sea still running liigli, in the 
 afternoon it became very unsafe to stand on; we therefore 
 laytoallnight, without any accident, excepting thataman 
 atthesteeragewas thrown over the wheel and much bruis- 
 ed. Towards noon the violence of the storm abated, and 
 we again bore away under the reefed foresail. 
 
 In a few days we passed the Islands of St. Paul, where 
 there is good fresh water, as I was informed by a Dutch 
 captain, and also a hot spring, which boils fish as com- 
 pletely as if done by a fire. Approaching to Van Diemen's 
 land, we had much bad weather , with snow and hail, but 
 nothing was seen to indicate our vicinity, on the 13th of 
 August, except a seal, which appeared at the distance of 
 twenty leagues from it. We anchored in Adventure-Bay 
 on Wednesday the 20th. 
 
 In our passage hither from the Cape of Good Hope, the 
 •winds were chiefly from the westward, with very boister- 
 
 ous weather. The approach of strong southerly winds is 
 announced by many birds of the albatross or peterel tribe; 
 and the abatement of tlie gale, or a shift of wind to the 
 northward, by their keeping away. The thermometer also 
 varies five or six degrees in its height, when a change of 
 tliese winds may be expected. In the land surrounding 
 Adventure-Bay are many forest-trees one hundred and 
 fifty feet high ; we saw one which measured above thirty- 
 three feet in girth. We observed several eagles, some 
 beautiful blue-plumaged herons, and parroquets in great 
 variety. The natives not appearing, we went in search of 
 them towards Cape Frederic -Henry. Soon after, close 
 to tlie shore, for it was impossible to land, we heard their 
 voices, like the cackling of geese, and twenty persons 
 came out of the woods- We threw trinkets ashore, tied 
 up in parcels, which they would not open out until I made 
 an appearance of leaving them: they then did so, and, tak- 
 ing the articles out, put them on their heads. On first com- 
 ing insight, they made a prodigious clattering in their 
 speech, and held their arms over their heads. They spoke 
 so quick that it was impossible to catch one single word 
 they uttered. Their colour is of a dull black; their skin 
 scarified about the breast and shoulders. One was distin- 
 guished by his body being coloured with red ochre, but 
 ail the others were painted black, with a kind of soot, so 
 thickly laid over their faces and shoulders, that it was dif- 
 ficult to ascertain what they were like. On Tliursday, the 
 4th of September, we sailed out of Adventure-Bay, steer- 
 ing first towards the east-south-east, and then to the north- 
 ward of east,when,on the 19th, we came in sight of aclus- 
 tcr of small rocky islands, which I named Bounty Isles. 
 Soon afterwards we frequently observed the sea, in the 
 night-time, to be covered by luminous spots, caused by 
 amazing quantities of small blubbers or medusce, which 
 emit a light, like the blaze of a candle, from the strings or 
 filaments extending from them, while the rest of the body 
 continues perfectly dark. 
 
 We discovered the island of Otaheite on the 26tli, and, 
 before casting anchor next morning inMatavaiBay, such 
 numbers of canoes had come off, that, after the natives as- 
 certained we were friends, they came on board, and crowd- 
 ed tlie deck so much, that in ten minutes I could scarce 
 find my own people. The whole distance which the ship 
 had run, in direct and contrary courses, from the time of 
 leaving England until reaching Otaheite, was twenty-se- 
 ven tiiousand and eighty-six miles, which, on an average, 
 was one hundred andeight miles each twenty-four hours. 
 Here we lost our surgeon on the 9th of December, Of late 
 he had scarcely ever stirred out of the cabin, though not 
 apprehended to be in a dangerous state. Nevertheless, 
 appearing worse than usual inthe evening, he was remov- 
 ed where he couldobtain more air, but without any bene- 
 fit, for he died in an hour afterwards. This unfortunate 
 man drank very hard, and was so averse to exercise, that 
 he would never be prevailed on to take half a dozen turns 
 on deck at a time, during all the course of the voyage. He 
 was buried on shore. 
 
 On Monday, tlie 5tli of January, the small cutter was 
 missed, of which I was immediately apprized. The ship's 
 company being mustered, we found three men absent, 
 who had carried it ofl'. They had taken with them eiglit 
 stand of arms and ammunition; but with regard to their 
 plan, every one on board seemed to be quite ignorant. I 
 therefore went on shore, and engaged all the chiefs to as- 
 sist in recovering both tlie boat and the deserters. Accord- 
 ingly , the former was brought back in the course of the 
 day, by five of thenatives; but themen were nottaken un- 
 til nearly three weeks afterwards. Learningtheplace w here 
 tiiey were, in a different quarter of the island of Otaheite, 
 I went thither in the cutter, thinking there would be no 
 great difficulty in securing them with the assistance of the 
 natives. However , they heard of my arrival : and when I 
 was near a house in which they were, they came out want- 
 ing their fire-arms, and delivered themselves up. Some 
 of the chiefs liad formerly seized and bound these desert- 
 
NOTES TO THE ISLAND. 
 
 759 
 
 crs; but had been prevailed on, by fair promises of re- 
 turning' peaceably to the ship, to release them. But finding 
 an opportunity again to get possession of their arms, they 
 set the natives at defiance. 
 
 The object of the voyage being now completed, all the 
 bread-fruit plants, to the number of one thousand and 
 fifteen, were got on board on Tuesday, the 31st of March. 
 Besides tiiese,wehad collected many other plants,some of 
 Ihem bearing the finest fruits in the world; and valuable, 
 from alibrding brilliant dyes, and for various properties 
 besides. At sunset of the 4th of April, we made sail from 
 Otahcite, bidding farewell to an island where for twenty- 
 three weeks we had been treated with the utmost afi'ection 
 and regard, and which seemed to increase in proportion 
 to our stay. That we were not insensible to their kindness, 
 the succeeding circumstances sufficiently proved; for to 
 the friendly and endearing behaviour of these people may 
 be ascribed the motives inciting an event that effected the 
 ruin of our expedition, which there was every reason to 
 believe would have been attended with the most favour- 
 able issue. 
 
 Next morning we got sight of the island Huaheine ; and 
 a double canoesoon comingalongside, containing ten na- 
 tives, I saw among them a youngman who recollected me, 
 and called me by my name. I had been here in the year 
 1780, with Captain Cook, in the Resolution. A few days 
 after sailing from this island, the weather became squally, 
 and a thick body of black clouds collected in the east. A 
 water-spout was in a short time seen at no great distance 
 from us, which appeared to great advantage from the dark- 
 ness of the clouds behind it. As nearly as I could judge,the 
 upper part was about two feet in diameter, and the lower 
 about eight inches. Scarcely had I made these remarks, 
 when I observed that it was rapidly advancing towards 
 the ship. We immediately altered our course, and took 
 in all the sails except the foresail; soon after which it 
 passed within ten yards of the stern, with a rustling noise 
 but without our feeling the least effect from its being so 
 near. It seemed to be travelling at the rate, of about ten 
 miles an hour, in the direction of the wind, and it dispersed 
 in a quarter of an hour after passing us. It is impossible 
 to say what injury we should have received, had it passed 
 directly over us. Masts, I imagine, might have been car- 
 ried away, but I do not apprehend that itwouldhavecau- 
 sed the loss of the ship. 
 
 Passing several islands on the way, we anchored at An- 
 namooka, on the 23d of April; and an old lame man cal- 
 led Tepa, whom I had known here in 1777, and imme- 
 diately recollected, came on board, along with others, 
 from different islands in the vicinity. They were desirous 
 to see the ship,and,on being taken below, where the bread- 
 fruit-plants were arranged , they testified great surprise. 
 A few of these being decayed, we went on shore to procure 
 some in their place. 
 
 The natives exhibited numerous marks of the peculiar 
 mourning which they express on losing their relatives; 
 such as bloody temples, their heads being deprived of 
 most of the hair, and, what was worse, almost the wliole 
 of them had lost some of their fingers. Several fine boys, 
 not above six years old, had lost both their little fingers; 
 and several of the men, besides these, had parted with the 
 middle finger of the right hand. 
 
 The chiefs went oft' with me to dinner, and we carried 
 on a brisk trade for yams ; we also got plantains and 
 bread-fruit. But the yams were in great abundance, and 
 very fine and large. One of them weighed above forty- 
 five pounds. Sailing canoes came, some of wliich con- 
 tained not less than ninety passengers. Such a number 
 of them gradually arrived from different islands, that it 
 was impossible to get any thing done, the multitude be- 
 came so grcat,and there was no chief of sufficient author- 
 ity to command the w hole. I therefore ordered -a water- 
 ing party, then employed, to come on board, and sailed 
 on Sunday, the 26th of April. 
 
 We kept near the island of Kotoo all the afternoon of 
 Monday, in hopes tiiat some canoes would comeofl'to 
 the ship, but in this we were disappointed. The wind 
 being northerly, we steered to the westward in the even- 
 ing, to pass south of Tofoa; and I gave directions for 
 this course to be continued during the night. The master 
 had the first watch, the gunner the middle watch, and 
 Mr. Christian the morning-watch. This was the turn of 
 duty for the night. 
 
 Hitherto the voyage had advanced in a course of un- 
 interrupted prosperity, and had been attended with cir- 
 cumstances equally pleasing and satisfactory. But a very 
 diflerent scene was now to be disclosed; a conspiracy 
 had been formed, which was to render all our past labour 
 productive only of misery and distress; and it had been 
 concerted with so much secrecy and circumspection, that 
 no one circumstance escaped to betray the impending 
 calamity. 
 
 On the night of Monday, the watch was set as I have 
 described. Just before sunrise, on Tuesday morning, 
 while I was yet asleep, Mr. Christian, with the master- 
 at-arms, gunner's mate, and Thomas Burkitt, seaman, 
 came into my cabin, and, seizing me, tied my hands with 
 a cord behind my back; threatening me with instant 
 death if I spoke or made the least noise. I nevertheless 
 called out as loud as I could, in hopes of assistance; but 
 the oflicers not of their party were already secured by 
 sentinels at their doors. At my own cabin-door were three 
 men, besides the four within; all except Christian had 
 muskets and bayonets; he had only a cutlass. I was 
 dragged out of bed, and forced on deck in my shirt, suffer- 
 ing great pain in the mean time from the tightness with 
 which my hands were tied. On demanding the reason of 
 such violence, the only answer was abuse for not holding 
 my tongue. The master, the gunner, surgeon, master's 
 mate, and Nelson, the gardener, were kept confined be- 
 low, and the fore-hatchway was guarded by sentinels. 
 The boatswain and carpenter, and also the clerk, were 
 allowed to come on deck, where they saw me standing 
 abaft the mizenmast, with my hands tied behind my back, 
 under a guard, with Christian at their head. The boat- 
 swain was then ordered to hoist out the launch, accom- 
 panied by a threat, if he did not do it instantly, to take 
 
 CARE OF HIMSELF. 
 
 The boat being hoisted out, Mr. Hay ward and Mr. 
 Hallet, two of the midshipmen, and Mr. Samuel, the clerk, 
 were ordered into it. I demanded the intention of giving 
 this order, and endeavoured to persuade the people near 
 me not to persist in such acts of violence; but it was to 
 no eflect ; for the constant answer was , " Hold your 
 tongue. Sir, or you are dead this moment." 
 
 The master had by this time sent, requesting that he 
 might come on deck, which was permitted; but he was 
 soon ordered back again to his cabin. My exeitions to 
 turn the tide of afl'airs were continued; when Christian, 
 changing the cutlass he held for a bayonet, and holding 
 me by the cord about my hands with a strong gripe,threa- 
 tened me with immediate death if I would not be quiet ; 
 and the villains around me had their pieces cocked and 
 bayonets fixed. 
 
 Certain individuals were called on to get into the boat, 
 and were hurried over the ship's side; whence I conclu- 
 ded, that along with them I was to be set adrift. Another 
 effort to bring about a change produced nothing but me- 
 naces of having my brains blown out. 
 
 The boatswain and those seamen who were to be put 
 into the boat, were allowed to collect twine, canvass,liues, 
 sails, cordage, an cight-and-twenty gallon cask of water; 
 and Mr. Samuel got 150 pounds of bread, with a small 
 quantity of rum and wine; also a quadrant and compass; 
 but he was prohibited, on pain of death, to touch any 
 map or astronomical book, and any instrument, or any 
 of my surveys and drawings. 
 
 The mutineers liaving thus forced those of the seamen 
 whom they wished to get rid of into the boat, Christian 
 
760 
 
 NOTES TO THE ISLAND. 
 
 directed a dram to be served to each of liis crew. I then 
 unhappily saw that nothing could be done to recover the 
 ship. The officers were next called on deck, and forced 
 over the ship's side into the boat, while I was kept apart 
 from every one abaft the mizen-raast. Christian, armed 
 with a bayonet, held the cord fastening my hands, and 
 the guard around me stood with their pieces cocked; but 
 on my daring the ungrateful wretches to fire, they un- 
 cocked them. Isaac Martin, one of tliem, I saw had an 
 inclination to assist me; and as he fed me with shadock, 
 my lips being quite parched, we explained each other's 
 sentiments by looks. But this was observed, and he was 
 removed. He then got into the boat, attempting to leave 
 the ship; however, he was compelled to return. Some 
 others were also kept contrary to their inclination. 
 
 It appeared to me, that Christian was some time in 
 doubt whether he should keep the carpenter or his mates. 
 At length he determined on the latter, and the carpenter 
 was ordered into the boat. He was permitted, though not 
 without opposition, to take his tool-chest. 
 
 Mr. Samuel secured my journal and commission, with 
 some important ship-papers; this he did with great reso- 
 lution, though strictly watched. He attempted to save the 
 time-keeper, and a box with my surveys, drawings, and 
 remarks for fifteen years past, which were very numerous, 
 when he was hurried away with — "Damn your eyes, 
 you are well ofl to get what you have." 
 
 Much altercation took place among the mutinous crew 
 during the transaction of this whole afiair. Some swore, 
 "I'll be damned if he does not find his way home, if he 
 gets any thing with him," meaning me; and when the 
 carpenter's cliest was carrying away, "Damn my eyes, 
 he will have a vessel built in a mouth;" while others 
 ridiculed the helpless situation of the boat, which was 
 very deep in the water, and had so little room for those 
 who were in her. As for Christian, he seemed as if medi- 
 tating destruction on himself and every one else. 
 
 I asked for arms, but the mutineers laughed at me, and 
 said I was well acquainted with the people among whom 
 I was going; four cutlasses, however, were thrown into 
 the boat, after we were veered astern. 
 
 The officers and men being in the boat, they only wait- 
 ed for me, of wliicli the master-at-arms informed Chri- 
 stian, who then said, "Come, Captain Bligh, your officers 
 and men are now in the boat, and you must go with them; 
 if you attempt to make the least resistance, you will in- 
 stantly be put to death;" and without further ceremony, 
 I was forced over the side by a tribe of armed ruffians, 
 where they untied my hands. Being in the boat, we were 
 veered astern by a rope. A few pieces of pork were thr\) wn 
 to us, also the four cutlasses. The armourer and carpenter 
 then called out to me to remember that they had no hand 
 in the transaction. After having been kept some time to 
 make sport for these unfeeling wretches, and having 
 undergone much ridicuje, we were at length cast adrift in 
 the open ocean, 
 
 Eighteen persons were with me in the boat, — the 
 master, acting surgeon, botanist, gunner, boatswain, car- 
 penter, master, and quarter-master's mate, two quarter- 
 masters, the sail-maker, two cooks, my clerk, the but- 
 cher, and a boy. There remained on board, Fletcher 
 Christian, the master's mate; Peter Haywood, Edward 
 Young, George Stewart, midshipmen; the master-at- 
 arms, gunner's mate, boatswain's mate, gardener, ar- 
 mourer, carpenter's mate, carpenter's crew, and fourteen 
 seamen, being altogether the most able men of the ship's 
 company. Having little or no wind, we rowed pretty fast 
 towards the island of Tofoa, which bore north-east abouj; 
 ten leagues distant. The ship while in sight steered west- 
 north-west, but this I considered only as a feint, for when 
 we were sent away,"Huzza forOtahcite !" was frequently 
 heard among the mutineers. 
 
 Christian, the chief of them, was of a respectable family 
 
 in the north of England. This was the third voyage he 
 had made with me. Notwithstanding the roughness with 
 which I was treated, the remembrance of past kindnesses 
 produced some remorse in him. While they were forcing 
 me out of the ship,I asked him whether this was a proper 
 return for the many instances he had experienced of my 
 friendship ? He appeared disturbed at the question, and 
 answered, with much emotion, "That — Captain Bligh — 
 that is the thing — I am in hell — I am in hell," His 
 abilities to take charge of the third watch, as I had so di- 
 vided the ship's company, were fully equal to the task. 
 Haywood was also of a respectable family in the north of 
 England, and a young man of abilities, as well as Chri- 
 stian. These two had been objects ofmy particular regard 
 and attention, and I had taken great pains to instruct 
 them, having entertained hopes that, as professional men, 
 they would have become a credit to their country. Young 
 was well recommended; and Stewart of creditable parents 
 in the Orkneys, at which place, on the return of the Re- 
 solution from the South Seas in 1780, we received so 
 many civilities, that in consideration of these alone I 
 should gladly have taken him with me. But he had al- 
 ways borne a good character. 
 
 When I had time to reflect, an inward satisfaction pre- 
 vented the depression of my spirits. Yet, a few liours 
 before, my situation had been peculiarly flattering; I had 
 a ship in tiie most perfect order, stored with every neces- 
 sary, both for health and service: the object of the voyage 
 was attained, and two-thirds of it now completed. The 
 remaining part had every prospect of success. It will 
 naturally be asked, what could be the cause of such a re- 
 volt? In answer, I can only conjecture that the muti- 
 neers had flattered themselves with the hope of a happier 
 life among the Otaheitians than they could possibly 
 enjoy in England; Avhich, joined to some female con- 
 nexions, most probably occasioned the whole transaction. 
 The women of Otaheite are handsome, mild, and cheer- 
 ful in manners and conversation; possessed of great sen- 
 sibility, and have sufficient delicacy to make them be ad- 
 mired and beloved. The chiefs were so much attached to 
 our people, that they rather encouraged their stay among 
 them than otherwise and even made them promises of 
 large possessions. Under tliese,and many other concomi- 
 tant circumstances, itought hardly to be the subject of 
 surprise that a set of sailors, most of them void of con- 
 nexions, should be led away, where they had the power 
 of fixing themselves in the midst of plenty, in one of the 
 finest islands in the world, w here there was no necessity 
 to labour, and where the allurements of dissipation arc 
 beyond any conception that can be formed of it. The ut- 
 most, however, that a Commander could have expected, 
 was desertions, such as have already happened more or 
 less in the South Seas, and not an act of open mutiny. 
 
 But the secrecy of this mutiny surpasses belief. Thir- 
 teen of the party who were now with me had always li- 
 ved forward among the seamen ; yet neither they, nor the 
 messmates of Christian, Stewart, Haywood, and Young, 
 had ever observed any circumstance to excite suspicion, 
 of what was plotting; and it is not wonderful if 1 fell a 
 sacrifice to it, my mind being entirely free from suspicion. 
 Perhaps, had marines been on board, a sentinel at my 
 cabin-door might have prevented it; for I constantly 
 slept Avith the door open, that the officer of the watch 
 might have access to me on all occasions. If the mutiny 
 had been occasioned by any grievances, either real or 
 imaginary, I must have discovered symptoms of discon- 
 tent, wliich would have put me on my guard; but it was 
 far otherwise. With Christian, in particular, I was on the 
 most friendly terms; that very day he was engaged to 
 have dined with me; and the preceding night he excused 
 himself from supping witli me on pretence of indispo- 
 sition, for which I felt concerned, having no suspicions 
 of liis honour or integrity. 
 
vvr :/i<vyM'^ 
 
 761 
 
 '^i^ 
 
 NOTES TO MANFRED. 
 
 The suubow's rays still arch 
 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven, [p. 330. 
 
 This Iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the lower 
 
 part of the Alpine torrents : it is exactly like a rainbow, 
 
 come down to pay a visit, and so close that you may walk 
 
 into it: — this eflect lasts till noon. 
 
 He who from out their fountain-dwellings raised 
 Eros and Anteros, at Gadara. [p. 331. 
 
 The philosopher lamblichus. The story of the raising 
 of Eros and Anteros may be found in his life, by Euna- 
 pius. It is well told. 
 
 She replied 
 
 In words of dubious import, hut fulfill' d. [p. 331. 
 The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta (who command- 
 
 ed the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and afterwards pe- 
 rished for an attempt to betray the Lacedemonians), and 
 Cleonice, is told in Plutarch's life of Cimon; and in the 
 Laconics of Pausauias the Sophist, in his description of 
 Greece. 
 
 The giant-sons 
 
 Of the embrace of angels, [p. 336. 
 
 "That the Sons of God saw the daughters of men, that 
 they were fair." 
 
 "There were giants in the earth in those days; and also 
 after that, when the Sons of God came in unto the daugh- 
 ters of men , and they bare children to them, the same be- 
 came mighty men which were of old, men of renown." — 
 Genesis, ch. vi, 2. 4. 
 
 NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso. 
 An historical fact. 
 
 [p. 345. 
 
 A gondola with one oar only. [p. 347. 
 
 A gondola is not like a common boat, but is as easily 
 
 rowed with one oar as with two (though of course not so 
 
 swiftly), and often is so from motives of privacy, and (since 
 
 the decay of Venice) of economy. 
 
 They think themselves 
 Engaged in secret to the Signory. 
 An historical fact. 
 
 [p. 356. 
 
 Within our palace-precincts at San Polo. 
 
 [p. 364. 
 The Doge's private family -palace. 
 
 "Signor of the Night." [p. 366. 
 
 "I Signori di Notte" held an important charge in the 
 iold Republic. 
 ' Festal Thursday. [p. 368. 
 
 "Giovedi Grasso," "fat or greasy Thursday ," which I 
 cannot literally translate in the text, was the day. 
 
 Guards! let their mouths be gagg'd, even in the act. 
 
 [p. 368, 
 Historical fact. 
 
 Say, conscript fathers, shall she be admitted? 
 
 [p. 370. 
 The Venetian senate took the same title as the Roman, 
 of "Conscript Fathers." 
 
 ' Tis with age, then. ("p. 373. 
 
 This was the actual reply of Bailli, maire of Paris, to a 
 Frenchman who made him the same reproach on his way 
 to execution, in the earliest part of their revolution. I find 
 in reading over (since the completion of this tragedy), for 
 the first time these six years, "Venice Preserved," a simi- 
 lar reply on a different occasion by Renault, and other 
 coincidences arising from tiie subject. I need hardly re- 
 mind the gentlest reader, that such coincidences must be 
 accidental, from the very facility of their detection by re- 
 ference to so popular a play on the stage and in the closet 
 as Otway's chef-d'oeuvre. 
 
 Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! 
 
 [p. 374. 
 Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the reader 
 look to the historical , of the period prophesied, or rather 
 of the few years preceding that period. Voltaire calcula- 
 ted their "nostrebenemeriteMeretrici"at 12,000 of regu- 
 lars, without including volunteers and local militia, on 
 
 48* 
 
762 
 
 APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 what authority I know not; but it is perhaps the only part 
 of the population not decreased. 
 
 Then, when the Hebrew's in thy palaces. 
 
 [p. 374. 
 The chief palaces on theBrentanow belong to the Jews, 
 who in the earlier times of the Republic were only allowed 
 to inhabit Mestri, and not to enter the city of Venice. The 
 whole commerce is in the liands of the Jews and Greeks, 
 and the Huns form the garrison. 
 
 Tliou den of drunkards with the Mood of princes. 
 
 [p. 374. 
 
 Of the first fifty T)ogeB,five abdicated— ;y?rc were banish- 
 ed witli their eyes put out — five were massacred— and 
 nine deposed; so that nineteen out of fifty lost the throne 
 by violence, besides two who fell in battle: this occurred 
 long previous to the reign of Marino Faliero. One of his 
 more immediate predecessors, Andrea Dandolo, died of 
 vexation. Marino Faliero himself perished as related. 
 Amongst his successors, Foscari, after seeing his son re- 
 peatedly tortured and banished, was deposed, and died of 
 breakinga blood-vessel, on hearing the bell of Saint Mark's 
 toll for the election of his successor. Morosini was im- 
 peached for the loss of Candia ; but this was previous to 
 his dukedom, during which he conquered the Morea, and 
 was styled the Peloponnesian. Faliero might truly say, 
 
 "Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes!" 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 I. 
 
 MCCCLIV. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 
 
 Ontheeleventh day of September,intheyearof ourLord 
 1354, ^larino Faliero was elected and chosen to be the 
 Duke of the Common wealtii of Venice. He was Count of 
 Valdemarioo, in the Marches of Treviso , and a Knight 
 and a wealthy man to boot. As soon as the election was 
 completed, it was resolved in theGreatCouncil, that a de- 
 putation of twelve should be despatclied to Marino Fa- 
 liero the Duke, who was then on his way fromRomc; for, 
 when he was chosen, lie was Embassador at the court of 
 tlie Holy Father, at Rome, — the Holy Father himself iield 
 his court at Avignon. W^lien Messer Marino Faliero the 
 Duke was about to land in tiiis city, on the fifth day of Oc- 
 tober, 1354, a thick haze came on, and darkened the air; 
 and he was enforced to land on the place of Saint Mark, 
 between the two columns on the spot whereevil doers are 
 put to death; and all thought that this was the worst of 
 tokens. — Nor must I forget to write tiiat which I Iiave read 
 in a chronicle. — When Messer Marino Faliero was po- 
 desta and Captain of Treviso, the Bishop delayed coming 
 in with the holy sacrament, on a day when a procession 
 was to take place. Now the said Marino Faliero was so 
 very proud and wrathful, that he bufi'eted the Bishop, and 
 almost struck him to the ground. And, therefore. Heaven 
 allowed Marino Faliero to go out of his right senses, in 
 order that he might bring himself to an evil death. 
 
 When this Duke had held tiie Dukedom during nine 
 months and six days, he being wicked and ambitious, 
 sought to make himself lord of Venice, in the manner 
 which 1 have read in an ancient chronicle. When the 
 Thursday arrived upon which they were wont to hunt the 
 Bull, the Bull-hunt took place as usual; and according to 
 the usage of those times, after the Bull-hunt had ended, 
 they all proceeded unto the palace of the Duke, and as- 
 sembled together in one of his halls ; and they disported 
 themselves witlj the women. And until the first bell tolled 
 they danced, and thenabanquet was served up. jSIy Lord 
 the Duke paid the expenses thereof , provided he had a 
 Duchess, and after the banquet they all returned to their 
 homes. 
 
 Now to this feast there came a certain Ser Michele 
 Steno, a gentleman of poor estate and very young, but 
 
 crafty and daring, and who loved one of the damsels of 
 the Duchess. — Ser Michele stood amongst the women 
 upon the soiajo ; and he behaved indiscreetly, so that my 
 Lord the Duke ordered that he should be kicked oft' the 
 soiajo; and the Esquires of the Duke flung him down 
 from the soiajo accordingly. Ser Michele thought that 
 such an attront was beyond all bearing: and wlien the 
 feast was over, and all other persons had left tiie pa- 
 lace, he, continuing heated with anger, went to the hall of 
 audience, and wrote certain unseemly words relating to 
 the Duke and the Duchess, upon the cliair in which the 
 Duke was used to sit; for in tliose days the Duke did not 
 cover his chair with cloth of seudal, but he sat in a chair 
 of wood. Ser Michele wrote thereon : — Marin Falier, Lht 
 husband of the fair wife ; others hiss her, but he keeps her. 
 In the morning the words were seen, and the matter was 
 considered to be very scandalous; and the Senate com- 
 manded the Avvogadori of tlie Common wealtli to proceed 
 tlierein w ith the greatest diligence. A largesse of great 
 amount was immediately prottered by the Avvogadori in 
 order to discover who had written these words. And at 
 length it was known that Michele Steno had written them. 
 It w as resolved in the Council of Forty that he shotild be 
 arrested ; and he then confessed , that in a fit of vexation 
 and spite, occasioned by his being thrust off the soiajo in 
 tlie presence of his mistress, he had written the words. 
 Tlierefore the Council debated thereon. And the Council 
 took his youth into consideration, and that he was a lover, 
 and therefore they adjudged that he sliould be kept in 
 close confinement during two montlis, and that after w a rds 
 he should be banished from Venice and tiie state during 
 one year. In consequence of this merciful sentence tiie 
 Duke became exceedingly wroth, it appearing to him tiiat 
 the Council had not acted in suclianianneras was requir- 
 ed by tiie respect due to his ducal dignity ; and he said 
 that the}' ought to have condemned Ser Michele to be 
 hanged by tiie neck, or at least to be banished for life. 
 
 Now it was fated tiiat my Lord Duke Marino was to 
 have his liead cut oil'. And as it is necessary wiien any ef- 
 fect is to be brought about, that the cause of such effect 
 must iiappen, ittlierefore came to pass, tliat on the very day 
 after sentence had been pronounced on Ser Michele Steno, 
 being tiie first day of Lent, a Gentleman of the house of 
 Barbaro, a choleri*; Gentleman , went to tlie arsenal and 
 required certain tilings of the masters of the galleys. This 
 he did in tiie presence of the Admiral of the arsenal, and 
 he, hearing the request, aiLSwered. — No, it cannot be 
 done. — High wordsarose between tlie Gentleman and the 
 Admiral, and tiie Gentleman struck iiim witli his fist just 
 above the eye; and as he happened to have a ring on his 
 finger, tiie ring cut the Admiral and drew blood. The Ad- 
 miral , all bruised and bloody, ran straight to tlie Duke 
 to complain , and w itli tlie intent of praying liim to inflict 
 some lieavy punishment upon thesaid Gentleman Barbaro. 
 — "What wouldst thou have me do for tiiee?" answered 
 the Duke: — "think upon the shameful gibe wliich liath 
 been written concerning me; and tliink on the manner in 
 which tiiey have punisiied that ribald Michele Steno, who 
 wrote it; and see how the Council of Forty respect our 
 person." — Upon this the Admiral answered: — "My Lord 
 Duke, if you would wish to make yourself a Prince and 
 to cut all tliose cuckoldy gentlemen to pieces, I have tiic 
 hear*, if you do but help me, to make you Prince of all this 
 state; and then you may punisii tliemail." — Hearing lliis, 
 tlie Duke said: — "How can such a matter be brought 
 about?" — and so they discoursed thereon. 
 
 The Duke called for his nepiiew Ser Berturrio Faliero, 
 who was exceedingly wily and cunning. Then taking 
 counsel amongst themselves, they agreed to call in some 
 others; and so, for several nights successively, tiiey met 
 with the Duke at home in his palace. And tiic foilouiug 
 men were called insingly; to wit: — NicoloFagiuoio, Gio- 
 vanni da Corfu, Stcfano, Niccolo dalle Bencle, Niccolo 
 Biondo, and Stefano Trivisiano. — It was concerted that 
 sixteen or seventeen leaders should be stationed in various 
 
APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 763 
 
 parts of thecity, each beingatthe head of forty men, arrri- 
 ed and prepared; but the followers were not to know their 
 destination. On tlie appointed day they were to make af- 
 frays amongst themselves here and there, in order that 
 the Duke might have a pretence for tolling the bells of San 
 Marco : these bells are never rung but by the order of the 
 Duke. And at the sound of the bells, these sixteen or se- 
 venteen, witli their followers, were to come to San Marco, 
 through the streets whicii open upon the Piazza. And 
 when the noble and leading citizens should come into the 
 Piazza, to know the cause of the riot, then the conspira- 
 tors were to cut them in pieces ; and this work being tinish- 
 ed, ray Lord Marino Faliero the Duke was to be proclaim- 
 ed the Lord of Venice. Things having been thus settled, 
 they agreed to fulfil their intent on Wednesday, the fif- 
 teenth day of April, in the year 1355. So covertly did they 
 plot, that no one ever dreamt of their machinations. 
 
 But the Lord, who hath always helped this most glo- 
 rious city, and who, loving its righteousness and holiness, 
 hath never forsaken it, inspired one Beltramo ,Bergamas- 
 co to be the cause of bringing the plot to light in the folio w- 
 ing manner. This Beltramo, who belonged to SerNiccolo 
 Lioni of Santo Stefano, had heard a word or two of what 
 Avas to take place; and so, in the before-mentioned month 
 of April, lie went to the liouse of the aforesaid SerNiccolo 
 Lioni, and told himall the particulars of theplot. Ser Nic- 
 colo, when he heard all these tilings, was struck dead, as 
 it were, with affright. He heard all the particulars, and 
 Beltramo prayed him to keep it all secret; and, if he told 
 Ser Niecolo, it was in order that Ser Niccolo might stop 
 at home on the fifteenth of April, and thus save his life. 
 Beltramo was going, but Ser Niccolo ordered his ser- 
 vants to lay hands upon him and lock him up. Ser Nic- 
 colo then went to the house of Messer Giovanni Grade- 
 nigo Nasoni, who afterwards became Duke, and who also 
 lived at Santo Stefano, and told him all. The matter seem- 
 ed to him to be of the very greatest importance, as indeed 
 it was ; and they two went to the house of Ser Marco Cor- 
 naro,wiio lived at San Felice; and, having spoken with 
 him, they all three then determined to go back to the house 
 of Ser Niccolo Lioni , to examine the said Beltramo; and 
 having questioned him, and heard all that he had to say, 
 they left him in confinement. And then they all three went 
 into the sacristy of San Salvatore, and sent their men to 
 summon the Counsellors, the Avvogadori, the Capi de' 
 Dieci, and tbose of the Great Council. 
 
 When all were assembled, the whole story was told to 
 them. They were struck dead, as it were, with afl'right. 
 They determined to send for Beltramo. He was brought 
 in before them. Tliey examined him and ascertained that 
 tlie matter was true ; and, although they were exceedingly 
 troubled, yet they determined upon their measures. And 
 they sent for the Capi de' Quaranta, the Signori diNotte, 
 tiie Capi de' Sestieri,and the Cinque dellaPacc; and they 
 were ordered to associate to their men otiier good men and 
 true, who were to proceed to the houses of the ringleaders 
 of tlie conspiracy and secure them. And they secured the 
 foremen of tlie arsenal, inorder that the conspirators miglit 
 not do mischief. Towards nightfall they assembled in the 
 palace. When they were assembled in the palace, they caus- 
 ed the gates of the quadrangle of the palace to be shut. And 
 they sent to the keeper of tlie bell-tower and forbade the 
 tolling of the bells. All this was carried into efl'ect. The be- 
 fore-mentioned conspirators were secured, and they were 
 brougiit to tiie palace; and as the Council of Ten saw that 
 the Duke was in the plot, they resolved that twenty of the 
 leading men of tiie state sliould be associated totliem, for 
 the purpose of consultation and deliberation, but that they 
 siiould not be allowed to ballot. 
 
 These twenty were accordingly called in to the Council 
 of Ten ; and they sent for my Lord Marino Faliero tiie 
 Duke; and my Lord Marino was then consorting in the 
 I)alace witli people of great estate, gentlemen, and other 
 good men, none of whom knew yet how the fact stood. 
 
 At the same time Bertuccio Israello, who, as one of tiie 
 ringleaders, was to head the conspirators in Santa Croce, 
 was arrested and bound, and brought before the Council. 
 Zaneilo del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, Nicoletto Alberto, 
 and the Guardiaga, were also taken, together with several 
 seamen, and people of various ranks. These were exa- 
 mined, and the truth of the plot was ascertained. 
 
 On tiie sixteenth of April judgment was given in the 
 Council of Ten, thatFilippo Calendario and Bertuccio Is- 
 raello siiould be hanged upon the red pillars of the bal- 
 cony of tiic palace, from which the Duke is wont to look 
 at the Bull-hunt : and they were hanged with gags in their 
 mouths. 
 
 The next day the following were condemned: — Nic- 
 colo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto Doro, Marco 
 Giuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fidele, the son of 
 Filippo Calendario, Marco Torello, called Israello, Ste- 
 fano Trivisano, the money-changer of Santa Marglierita, 
 and Antonio dalle Ben de. These wereall takenat Chiozza, 
 for they were endeavouring to escape. Afterwards, by 
 virtue of the sentence w liicii was passed upon tliem in the 
 Council of Ten , they were hanged on successive days, 
 some singly and some in couples, upon the columns of 
 the palace, beginning from the red columns, and so going 
 onwards towards the canal. And other prisoners were 
 discharged, because, altliough tiiey had been involved in 
 tiie conspiracy, yet they had not assisted in it: for tliey 
 were given to unterstand by some of the heads of the plot, 
 tiiat tiiey w ere to come armed and prepared for the ser- 
 vice of the state, and in order to secure <rertain criminals, 
 and they knew nothing else. Nicoletto Alberto, the Guar- 
 diaga, and Bartolommeo Ciruola and his son, and several 
 others, who were not guilty, were discharged. 
 
 On Friday, the sixteenth day of April, judgment was 
 also given, in tiie aforesaid Council of Ten, tliat my Lord 
 Marino Faliero, the Duke, should have liis head cut olf, 
 and tliat the execution siiould be done on tiie landing- 
 place of the stone staircase, where the Dukes take their 
 oath w hen they first enter tiie palace. On the following 
 day, the seventeenth of April, the doors of tiie palace 
 being shut, the Duke had his head cut otf, about the Ijour 
 of noon. And the cap of estate was taken from the Duke's 
 head before he came down stairs. When the execution 
 was over, it is said that one of the Council of Ten went to 
 the columns of the palace over against the place of St. 
 Mark, and that he showed the bloody sword unto the 
 peopIe,crying out with a loud voice — "The terrible doom 
 liatii fallen upon the traitor \" - and the doors were open- 
 ed, and the people all rushed in, to see the corpse of the 
 Duke, who had been beheaded. 
 
 It must l^known, that Ser GiovanniSanudo, the coun- 
 cillor, wasTrot present when the aforesaid sentence was 
 pronounced; because he was unwell and remained at home. 
 So that only fourteen ballotted: tliat is to say, five coun- 
 cillors, and nine of tlie Council of Ten. And it was ad- 
 judged, that all the lands and chattels of the Duke, as well 
 as of the otiier traitors, should be forfeited to the state. 
 And, as a grace to theDuke, it was resolved in the Coun- 
 cil of Ten, that he should be allowed to dispose of two 
 tliousand ducats out of his own property. And it was 
 resolved, that all the councillors and all the Avvogadori 
 of the commonwealth, those of the Council of Ten, and 
 the members of thejunta who had assisted in passing sen- 
 tence on the Duke and the otiier traitors, siiould have the 
 privilege of carrying arms both by day and by night in 
 Venice, and from Grado to Cavazcre. And tiiey were also 
 to be allowed two footmen carrying arms , the aforesaid 
 footmen living and boarding with them in their own hou- 
 ses. And he who did not keep two footmen might transfer 
 the privilege to his sons or his brothers; but only to two. 
 Permission of carrying arms was also granted to the four 
 Notaries of the Chancery, that is to say, of the Supreme 
 Court, who took the depositions; and they were Amedio, 
 Nicoletto diLorino, Stefianello, and Pietro de Compo- 
 stelli, the secretaries of the Signori di Notte. 
 
764 
 
 APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 After the traitors had been hanged, and tlie Duke had 
 had his head cut off, the state remained in great tranquil- 
 lity and peace. And, as I have read in a chronicle, the 
 corpse of the Duke was removed in a barge, with eight 
 torches, to his tomb in the church of San Giovanni e 
 Paolo, where it was buried. The tomb is now in that aisle 
 in the middle of the little church of Santa Maria della 
 Pace, which was built by Bishop Gabriel of Bergamo. It 
 is a coffin of stone, with these words engraved thereon: 
 "Heic jacet Dominus Marinus Faletro Dux." — And they 
 did not paint his portrait in the hall of the Great Coun- 
 cil: — But in the place where it ought to have been, you 
 see these words: — ^^Hic est locus Marini Faletro deca- 
 pitati pro criminibus " — and it is thought that his house 
 was granted to the church of Sant' Apostolo; it was that 
 great one near the bridge. Yet this could not be the case, 
 or else the family bought it back from the church j for it 
 still belongs to Ca Faliero. I must not refrain from noting, 
 that somewished to write the following words intheplace 
 where his portrait ought to have been, as aforesaid; — 
 "Marinus Faletro Dux, temeritas me cepit, pcenas lui, 
 decapitatus pro criminibus." — Others, also, indited a 
 couplet, Avorthy of being inscribed upon his tomb : 
 '^Dux Venetum jacet heic, patriam qui prodere tentans, 
 "Sceptra, decus, censum, perdidit, atque caput." 
 
 II. 
 
 Extrait de VHistoire de la Republiqtie de Venise, par 
 Daru, torn. v. livre xxxv. 
 
 "A ces attaques si frequentes que le gouvernement 
 dirigeait contre le clerge, a ces luttes etablies entre les 
 diff'erens corps constitues , h. ces entreprises de la masse 
 de la noblesse contre les depositaires du pouvoir, ktoutes 
 ces propositions d'innovationque seterminaienttoujours 
 par des coups d'etat; il faut ajouter une autre cause non 
 moins propre a propager le mepris des anciennes doc- 
 trines, c'etait Uexces de la corruption. 
 
 "Cette liberte des moeurs , qu'on avait long-temps 
 vantee commelecharme principal de la societede Venise, 
 ^tait devenue un desordre scandaleux; lelien du mariage 
 etah moins sacre dans ce pays catholique que dans ceux 
 oules loiscivilesetreligieusespermettent de ledissoudre. 
 Faute de pouvoir rompre le contrat, on supposait qu'il 
 n'avait jamais existe, et les moyens de nullite, allcgues 
 avec impudeur paries epoux,etaient admis avec la meme 
 facilite par des magistrats et par des pretres egalement 
 corrompus. Ces divorces colores d'un autre nom devin- 
 rent si frequens, que I'acte le plus important de la societe 
 civile se trouva de la competence d'un tribunal d'ex- 
 ception, et que ce fut k la police de reprimer le scandale. 
 Le conseil dedixordonna, en 1782, que tou|||femme, qui 
 intenterait une demande en dissolution de mariage, serait 
 obligee d'en attendre le jugement dans un convent que 
 le tribunal dcsignerait. Bientot apres il cvoqua devant 
 lui toutes les causes de cette nature. Cet empietement 
 sur la jurisdiction ecclesiastique ayant occasionne des 
 reclamations de la part de la cour de Rome, le conseil se 
 reserva le droit de debouter les epoux de leur demande; 
 et consentit k la rcnvoyer devant I'officialite, toutes les 
 fois qu'il ne I'aurait pas rejetee. 
 
 "II y eut un moment, ou sans doute le renverscment 
 des fortunes, la perte des jeunes gens, les discordes do- 
 mestiques,determinerent le gouvernement k s'ecarter des 
 maximes qu'il s'etait faites sur la liberte des moeurs qu'il 
 permettait h ses sujets: on chassa de Venise toutes les 
 courtisanes. Mais leur absence ne suffisait pas pour 
 ramener aux bonnes moeurs toute une population elevee 
 dans la plus honteuse licence. Le desordre penetra dans 
 I'interieur des families, dans les cloitres; et Ton se crut 
 oblige de rappeler, d'indemniser*) meme des femmes, 
 
 *) Lc decret de rappel les designait sous le nom 
 de nostre henemerite meretrici. On leur assigna un 
 fonds et des maisons appelees, Caserampane, d'ou 
 vient la denomination injurieuse de Carampane, 
 
 qui surprenaient quelquefois d'importans secrets , ct 
 qu'on pouvait employer utilement k miner des hommes 
 que leur fortune aurait pu rendre dangereux. Depuis, 
 la licence est toujours allee croissant, et I'on a vu non- 
 seulement des meres trafiquer de la virginite de leurs 
 filles, mais la vendre par un contrat, dont I'authenticit^ 
 etait garantie par la signature d'un officierpublic, et Texe- 
 cution mise sous la protection des lois. 
 
 "Les parloirs des convents ou etaient renfermees les fil- 
 les nobles, les maisons des courtisanes, quoique la police 
 y entretint soigneusemcnt un grand nombre de sur veillans, 
 etaient les seuls points de reunion de la societe de Venise, 
 et dans ces deux endroits si divers on etait egalement li- 
 bre. La musique, les collations, la galanterie, n'etaient 
 pas plus interdites dans les parloirs que dans les casins. 
 II y avait un grand nombre de casins destines aux reu- 
 nions publiques, oil lejeu etait la principale occupation 
 de la societe. C'etait un singulier spectacle de voirautour 
 d'une table des personnes de deux sexes en masque, et 
 des graves personnages en robe de magistrature, implo- 
 raut le hasard, passant des angoisses du desespoir aux il- 
 lusions de I'esperance, et cela sans profcrer une parole. 
 
 "Les riches avaient des casins par ticuliers; maisilsy 
 vivaient avecmystere; leurs femmes dclaissees trouvaient 
 un dedommagement dans la liberte dont elles jouissaient 
 La corruption des moeurs les avait privees de tout leur 
 empire; on vient de parcourir toute I'histoire de Venise, 
 et on ne les a pas vues une seule fois exercer la moindre 
 influence." 
 
 IIL 
 
 From the present decay and degeneracy of Venice un- 
 der the Barbarians, there are some honourableindividual 
 exceptions. There isPasqualigo, the last, and, alas I^jo^^- 
 humous sonof the marriage of the Doges with the Adriatic, 
 who fought his frigate with far greater gallantry than any 
 of his French coadjutors in the memorable action ofl' Lis- 
 sa. I came home in the squadron with the prizes in 1811, 
 and recollect to have heard Sir William Hoste, and the 
 other officers engaged in that glorious conflict, speak in 
 the highest terms of Pasqualigo's beiiaviour. There is the 
 Abbate Morelli. There is Alvise Querini, who after a 
 long and honourable diplomatic career, finds some con- 
 solation for the wrongs of his country, in the pursuits of 
 literature with his nephew , Vittor Benzon, the son of the 
 celebrated beauty, the heroine of "La Biondina in Gondo- 
 letta." There are the patrician poet Morosini, and the 
 poet Lamberti, the author of the "Biondina" and many 
 other estimable productions; and, not least in an English- 
 man's estimation, Madame Michelli, the translator of 
 Shakspeare. There are the young Dandolo, and the im- 
 provisatore Carrer, and Giuseppe Albrizzi, the accom- 
 plished son of an accomplished mother. There isAgliettJ, 
 and, were there nothing else, there is the immortality of 
 Canova. Cicognara, Mustoxidi, Bucati, I donotreckon, 
 because the one is a Greek, and the others were born at 
 least a hundred miles oft", which, throughout Italy, consti- 
 tutes, \i noi a foreigner, at least a stranger (forestiere). 
 
 IV. 
 
 Extrait de VHistoire Littiraire d'ltalie, par Gingueni, 
 torn. IX, chap, xxxvi. 
 
 "II y a une prediction fort singuliere sur Venise : "Si 
 tu ne changes pas," dit-il k cette rcpublique alti6re, "ta 
 Jiberte, qui deji\ s'enfuit, ne comptera pas un si^cle apr^s 
 la milli^me annee." 
 
 "En faisant remontcr I'epoque de la liberte Venitienne 
 jusqu'k I'etablissement du gouvernement sous lequel la 
 republique a fleuri,on trouvera que I'election du premier 
 Doge date de 697, et si Ton y ajoute un siecle apres mille, 
 c'est k dire onze cents ans, on trouvera encore que lesens 
 de la prediction est litteralement celui-ci : "Ta liberte ne 
 comptera pas jusqu'i I'an 1797." Rappelez-vous mainte- 
 nant que Venise a cesse d'etre libre en I'an cinq de la re- 
 
APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 765 
 
 publiqueFrancaise, ou en 1796; vous verrez qu'iln'y eut 
 jamais de prediction plus precise et plus ponctuellement 
 suivie de rettet. Vous noterez done comme tres-remar- 
 quables ces trois vers de I'Alamanni , adresses k Venise, 
 que personne pourtant n'a remarques : 
 
 Se non cangipensier, I'un secol solo 
 Non conterd, sopra 'I millesimo anno 
 Tua liherth, che vafugc/endo a volo. 
 Bien des propbeties ont passe pour telles,et bien desgens 
 oiit ete appeles prophetes k meilleur marche." 
 
 The author of "Sketches Descriptive of Italy," one of 
 the hundred tours lately published, is extremely anxious 
 to disclaim a possible charge of plagiarism from "Childe 
 Harold" and "Beppo." He adds, that still less could this 
 presumed coincidence arise from "my conversation," as 
 he had repeatedly declined an introduction to me while in 
 Italy. 
 
 Who this person may be I know not; but he must have 
 been deceived by all or any of those who "repeatedly of- 
 fered to introduce" him , as I have invariably refused to 
 receive any English with whom I was not previously ac- 
 quainted, even when they had letters from England. If the 
 whole assertion is not an invention, I request this person 
 not to sit down with the notion that he could have been 
 introduced, since there has been notiiing 1 have so care- 
 fully avoided as any kind of intercourse with his country- 
 men, — excepting the very few who were a considerable 
 time resident in Venice, or had been of my previous ac- 
 
 quaintance. Whoever made him any such offer was pos- 
 sessed of impudence equal to that of making such an as- 
 sertion without having had it. The fact is , that I iiold in 
 utter abhorrence any contact with the travelling English, 
 as my friend, theConsul-General Hoppner, and the Count- 
 ess Benzoni (in whose house the Conversazione mostly 
 frequented by them is held) could amply testify, were it 
 worth while. I was persecuted by tliese tourists even to my 
 riding ground at Lido, and reduced to the most disagree- 
 able circuits to avoid them. At Madame Benzoni's I re- 
 peatedly refused to be introduced tothem; — of atiiousand 
 such presentations pressed upon me, I accepted two, and 
 both were to Irish women. 
 
 I should hardly have descended to speak of such trifles 
 publicly, if the impudence of this "sketcher" had not 
 forced me to a refutation of a disingenuous and gratuitously 
 impertinent assertion ;— so meant to be, for what could it 
 import to the reader to be told that the author "had re- 
 peatedly declined an introduction," even had it been true, 
 which for the reasons I have above given, is scarcely pos- 
 sible. Except Lords Landsdown, Jersey and Lauderdale; 
 Messrs. Scott, Hammond, Sir Humphry Davy, the late 
 M.Lewis, W. Bankes, Mr. Hoppner, Thomas Moore, 
 Lord Kinnaird, his brother, Mr. Joy, and Mr. Hobliouse, 
 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 vi- 
 sits, I refused to have any communication with, and shall 
 be proud and happy when that wish becomes mutual. 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Extrait de VHistoire de la Republique de Venise, 
 parDaru. 
 
 Depuis trente ans, la republique n'avait pas depose les 
 armes. EUe avait acquis les provinces de Brescia, de Ber- 
 game, de Creme, et la principautc de Ravenne. 
 
 Mais ces guerres continuelles faisaient beaucoup de 
 malheureux et de mccontents. Le doge Frangois Fos- 
 cari, k qui on ne pouvait pardonner d'en avoir etc le pro- 
 moteur, manifesta une secondefois, en 1442, et probable- 
 ment avcc plus de sincerite que la premiere, I'intention 
 d'abdiquer sa dignite. Le conseil s'y refusa encore. On 
 avait exigc de lui le serment de ne plus quitter le dogat. 
 II etait dejk avance dans la vieillesse, conscrvant cepen- 
 dant beaucoup de force deteteetdecaract6re,etjouissant 
 de la gloire d'avoir vu la republique etendre au loin les 
 limites de ses domaines pendant son administration. 
 
 Au milieu de ces prosperites, de grands chagrins vin- 
 rent mettre a I'epreuve la fermete de son Time. 
 
 Son fils, Jacques Foscari, fut accuse, en 1445, d'avoir 
 re9U des presents de quelques princes ou seigneurs etran- 
 gers, notamraent, disait-on, du due de Milan, Philippe 
 Visconti.C'etaitnon-seulement un bassesse, mais une in- 
 fraction des lois positives de la republique. 
 
 Le conseil des dix traita cette affaire comme s'il se fut 
 agi d'un delitcommis parunparticulier obscur. L'accuse 
 
 fut amene devant ses juges, devant le doge, qui ne crut 
 pas pouvoir s'abstenir de presider Ic tribunal. Lc\, il fut 
 interroge, applique k la question, declare coupable, et il 
 entendit, de la bouche de son pere, I'arret qui le condam- 
 nait^un bannissement perpetuel, et le releguait a Na- 
 ples de Romanic, pour y finir ses jours. 
 
 Embarque sur une galere pour se rendre au lieu de son 
 exil, il tomba maladei Trieste. Les sollicitations du doge 
 oblinrent, non sans difficulte, qu'on lui assignatune autre 
 residence. Enfin le conseil des dix lui permit de se rctirer 
 iTrevise, en lui imposant I'obligation d'y rester sous 
 peine de mort, et de se presenter tons les jours devant Ic 
 gouverneur. 
 
 II y etait depuis cinq ans, lorqu'un des chefs du conseil 
 des dix fut assassine. Les soupcons se porterent sur lui: 
 un de ses domestiques qu'on avait vu k Venise fut arrete 
 et subit la torture. Les bourreaux ne purent lui arracher 
 aucun aveu. Ce terrible tribunal se fit amener le maitre, 
 le soumit aux memes epreuves; il resista a tons les tour- 
 ments, ne cessant d'attester son innocence ; mais on ne 
 vit dans cette constance que de I'obstination: de ce qu'il 
 taisait le fait, on conclut que ce fait existait: on attribua 
 sa fermete k la magie, et on le relegua a laCanee. De cette 
 terrc lointaine, Ic banni, digne alors de quelque pitic, ne 
 cessait d'ecrire k son pcre, k SiiS amis, pour obtenir quel- 
 
766 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 que adoucissement a sa deportation. N'obtenant rien, et 
 sachant que la terreur qu'inspirait le conseil des dix ne 
 lui permettait pas d'csperer de trouvcr dans Venise une 
 seule voix qui s'elevfit en sa favour, ii fit une lettre pour 
 le nouveau due de Milan, par laquelle, au nom des bons 
 offices que Sforce avait reeus du chef de la republique, il 
 iniplorait son intervention en faveur d'un innocent, du 
 tils du doge. 
 
 Cette lettre, selon quelques historiens , fut conflee a un 
 inarehand qui avait promis de la faire parvenir au due, 
 niais qui, trop averti de ce qu'il avaitacraindreense ren- 
 dant I'interniediaire d'une pareille correspoudance, se 
 lifita, en debarquant a Venise, de la remettre au chef du 
 tribunal. Une autre version, qui parait plus siire,rapporte 
 que la lettre fut surprise par un espion, attache aux pas 
 de I'exile. 
 
 Ce fut un nouveau delit dont on eut k punir Jacques Fos- 
 cari. Rcclamer la protection d'un prince etranger etait 
 un crime, dans un sujet de la republique. Une galore par- 
 tit sur-le-cliamp pour I'amener dans les prisons de Venise. 
 A son arrivee il futsoumis h I'estrapade. C'etait une sin- 
 guliere destinee pour le citoyen d'une republique et pour 
 le tils d'un prince, d'etre trois fois dans sa vie applique h 
 la question. Cette fois la tortureetaitd'autant plus odieuse, 
 qu'elle n'avait point d'objet, le fait qu'on avait a lui re- 
 procher elant incontestable. 
 
 Quand on demanda ;\ Taceusc, dans les intervalles que 
 les bourreaux lui accordaient, pourquoi il avait ccrit la 
 lettre ({u'on lui produisait, il rcpondit que c'etait precise- 
 meut parcequ'il ne doulait pas qu'elle ne tombat entre les 
 mains du tribunal, que toute autre voie lui avait etc fer- 
 mee pour faire parvenir ses reclamations, qu'il s'attendait 
 bien qu'on le fcrait anienera Venise, mais qu'il avait tout 
 riscjuc pour avoir la consolation de voir sa femme, son 
 pere, et sa mere encore une fois. 
 
 Sur cette naive declaration , on confirma sa sentence 
 d'exil; mais on raggrava,en yajoutant qu'il serait re- 
 tenu en prison pendant un an. Cette rigueur, dont on usait 
 envers un mallieureux, etait sans doute odieuse; mais 
 cette politique, qui defendait k tons les citoyens de faire 
 intervenir les etrangers dans les afl'aires interieures de la 
 republique, etait sage. Elle etait chez eux une maxime 
 de gouverncment et une maxime inflexible. L'historien 
 Paul Alorosini a conte que I'empereur Frederic III., pen- 
 dant qu'il etait I'hote des Vcniticns, demanda comme 
 une faveur particuliere , I'admissioH d'un citoyen dans 
 le grand conseil, et la grace d'un ancien gouverneur de 
 Candie, gendre du doge, et banni pour sa mauvaise ad- 
 ministration, sans pouvoir obtenir ni I'une ni I'autre. 
 
 Cependanton neput refuser au condamne lapermission 
 de voir sa femme, st^s enfans, ses parents, qu'il allait 
 quitter pour toujours. Cette derniere entrevue meme fut 
 accompagiiee de cruaute, par la sev6re circonspection, 
 (jui retenait les cpanchemens de la douleur paternelle et 
 conjugale. Ce ne fut point dans I'interieur de Icur ap- 
 partement, ce fut dans une des grandes salles du palais, 
 qu'une femme, accompagnee de ses quatre tils, vint faire 
 les derniers adieux ^ sonmari, qu'un pere octogcnaire, 
 et la dogaresse accablee d'infirmites, jouirent un moment 
 de la triste consolation de meler leurs larmes k celles de 
 leur fds exile. II se jeta a leurs genoux en leur tendant 
 des mains disloquces par la torture pour les supplier de 
 soUiciter quelque adoucissement a la sentence qui venait 
 d'etre prononcee contre lui. Son p^re eut le courage de 
 lui rcpondre: "Non, mon fils, respectez votre arret, et 
 obeissez sans murmure a la seigneurie." A ces mots il 
 se separa de I'infortune, qui fut sur-le-champ embarque 
 pour Candie. 
 
 L'antiquite vit avecautant d'horreur qued'admiration 
 un pere condaninant ses fils evidemment coupables. Elle 
 licsita pour qualiiier de vertu sublime ou de ferocite cet 
 eiVort qui parait au-dessus de la nature Immaine ;*) mais 
 
 *) Ccia fut un acte que Ton ne scauroit ny suffis- 
 samentlouer, ny assez blasmer: car, ou c'estoit une 
 
 ici, ou la premiere faute n'etait qu'une faiblesse, ou la 
 seconde n'etait pas prouvee, ou la troisieme n'avait rien 
 de criminel, comment concevoir la Constance d'un pere, 
 quivoit torturer trois fois son fils unique, qui I'entend 
 condamner sans preuves et qui n'eclate pas en plaintes, 
 qui ne I'aborde que pour lui montrer un visage plus 
 austere qu'attendri, et q>ii , au moment de s'en separer 
 pour jamais, lui interdit les murmures et jusqu'a I'es- 
 perance ? Comment expliquer une si cruel le circon- 
 spection, si ce n'est en avouant, k notre honte, que la 
 tyrannic pent obtenir de I'especc humaine les memes 
 elforts que la vertu? La servitude aurait-elle son heroisme 
 comme la liberte? 
 
 Quelque temps apres eejugement, on decouvritle veri- 
 table auteur de I'assassinat, dont Jacques Foscari portait 
 la peine ; mais il n'etait plus temps de reparer cette 
 atroce injustice, le malheureux etait mort dans sa prison. 
 
 II me reste k raconter la suite des malheurs du pere. 
 L'histoirelesattribue M'impatience qu'avaient ses enne- 
 mis et ses rivaux de voir vaquersa place. Elle accuse for- 
 mellement Jacques Loredan,I'un des chefs du conseil des 
 dix, de s'etre livre contre ce vieillard aux conseils d'une 
 haine hereditaire, et qui depuis long-temps divisait leurs 
 maisons. 
 
 Francois Foscari avait essaye de la faire cesser, en of- 
 frantsafille k I'illustre amiral Pierre Loredan, pour un 
 do ses fils. L'alliance avait ete rejetee, et I'inimitie des 
 deux families s'en etait accrue. Dans tons les conseils, 
 dans toutes les afl'aires, le doge trouvait toujours les 
 Loredans prets a combattre ses propositions ou ses inte- 
 rets. 11 lui echappa un jour de dire qu'il ne se croirait 
 rcellement prince, que lorsque Pierre Loredan aurait 
 cesse de vivre. Cet amiral mourut quelque temps apres 
 d'une incommodite assez prompte qu'on ne put expli- 
 quer. II n'en fallut pas davantage aux malveillants pour 
 insinuer que Fran9ois Foscari, ayant desire cette mort, 
 pouvait bien I'avoir liatce. 
 
 Ces bruits s'accrediterent encore lorsqu'on vit aussi 
 perir subitemcnt Marc Loredan, frere de Pierre, et cela 
 dans le moment ou, en sa qualite d'avvogador, il instrui- 
 sait un proces contre Andre Donato, gendre du doge, ac- 
 cuse de peculat. On ecrivit sur la tombe de I'amiral qu'il 
 avait ete enleve a la patrie par le poison. 
 
 II n'y avait aucunepreuve,aucunindicecontreFran9ois 
 Foscari, aucune raison meme de le soupconner. Quand 
 sa vie entiere n'aurait pas dementi une imputation aussi 
 odieuse, il savait que son rang ne lui promettait ni I'im- 
 punite ni meme I'indulgence. La mort tragique de I'un 
 de ses predecesseurs Ten avertissait, et il n'avait que 
 trop d'exemples domestiques du soin que le conseil des 
 dix prenait d'humilier le ciief de la republique. 
 
 Cependant, Jacques Loredan, fils de Pierre, croyait 
 ou feignait de croire avoir k venger les pertes de sa 
 famille. Dans ses livres de comptes (car il faisait le com- 
 merce, comme acetteepoque presquetous lespatriciens), 
 il avait inscrit de sa propre main le doge au nombre de 
 ses debiteurs, "pour la mort" y etait-il dit "de mon 
 pere et de mon oncle." De I'autre cote du registre, il 
 avait laisse une page en blanc, pour y faire mention du 
 recouvrement de cette dette, et en eft'et, apr6s la perte du 
 doge, il ecrivit sur son registre; il me I'a payee, I'ha 
 pagata. 
 
 excellence de vertu, qui rendoit ainsi son coeur im- 
 passible, ou une violence de passion qui le rendoit in- 
 sensible, dont ne Tune ne I'autre n'est chose petite, 
 ains surpassantl'ordinaired'humaine nature et tenant 
 ou de la divinite ou de la bestialitc. Mais il est plus 
 raisonablc que le jugement des hommes s'accorde a 
 saglorie, que la faiblesse des jugeans fasse dcscroire 
 sa vertu. Mais pour lors quand il se fut retirc,tout le 
 monde demoura sur la place, comme transy d'horreur 
 et de frayeur, par un long temps sans mot dire, pour 
 avoir veu ce qui avoit etc fait. (Plutarque, Valerius 
 Publicola.) 
 
APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 767 
 
 Jacques Loredan fut elu membre du conseil des dix, 
 cii devint uii des trois cliefs, et se promit bien de profiler 
 de cette occasion pour accomplir la vengeance qu'il 
 meditait. 
 
 Le doge en sortant de la terrible dpreuve qu'il venait 
 de subir, pendant le proces de son fils , s'etait retire au 
 fond de son palais; incapable de se livrer aux aflaircs, 
 consume de chagrins, accable de vieillesse, il ne se mon- 
 ttait plus en public, ni meme dans les conseils. Cette 
 retraile, si facile a expliquer dans uu vieillard octogenaire 
 si maibeureux,deplut aux decemvirs, qui voulurenty voir 
 un murmure centre leurs arrets. 
 
 Loredan commeni;a par se plaindre devant ses col- 
 legues du tort que les infirmites du doge, son absence des 
 conseils, apportaient a I'expedition des aflaires; il finit 
 par hasarder et reussit k faire agreer la proposition de le 
 deposer. Ce n'etait pas la premiere fois que Venise avait 
 pour prince un hommc dans la caducite ; I'usage et les 
 lois y avaieut pourvu; dans ces circonstauces le doge 
 etait supplee par le plus aneien du conseil. Ici, cela ne 
 sulUsait pas auxennemis de Foscari. Pour donner plus 
 de solennite k la deliberation, le conseil des dix demanda 
 une adjouctionde vingt-cinq senateurs; mais comme on 
 n'en euon<;ait pas I'objet, et que le grand conseil etait 
 loin de le soupoonner, il se trouva que Marc Foscari, 
 frere du doge, leur fut donne pour I'un des adjoints. Au 
 lieu de I'admettre a la deliberation, ou de reclamer contre 
 cecljoix, on enferma ce senateur dans une cliambre se- 
 paree, et on lui lit jurer de ne jamais parlcr de cette ex- 
 clusion qu'il eprouvait, en lui declarant qu'il y allait de 
 sa vie; ce qui n'empeeha pas qu'on n'inscrivit son nom 
 au bas du decret, comme s'il y eiit pris part. 
 
 Quand on en viut k la deliberation, Loredan la provo- 
 qua en ces termes. "Si I'utilite publique doit imposer 
 silence k tous les interets prives, je ne doute pas que 
 nous ne prenions aujourd'liui une mesure que la patrie 
 reclame, que nous lui devons. Les etats ne peuvent se 
 ! maintcnir dans un ordre de clioses immuable : vous 
 n'avez qu'^ voir comme le uotre est change, et combien 
 1 il leseraitdavantages'il n'y avait une autorite assez ferme 
 .pour y porter remede. J'ai honte de vous faire remarquer 
 la confusion qui regne dans les conseils, le desordre des 
 .deliberations, I'encombrement des all'aires, et la legerete 
 iavec laquelle les plus importautes sont decidees, la li- 
 cence de notre jeunesse, le peu d'assiduite des magistrals, 
 I'introduction de nouveautes dangereuses. Quel est relict 
 ideces desordres? de compromettre notre consideration. 
 (Quelle en est la cause? I'absence d'un chef capable de 
 isnoderer les uns, de diriger les autres, de donner I'exemple 
 i& tous, et de maintcnir la force des lois. Oii est le temps 
 ou nos decrets etaient aussitot ex<^cutes que rendus? Ou 
 Francois Carrare se trouvait investi dans Padoue, avant 
 ' de pouvoir etre seulement informe que nous voulions lui 
 I faire la guerre ? Nous avons vu tout le contraire dans la 
 (lerni6re guerre contre le due de Milan. Malheureuse la 
 rijpubliquequi est sans chef! Je ne vous rappelle pas tous 
 CCS inconvenients et leurs suites deplorables, pour vous 
 atlliger, pour vous elfrayer, mais pour vous faire souvenir 
 (jiie vous etes les maitres, les conservateurs de cet etat 
 toiide par vos peres, et de la liberte que nous devons k 
 leurs travaux, a leurs institutions, Ici, le mal indique le 
 remede. Nous n'avons point de chef, il nous en faut un. 
 Notre prince est notre ouvrage, nous avOns done le droit 
 lii'juger son merite quand il s'agit de I'elire, et son in- 
 •upacite quand ellc se manifeste. J'ajouterai que le 
 pciiple, encore bien qu'il n'ait pas le droit de prononcer 
 sur les actions de ses maitres, apprendra ce changement 
 ivee transport. C'est la providence, je n'en doute pas, 
 jui lui inspire eUe-raeme ces dispositions, pour vous 
 u crtir que la republique reclame cette resolution, et que 
 sort de I'etat est en vos mains." 
 
 Ce discours n'c'-prouva que de timides contradictions; 
 cpL-ndant, la deliberation dura huit jours. L'assemblc-e, 
 Il se jugeant pas aussi sure de I'approbation univcrseile 
 lue I'oratcur voulait le lui faire croire, desirait que le 
 
 doge donnftt lui-meme sa demission. II I'avait deja pro- 
 posee deux fois, et on n'avait pas voulu I'aecepter. Au- 
 cune loi ne portait que le prince ftit revocable : il etait 
 au contraire k vie, et les exemples qu'on pouvait citer 
 de plusieurs doges deposes, prouvaient que de tclles re- 
 volutions avaient toujours ete le resultat d'un mouve- 
 ment populaire. Mais d'ailleurs, si le doge pouvait etre 
 depose, ce n'etait pas assurement par un tribunal com- 
 pose d'un petit nombre de membres, institute; pour punir 
 les crimes, et nullement investi du droit de revoquer ce 
 que le corps souverain de I'etat avait fait. 
 
 Cependant le tribunal arreta que les six conseillers de 
 la seigneurie et les chefs du conseil des dix se transpor- 
 teraient aupres du doge, pour lui signitier que I'excellen- 
 tissime conseil avait juge convenable qu'il abdiquat une 
 dignite dont son age ne lui permettait plus de remplir ics 
 fonctions. On lui donnait 1500 ducats d'or pour son 
 entretien, et vingt-quatre heures pour se decider. 
 
 Foscari repondit sur-le-champ avec beaucoup de gra- 
 vitti, que deux fois il avait voulu se demettre de sa charge ; 
 qu'au lieu de le lui permettre, on avait exigci de lui le ser- 
 ment de ne plus reiterer cette demande; que la provi- 
 dence avait prolonge ses jours pour I'eprouver et pour 
 I'adliger; que cependant on n'etait pas en droit de re- 
 procher sa longue vie a un homme qui avait employe 
 quatre- vingt-quatre ans au service de la republique; 
 qu'il etait prdt encore k lui sacrifier sa vie; mais que, 
 pour sa dignite, il la tenait de la republique enti^re, et 
 qu'il se reservait de repondre sur ce sujet, quand la 
 volonte gcnerale se serait legalement manifestee. 
 
 Le lendemain, k I'heure indiqucie, les conseillers et les 
 chefs des dixse presenterent. 11 ne voulut pas leur donner 
 d'autre reponse. Le conseil s'assembla sur-lc-champ, lui 
 envoya demander encore une fois sa resolution, sciance 
 tenante, et, la reponse ayantete la meme, on pronon9a que 
 le doge c'tait relev^ de son serment et depose de sa dignite ; 
 on lui assignait une pension de 1500 ducats d'or, en lui 
 enjoignant de sortir du palais dans huit jours, sous peine 
 de voir tous ses biens confisques. 
 
 Le lendemain, ce decret fut portc au doge, et ce fut 
 Jacques Loredail qui cut la cruelle joie de le lui presenter. 
 II repondit: "Si j'avais pu prevoirque ma vieillesse fiit 
 prejudiciable a I'etat, le chef de la republique nese serait 
 pas montre assez ingrat, pour prefcrer sa dignite a la 
 patrie; mais cette vie lui ayant ete utile pendant tant' 
 d'annees, je voulais lui en consacrer jusqu'au dernier 
 moment. Le decret est rendu , je ni'y conformerai." 
 Apr^s avoir parle ainsi, il se depouilla des marques de sa 
 dignite, remit I'anneau ducal qui fut briseen sa presence, 
 et des le jour suivant il quitta ce palais, qu'il avait babite 
 pendant trente-cinq ans, accompague de son frc^re, de ses 
 parents, et de ses amis, Un secretaire, qui se trouva sur 
 le perron, I'invita a descendre par un escalier dcJrobe, 
 afin d'eviter la foule dupeuple, qui s'etait rassemblc; dans 
 lescours; mais il s'y refusa,disant qu'il voulait descendre 
 par oii il etait monte; et quand il fut au bas de I'escalier 
 des geants, il se retourua, appuye sur sa bequille, vers le 
 palais , en proferant ces paroles : " Mes services m'y 
 avaient appelc, la malice de mes enaemis m'en fait sortir." 
 
 La foule qui s'ouvrait sur son passage, et qui avait 
 peutetre desire sa mort, etait emue de respect et d'atten- 
 drissement. Keutre dans sa maison, il recommanda a sa 
 famille d'oublier les injures de ses ennemis. Pcrsonne 
 dans les divers corps de I'etat Jie se crut en droit de 
 s'etonner, qu'un prince inamovible cut ete depose sans 
 qu'on lui reprochat rien ; que I'etat eiit perdu son chef, k 
 I'insu du senat et du corps souverain lui - meme. Le 
 peupleseul laissa eehapper quelques regrets: une pro- 
 clamation du conseil des dix preserivit le silence le plus 
 absolu sur cette ali'aire, sous peine de mort. 
 
 Avant de donner un successeur a Francois Foscari, une 
 nouvelle loi fut rendue, qui dc'fendait au doge d'ouvrir et 
 de lire, autrement qu'en presence de ses conseillers, les 
 dcpeches des ambassadeurs de la republique, et leslettres 
 des princes etrangers. 
 
768 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Les electeurs entrerent au conclave, et nommerent au 
 dog-at Pasclial Malipieri, le 30. octobre 1457. La cloche 
 de Saint -Marc, qui annon9ait k Venise son nouveau 
 prince, vint frapper I'oreille de Francois Foscari; cette 
 fois sa fermete I'abandonna , il eprouva un tel saisis- 
 sement, qu'il mourut le lendemain. 
 
 Larepublique arretaqu'on lui rendraitlesmemeshon- 
 neurs fun^bres que s'il fiit mort dans I'exercise de sa dig- 
 nite; mais lorsqu'on se presenta pour enlever ses restes, 
 sa veuve, qui de son nom etait Marine Naui, declara 
 qu'elle ne le souflrirait point; qu'on ne devait pas traiter 
 en prince apres sa mort celui quevivantonavaitdepouille 
 de la couronne, et que, puisqu'il avait consume ses biens 
 au service de retat,elle sauraitconsacrer sadot k lui faire 
 rendre les derniers honneurs. On ne tint aucun compte 
 de cette resistance, et malgre les protestations del'an- 
 cienne dogaresse,le corps fiitenleve, revetu des ornements 
 ducaux, expose en public, et les obs6quesfurentcel^br<^es 
 avec la pompe accoutumee. Le nouveau doge assista au 
 convoi en robe de senateur. 
 
 La pitie qu'avait inspirde le mallieur de ce vieillard ne 
 fut pas tout-a-fait sterile. Un an apr^s, on osa dire que 
 le conseil des dix avait outrepasse ses pouvoirs, et il lui 
 fut defendu par une loi du grand conseil de s'ingerer k 
 I'averir de juger le prince, ^moins que ce ne fiit pour 
 cause de felonie. 
 
 Un acte d'autorite tel que la deposition d'un doge in- 
 amoviblc de sa nature, aurait pu exciter un soul^vement 
 general, ou au moins occasioner une division dans une 
 republique autrement constituee que Yeuise. Mais de- 
 puis trois ans, il existait dans celle-ci une magistrature, 
 ou plutot une autorite, devant laquelle tout devait se 
 taire. 
 
 Extrait de VHistoire des R^publiques Italiennes du moyen 
 age, par Sismondi. 
 
 Le doge de Venise, qui avait prevenu par ce traite une 
 guerre nou moins dangereuse que celle qui avait terminee 
 presque en meme temps par le traite de Lodi, etait alors 
 parvenu a une extreme vieillesse. Fran<;ois Foscari oc- 
 cupait cette premiere dignitc de I'etat des le 15. avril 
 1423. Quoiqu'il fut dej.\ age de plusde cinquante-un ans 
 k I'epoque de son election, il etaitcependant le plus jeune 
 des quarante-un electeurs. 11 avait eu beaucoup de peine 
 k parvenir au rang qu'il convoitait, et son election avait 
 ete conduite avec beaucoup d'adresse. Pendant plusieurs 
 tours de scrutiu ses amis les plus zeles s'etaient abstenus 
 de lui donner leur suflrage, pour que les autres ne le con- 
 siderassent pas commeun concurrent redoutable. Le con- 
 seil des dix craignait son credit parmi la noblesse pauvre, 
 parcequ'il avait cherche k se la rendre favorable, tandis 
 qu'il etait procurateurde Saint-Marc, en faisant employer 
 plus de trente mille ducats k doter des jeunes fiUes de 
 bonne maison, ou k etablir de jeunes gentilshommcs. On 
 craignait encore sa nombreuse famille, car alors il etait 
 p^re de quatre enfans, et marie de nouveau ; enfin on re- 
 doutait son ambition et son gout pour la guerre. L'opi- 
 nion que ses adversairess'etaientformeedeluifut verifiee 
 par les evenemens; pendant trente-quatre ans que Fos- 
 cari fut k la tete de la republique, elle ne cessa point de 
 combattre. Si les hostilites etaient suspendues durant 
 quelques mois , s'etait pour recommencer bientot avec 
 plus de vigueur. Ce fut I'epoque ou Venise etendit son 
 empire sur Brescia, Bergame, Kavenne, etCreme: oielle 
 fondasa domination de Lombardie, et parut sans cesse 
 sur le point d'asservirtoute cette province. Profond, cou- 
 rageux, inebranlable, Foscari communiqua aux conseils 
 son propre caract^re, et ses talens lui firent obtenir plus 
 d'influence sur la republique , que n'avaient exerce la 
 plupart de ses predecesseurs. Mais si son ambition avait 
 eu pour but I'agrandissement de sa famille, elle fut cruel- 
 lement trompee: trois de ses fils moururent dans les huit 
 annees qui suivirent son election; le quatrieme, Jacob, 
 par lequel la maison Foscari s'est perpetuee , fut victime 
 
 de la jalousie du conseil des dix , et empoisonna par ses 
 malheurs les jours de son pere. 
 
 En effet, le conseil des dix , redoublant de defiance en- 
 vers le chef de I'etat, lorsqu'il le voyait plus fort par ses 
 talens et sa popularity, veillait sans cesse sur Foscari, pour 
 le punir de son credit et de sa gloire. Au mois de fevrier 
 1445, Michel Bevilacqua, Florentin, exile k Venise, ac- 
 cusa en secret Jacques Foscari aupres des inquisiteurs 
 d'etat, d'avoir re9u du due Philippe Visconti des presens 
 d'argent et de joyaux,par les mains des gens desamaison. 
 Telle etait I'odieuse procedure adoptee k Venise, que sur 
 cette accusation secrete, le fils du doge, du representant 
 de la majeste de la republique, fut mis k la torture. On 
 lui arracha par I'estrapadel'aveu des charges portees cen- 
 tre lui; il fut relegue pour le reste de ses jours k Napoli 
 de Romanic , avec obligation de se presenter chaque ma- 
 tin au commandant de la place. Cependant, le vaisseau, 
 qui le portait ayant touche k Trieste, Jacob , grievement 
 malade des suites de la torture, et plus encore de I'humi- 
 liation qu'il avait eprouvee, demanda en grace au conseil 
 des dix de n'etre pas envoye plus loin. II obtint cette fa- 
 veur, par une deliberation du 28. decembre 1446; ilfut 
 rappele k Trevise, et il eut la liberte d'habiter tout le Tre- 
 visan indifl'eremment. 
 
 II vivait en paix a Trevise, et lafille de Leonard Conta- 
 rini, qu'il avait epousee le 10. fevrier 1441, etait venue le 
 joindre dans son exil, lorsque, le 5. novembre 1450, Al- 
 moro Donato, chef du conseil des dix, fut assassine. 
 
 Les deux autres inquisiteurs d'etat, Triadano Gritti et 
 Antonio Venieri, porterent leurs soupgons sur Jacob Fos- 
 cari, parcequ'un domestique a lui, nomme Olivier, avait 
 ete vu ce soir-1^ meme k Venise, et avait des premiers 
 donne la nouvelle de cet assassinat. Olivier fut mis k la 
 torture, mais il nia jusqu'^lafin,avecun courage inebran- 
 lable, le crime dont on I'accusait, quoique ses juges eus- 
 sent la barbaric de lui faire donner jusqu'k quatre-vingts 
 tours d'estrapade. Cependant, comme Jacob Foscari avait 
 de puissans motifs d'iaimitie contre le conseil des dix qui 
 I'avait condamne, et qui temoignait de la haine au doge 
 sou pere, on essaya de mettre k son tour Jacob a la tor- 
 ture, et Ton prolongea contre lui ces alfreux tourments, 
 sans reussir a en tirer aucune confession. Malgre sa de- 
 negation, le conseil des dix le condamna k etre trans- 
 porte a la Canee, et accorda une recompense a son deia- 
 teur. Mais les horribles douleurs que Jacob Foscari avait 
 eprouvees, avaient trouble saraison; ses perseeuteurs, 
 touches de ce dernier malheur, permirent qu'on le rame- 
 nat !l Venise le 26.mail451. llembrassa son pere,ilpuisa 
 dans ses exhortations quelque courage et quelque calme, 
 et il fut reconduit immediatement k la Canee. Sur ces 
 entrefaites, Nicolas Erizzo, homme dejanote pourun pre- 
 cedent crime, confessa, enmourant, que c'etait lui qui 
 avait tue Almoro Donato. 
 
 Lemalheureux doge, Francois Foscari, avait dejk cher- 
 che, k plusieurs reprises, kabdiquerunedignite sifuneste 
 k lui-meme et ksa famille. 11 lui semblait que,redescendu 
 au rang de simple citoyen, comme il n'inspirerait plus de 
 crainteou de jalousie, on n'accablerait plus son fils par 
 ces eflroyables persecutions. Abattu par la mort de ses 
 premiers enfans, il avait voulu, des le26.juin 1433, de- 
 poser une dignite, durant I'exercice de laquelle sa patrie 
 avait ete tourmentee par la guerre, par la peste, et par des 
 malheurs de tout genre. II renouvela cette proposition 
 apr^s lesjugements rendus contre son fils; mais le con- 
 seil des dix le retenait forcement sur le trone, comme il 
 retenait son fils dans les fers. 
 
 ~En vain Jacob Foscari, oblige de se presenter chaque 
 jour au gouverneur de la Canee, redamait contre I'injus- 
 tice de la derni^re sentence sur laquelle la confession 
 d'Erizzo ne laissait plus de doutes. En vain il demandait 
 grace au farouche conseil de dix; il ne pouvait obtenir 
 aucune reponse. Le desir de revoir son pere et sa mere, 
 arrives tons deux au dernier terme de la vieillesse, le de- 
 sir de revoir une patrie dont la cruaute ne meritait pas un 
 si tendre amour, se changereut en lui en une vraie fureur. 
 
APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 769 
 
 Ne pouvant retourner k Venise pour y vivre librc, il vou- 
 lut tlu moins y aller chercher un supplice. II ecrivit au 
 due de Milan k Ja fin de mai 1456 , pour implorer sa pro- 
 tection auprcs du senat : et sachant qu'une telle lettre se- 
 rait consideree comme un crime, il I'exposa lui-meme 
 dans un lieu ou il etait sur qu'elle serait saisie par les es- 
 pions qui I'entouraient. En eflet, la lettre etantdeferee au 
 conseil des dix, on I'envoya chercher aussitot , et il fut ro- 
 oonduit k Venise le 19. juillet 1456. 
 
 Jacob Foscari ne nia point sa lettre, il raconta en meme 
 temps dans quel but il I'avait ecrite, et comment il I'avait 
 fait tomber entre les mains de son delateur. Malgre ces 
 aveux, Foscari fut remis k la torture, et on lui donna trente 
 tours d'estrapade, pour voir s'il confirmerait ensuite ses 
 depositions. Quand on le detachadela corde, on le trouva 
 dechir6 par ces horribles secousses. Les juges permirent 
 alors k son pere, k sa m^re, k sa femme, et k ses fils, d'al- 
 ler le voir dans sa prison. Le vieux Foscari, appuy^ sur 
 I un baton, ne se traina qu'avec peine dans la chambre ou 
 son fils unique etait pause de se.s blessures. Ce fils deman- 
 dait encore la grace de mourir dans sa maison — "Retourne 
 k ton exil, mon fils , puisque ta patrie I'ordonne, lui dit le 
 doge, et soumets-toi k sa volonte." Alais enrentrantdans 
 son palais,ce malheureux vieillard s'evanouit, epuise par 
 la violence qu'il s'etait faite. Jacob devait encore passer 
 one annee en prison k la Canee, avant qu'on lui rendit la 
 meme liberte limitee a laquelle il etait reduit avant cet 
 ^venement; mais i peine fbt-il debarque sur cetteterre 
 d'exil, qu'il y mourut de douleur. 
 
 D^s-lors, et pendant quinze mois, le vieux doge ac- 
 cable d'annees et de chagrins, ne recouvra plus la force de 
 son corps ou celle de son kme; il n'assistait plus k aucuu 
 des conseils, et il ne pouvait plus remplir aucune des fonc- 
 tions de sa dignite. II etait entre dans sa quatre-vingt- 
 sixi^me annee, et si le conseil des dix avaitete susceptible 
 de quelque pitie, il aurait attendu en silence la fin, sans 
 doute prochaine, d'une carriere marquee par tant de gloire 
 et tant de malheurs. Mais le chef du conseil des dix etait 
 alors Jacques Loredano.fils de Marc, et neveu de Pierre, 
 le grand amiral, quitoute leur vie avaient ete les enne- 
 misacharnes duvieuxdoge. Ilsavaienttransmisleurhaine 
 k ieurs enfants, et cette vieille rancune n'etait pas encore 
 satisfaite. A I'instigation de Loredano , Jerome Barba- 
 rigo, inquisiteur d'etat, proposa au conseil des dix, au 
 mois d'octobre 1457, de soumettre Foscari ^une nouvelle 
 humiliation. Des que ce magistrat ne pouvait plus rem- 
 plir ses fonctions, Barbarigo demanda qu'on nommat un 
 autre doge. Le conseil, qui avait refuse par deux foisl'ab- 
 dication de Foscari , parceque la constitution ne pouvait 
 ila permettre, hesita avant dese mettre en contradiction 
 avec ses propres decrets. Les discussions dans le conseil 
 tet lajunte se prolong^rentpcndanthuit jours, jusque fort 
 liMrant dans lanuit. Cependant, on fit entrer dans I'assem- 
 lilee Marco Foscari, procurateur de Saint-Marc, et frere 
 ifc doge, pour qu'il fut lie parleredoutablesermentdusc- 
 0Kt, et qu'il ne put arreter les menees de ses ennemis. Enfin, 
 |b conseil se rendit auprcs dudoge,etluidemandad'abdi- 
 er volontairement un emploi qu'il ne pouvait plus ex- 
 ;er. "J'ai jure," repondit le vieillard, "de remplir jus- 
 ma mort, selon mon honneur et ma conscience, les 
 tions auxquelles ma patrie m'a appele. Je ne puis me 
 er moi-meme de mon serment; qu'un ordrc des con- 
 s dispose de moi, je m'y soumettrai, mais je ne le de- 
 cerai pas." Alors une nouvelle deliberation du conseil 
 l^lia Francois Foscari de son serment ducal, lui assura 
 ine pension de deux mille ducats pour le reste de sa vie, 
 it lui ordonna d'evacuer en trois jours le palais, et de de- 
 K)ser les ornemens de sa dignite. Le doge ayant remar- 
 lue parmi les conseillers qui lui port^rent cet ordre, un 
 !hef de la quarantie qu'il neconnaissaitpas, demanda son 
 wm: "Je suis le fils de Marco Memmo," lui dit le con- 
 filler. — "Ah! ton pere etait mon ami," lui dit le vieux 
 loge, en soupirant. II donna aussitot des ordres pour 
 ||u'on transportat ses eftets dans une maison k lui; et le 
 cndemain, 23. octobre, on le vit, se soutenant a peine, et 
 
 appuye sur son vieux frere, rcdescendre ces memes es- 
 caliers sur lesquels, trente -quatre ans auparavant, on 
 I'avait vu installe avec tant depompe,et traverser ces me- 
 mes salles ou la republique avait re9U ses sermens. Le 
 peuple entier parut indigne detantdedureteexerceecon- 
 tre un vieillard qu'il respectait et qu'il aimait; mais le 
 conseil des dix fit publier une defense de parler de cette 
 revolution, sous peine d'etre traduit devant les inquisi- 
 teurs d'etat. Le 20. octobre, Pasqual Malipieri, procura- 
 teur de Saint -Marc, fut elu pour successeur de Foscari ; 
 celui-ci n'eut pas neaumoins I'humiliation de vivre sujet, 
 la ou il avait regne. En entendant le son des cloches, qui 
 sonnaient en actions de graces pour cette election, il mou- 
 rut subitement d'une hemorragie causee paruneveinequi 
 s'eclata dans sa poitrine. 
 
 "Le doge, blesse de trouverconstammentuncontradic- 
 teur, et un censeur si amer dans son frere, lui dit un jour 
 en plein conseil: "Messire Augustin, vous faites tout 
 votre possible pour h^ter ma mort; vous vous flattez de 
 mesucceder: mais si les autres vous connaissent aussi 
 bien que je vous connais,ils n'auront garde devous elire." 
 Lk dessus il se leva, emu de colere, rentra dans son ap- 
 partement, et mourut qu«Iques jours apr^s. Ce frere, con- 
 tre lequel il s'etait emporte, futprccisement le successeur 
 qu'on lui donna. C'etait un mcrite dont on aimait k te- 
 nir conipte, surtout k un parent, de s'etre mis en opposi- 
 tion avec le ehef de la republique."*) Daru, Histoire de 
 Venise, vol. ii. liv. xviii. p. 533. 
 
 In Lady Morgan's fearless and excellent work upon 
 "Italy," I perceive the expression of "Rome of the Ocean" 
 applied to Venice. The same phrase occurs in the "Two 
 Foscari." My publisher can vouch for me tliat the trage- 
 dy was written and sent to England some time before I 
 had seen Lady Morgan's work , which I only received on 
 the 16th of August. I hasten, however, to notice the coin- 
 cidence, and to yield the originality of the phrase to her 
 who first placed it before the public. I am the more 
 anxious to do this , as I am informed (for I have seen but 
 few of the specimens , and those accidentally) that there 
 have been lately brought against me charges of plagia- 
 rism. I have also had an anonymous sort of threatening 
 intimation of the same kind, apparently with the intent of 
 extorting money. To such charges I have no answer to 
 make. One of them is ludicrous enough. I am reproached 
 for having formed the description of a shipwreck in verse 
 from the narratives of many actual shipwrecks in prose, 
 selecting such materials as were most striking. Gibbon 
 makes it a merit in Tasso "to have copied the minutest 
 details of the siege of Jerusalem from the Chronicles." In 
 me it may be a demerit, I presume; letitremain so. Whilst 
 I have been occupied in defending Pope's character, the 
 lower orders of Grub-street appear to have been assailing 
 mine: this is as it should be, both in them and in mc. One 
 of the accusations in the nameless epistle alluded to is 
 still more laughable: it states seriously that I "received 
 five hundred pounds for writing advertisements for Day 
 and Martin's patent blacking!" This is the highest com- 
 pliment to my literary powers which I ever received. It 
 states also"thata person has been trying to make acquaint- 
 ance withMr. Townsend, a gentleman of the law, who 
 was with me on business in Venice three years ago, for 
 the purpose of obtaining any defamatory particulars of 
 
 *) The Venetians appear to have had a particular 
 turn for breaking the hearts of their Doges: the above 
 is another instance of the kind in the Doge Marco 
 Barbarigo; he was succeeded by his brother Agostino 
 Barbarigo, whose chief merit is the above mentioned. 
 49 
 
770 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 my life from this occasional visitor." Mr. Townsend is 
 welcome to say what he knows. I mention these particu- 
 lars merely to show the world ingencral what the literary 
 lower world contains, and their way of setting to work. 
 Another charge made, I am told, in the "Literary Gazette" 
 is, that I wrote the notes to "Queen Mab;" a work which 
 I never saw till some time after its publication ; and which 
 I recollect showing to Mr. Sotheby as a poem of great 
 power and imagination. I never wrote a line of the notes, 
 nor ever saw them except in their published form. No one 
 knows better than their real author, that his opinions and 
 mine differ materially upon the metaphysical portion of 
 that work ; though in common with all who are not blind- 
 ed by baseness and bigotry, I highly admire the poetry 
 of tliat and his other publications. 
 
 Mr. Southey,too, in his pious preface toapoem, whose 
 blasphemy is as harmless as the sedition of Wat Tyler, 
 because it is equally absurd with that sincere production, 
 calls upon the "legislature to look to it," as the toleration 
 of such writings led to the French Revolution: not such 
 writings as Wat Tyler, but as those of the "Satanic 
 School." This is not true, and Mr. Southey knows it to 
 be not true. Every French writer of any freedom was per- 
 secuted; Voltaire and Rousseau were exiles, Marmontcl 
 and Diderot were sent to the Bastille, and a perpetual 
 war was waged with the whole class by the existing des- 
 potism. In the next place, the French Revolution was not 
 occasioned by any writings whatsoever, but must have 
 occurred had no such writers ever existed. Itisthefashion 
 to attribute every thing to the French revolution, and the 
 French revolution to every thing but its real cause. That 
 cause is obvious — the government exacted too much, and 
 the people could neither give nor bear more. Without 
 this, the Encyclopedists might have written their fingers 
 off without the occurrence of a single alteration. And the 
 English revolution — (the first, I mean) — what was it oc- 
 casioned by? Thepuritans were surely as pious and mo- 
 ral as Wesley or his biographer? Acts— acts on the part 
 of government, and not writings against them, have caus- 
 ed the past convulsions, and are tending to the future. 
 
 I look upon such as inevitable, though no revolutionist: 
 I wish to see the English constitution restored and not 
 destroyed. Born an aristocrat, and naturally one by tem- 
 per, with the greater part of my present property in the 
 funds , what have / to gain by a revolution ? Perhaps I 
 liave more to lose in every way than Mr. Southey, with all 
 his places and presents for panegyrics and abuse into the • 
 bargain. But that a revolution is inevitable , I repeat. 
 The government may exult over the repression of petty 
 tumults ; these are but the receding waves repulsed and 
 broken for a moment on the shore, while the great tide is 
 still rolling on and gaining ground with every breaker. 
 Mr. Southey accuses us of attacking the religion of the 
 country ; and is he abetting it by writing lives of Wesley? 
 One mode of worship is merely destroyed by another. 
 There never was, nor ever will be, acountry without a re- 
 ligion. We shall be told oi France again: but it was only 
 Paris and a frantic party, which for a moment upheld their 
 dogmatic nonsense of theophilanthropy. The church of 
 England, if overthrown, will be swept away by the sec - 
 
 tarians, and not by the sceptics. People are too wise, too 
 well-informed, too certain of their own immense impor- 
 tance in the realms of space, ever to submit to the linpiety 
 of doubt. There may be a few such diffident speculators, 
 like water in the pale sunbeam of human reason, but they 
 are very few ; and their opinions, without enthusiasm or 
 appeal to the passions, can never gain proselytes— unless^ 
 indeed, they are persecuted: that, to be sure, will increase 
 any thing. 
 
 Mr. S., with a cowardly ferocity, exults over the antici- 
 pated "death -bed repentance" of the objects of his dis- 
 like; and indulges himself in a pleasant "Vision of Judg- 
 ment," in prose as well as verse, full of impious impu- 
 dence. What Mr. S.'s sensations or ours may be in the 
 awful moment of leaving this state of existence neither he 
 nor we can pretend to decide. In common, I presume, 
 with most men of any reflection, /have not waited for a 
 "death-bed" to repent of many of my actions, notwith- 
 standing the "diabolical pride" which this pitiful renegade 
 in his rancour would impute to those who scorn him. 
 Whether, upon the whole, the good or evil of my deeds 
 may preponderate is not for me to ascertain; but, as my 
 means and opportunities have been greater, I shall limit 
 my present defence to an assertion (easily proved, if ne- 
 cessary,) that I, "in my degree," have done more real 
 good in any one given year, since I was twenty, than Mr. 
 Southey in the wliole course of his shifting and turncoat 
 existence. There are several actions to which I can look 
 back with an honest pride, not to be damped by the ca- 
 lumnies of a hireling. There are others to which I recur 
 with sorrow and repentance ; but the only act oimy life of 
 wliich Mr. Southey can have any real knowledge, as it 
 was one whicJi brought me in contact with a near connexion 
 of his own, did no dishonour to that connexion nor to me. 
 
 I am not ignorant of Mr. Southey's calumnies on a dif- 
 ferent occasion, knowing them to be such, which he scat- 
 tered abroad, on his return from Switzerland, against me 
 and others: they have done him no good in this world; 
 and, if his creed be the right one, they will do him less in 
 the next. What his "death-bed" may be, it is not my pro- 
 vince to predicate: let him settle it with his Maker, as I 
 must do with mine. There is something at once ludicrous 
 and blasphemous in this arrogant scribbler of all works, 
 sitting down to deal damnation and destruction upon his 
 fellow -creatures, with Wat Tyler, the Apotheosis of 
 George the Third, and the Elegy on Martin the regicide, 
 all shuflled together in his writing-desk. One of his con- 
 solations appears to be a Latin note from a work of a Mr. 
 Landor, the author of "Gebir," whose friendship for Ro- 
 bert Southey will, it seems, "bean honour to him when 
 the ephemeral disputes and ephemeral reputations of the 
 day are forgotten." I for one neither envy him "the friend- 
 ship," nor the glory in reversion which is to accrue from 
 it, like Mr.Thelusson's fortune in the third andfourthge- 
 neration. — This friendship will probably be as memorable 
 as his own epics, which fas I quoted to him ten or twelve- 
 years ago in "English Bards") Porson said "would be 
 remembered when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, and 
 not till then." For the present, I leave him. 
 
771 
 
 NOTES TO SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha. [p. 434. 
 "The Ionian name had been still more comprehensive, 
 I having included the Achaians and the Boeotians, who, to- 
 \ gether with those to w hom it was afterwards confined, 
 1 would make nearly the whole of the Greek nation, and 
 E among the orientals it was always the general name for 
 I the Greeks." — Mitford's Greece, vol. i. p. 199. 
 
 Sardanapalus 
 
 The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
 
 In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
 
 Eat, drink, and love; the rest's not worth a fillip. 
 
 [p. 436. 
 "For this expedition he took only a small chosen body 
 of the phalanx, but all his light troops. In the first day's 
 inarch he reached Anchialus, a town said to have been 
 ifounded by the king of Assyria, Sardanapalus. The forti- 
 ifications, in their magnitude and extent, still in Arrian's 
 i&ne, bore the character of greatness, wiiich the Assyrians 
 lappear singularly to have affected in worksofthekind. A 
 imonument representing Sardanapalus was found tlicre, 
 "'warranted by an inscription in Assyrian characters, of 
 course in the old Assyrian language, which the Greeks, 
 whether well or ill, interpreted thus : "Sardanapalus, son 
 of Anacyndaraxes, in one day founded Anchialus and Tar- 
 sus. Eat, drink, play; all other human joys are not worth 
 a fillip." Supposing this version nearly exact (for Arrian 
 says it was not quite so), whether the purpose has not 
 
 been to invite to civil order a people disposed to turbu- 
 lence, rather than to recommend immoderate luxury, may 
 perhaps reasonably be questioned. What, indeed, could 
 be the object of a king of Assyria in founding such towns 
 in a country so distant from his capital, and so divided 
 from it by an immense extent of sandy deserts and lofty 
 mountains, and, still more , how the inhabitants could be 
 at once in circumstances to abandon themselves to the in- 
 temperate joys which their prince has been supposed to 
 have recommended, is not obvious; but it may deserve 
 observation that, in that line of coast, the southern of Les- 
 ser Asia, ruins of cities, evidently of an age after Alexan- 
 der, yet barely named in history , at this day astonish 
 tiie adventurous traveller by their magnificence and ele- 
 gance. Amid the desolation which, under a singularly 
 barbarian government, has for so many centuries been 
 daily spreading in the finest countries of the globe, whe- 
 ther more from soil and climate, or from opportunities 
 for commerce , extraordinary means must have been 
 found for communities to flourish there, whence it may 
 seem that the measures of Sardanapalus were directed by 
 juster views than have been commonly ascribed to him; 
 but that monarch having been the last of a dynasty, ended 
 by a revolution, obloquy on his memory would follow of 
 course from the policy of his successors and their parti- 
 sans. The inconsistency of traditions concerning Sarda- 
 napalus is striking in Diodorus's account of him." 
 
 MiTFORD. 
 
 NOTES TO THE DEFORMED TRANS- 
 FORMED. 
 
 This production is founded partly on thestoryof a No- 
 vel, called "The Three Brothers," published many years 
 ago, from which Lewis's "Wood-Demon" was also taken 
 —and partly on the "Faust" of the great Goethe. The 
 ! present publication contains the first two Parts only, and 
 jthe opening chorus of the third. The rest may perhaps 
 pppear hereafter. 
 
 NOTES TO THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 At Ferrara (in the library) are preserved the original 
 MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini's Pastor 
 Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto^ 
 \ md tlie inkstand and chair , the tomb and the house , of 
 ! .he latter. But as misfortune has a greater interest for 
 ! josterity , and little or none for the cotemporary, the cell 
 vhere Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna at- 
 
 tracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the mo- 
 nument of Ariosto— at least it hadthiseflectonme. There 
 are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the second 
 over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the wonder 
 and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is much de- 
 cayed and depopulated; the castle still exists entire; and 
 I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, 
 according to the annal of Gibbon. 
 
 NOTES TO THE PROPHECY 
 
 OF DANTE. 
 
 [p. 522. 
 
 My Paradise had still been incomplete 
 Che sol per le belle opre 
 Che fanno in Cielo il sole e I'altre stelle 
 Dentro di lui si crede il Paradiso, 
 Cosi se guardi fiso 
 
 Pensar ben dei ch' ogni terren' piacere. 
 Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Beatrice, 
 
772 
 
 NOTES TO THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 I would have had my Florence great and free. 
 
 [p. 522. 
 L'Esilio clie m'6 dato onor mi teg-no. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Cader tra'buoni h pur di lode degno. 
 Sonnet of Dante, in which he represents Right, Gene- 
 rosity, and Temperance , as banished from among men, 
 and seeking refuge from Love, wlio inhabits his bosom. 
 
 The dust she dooms to scatter. [p. 523. 
 
 "Ut si quis predictorum ullo tempore in fortiam dicti 
 communis pervenerit, talis perveniens igni comhuratur, 
 sic quod moriatur.'' 
 
 Second sentence of Florence against Dante, and the 
 fourteen accused with him.— The Latin is worthy of the 
 sentence. 
 
 Where yet my hoys are, and that fatal she. 
 
 [p. 523. 
 This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one 
 of the most powerful Guelf families, named Donati. Corso 
 Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghibelines. She 
 is described as being "Admodum morosa, ut de Xantippe 
 Socratisphilosophi conjuge scriptum esse legimus/'accord- 
 ing to Giannozzo Manetti. But Lionardo Aretino is scan- 
 dalized with Boccace, in his life of Dante, for saying that 
 literary men should not marry. "Qui il Boccaccio nonha 
 pazienza, e dice, le moglieessercontrarieaglistudj ; e non 
 si ricorda che Socrate il piii nobile filosofo die mai fosse 
 ebbe moglie, e figliuoli, e ufficj dellaRepubblica nella sua 
 Citta; e Aristotele ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, ed ebbe 
 figliuoli, e ricchezze assai — E Marco TuUio — eCatone — 
 e Varone — e Seneca — ebbero moglie." It is odd that ho- 
 nest Lionardo's examples, with the exception of Seneca, 
 and,for any thing I know, of Aristotle, are not themostfe- 
 licitous. Tully's Tcrentia, and Socrates' Xantippe, by no 
 means contributed to their husbands, happiness, whatever 
 they might do to their philosophy — Cato gave away his 
 wife — of Varro's we know nothing — and of Seneca's, 
 only that she was disposed to die with him, but recovered, 
 and lived several years afterwards. But, says Lionardo, 
 "L' uomo e animale civile, secondo piaceatutti ifilosoli." 
 And thence concludes that the greatest proof of the ani- 
 mal's civism is "la prima congiunzione, dalla quale multi- 
 plicata nasce la Cittfi." 
 
 Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set. 
 
 [p. 524. 
 See "Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guicci- 
 ardini. There is another written by a Jacopo Buonaparte, 
 Gentiluomo Samminiatcse che vi si trovo presente. 
 
 Conquerors on foreign shores and the far wave. 
 
 [p. 525. 
 Alexander of Parma , Spinola , Pescara , Eugene of 
 Savoy, Montecucculi. 
 
 Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name. 
 
 [p. 525. 
 Columbus, Americus Vespucius, Sebastian Cabot. 
 
 He who once enters in a tyrant's hall. [p. 526. 
 A verse from the Greek tragedians , with which Pom- 
 pey took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat in which 
 lie was slain. 
 
 And the first day which sees the chain enthral. 
 
 [p. 526. 
 The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 
 
 And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers. 
 
 [p. 526. 
 Petrarch. 
 
 A dome, its image, [p, 527. 
 
 The cupola of St. Peter's. 
 
 His chisel bid the Hebrew. [p. 527. 
 
 The statue of Moses on the monument of Julius II. 
 
 SONNETTO. 
 
 Di Giovanni Battista Zappi, 
 
 Chi h costui, che in dura pietra scolto, 
 Siede gigante ; e le piu illustre, e conte 
 Prove dell' arte avvanza, e ha vive, e pronte 
 Le labbia si, che le parole ascolto? 
 
 Quest' e Mos6; ben me '1 diceva il folto 
 
 Onor del mento, e '1 doppio raggio in fronte, 
 Quest' e Mos6, quando scendea dell monte, 
 E gran parte del Nume avea nel volto. 
 
 Tal era allor, clie le sonanti, e vaste 
 Acque ei sospese a se d'intorno, e tale 
 Quando il mar chiuse, e ne fe tomba altrui. 
 
 E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzate? 
 Alzata aveste imago a questa eguale ! 
 Ch' era men fallo 1' adorar costui. 
 
 Over the damn'd before the judgment-throne. 
 
 The last Judgment in the Sistine chapel. 
 
 [p. 527. 
 
 llie stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me, 
 
 [p. 527. 
 
 Ihave read somewhere (if I do not err, for I cannot 
 recollect where) that Dante was so great a favourite of 
 Michel Angelo's, that he had designed the whole of the 
 Divina Commedia: but that the volume containing these 
 studies was lost by sea. 
 
 Her charms to pontiffs proud, who but employ. 
 
 [p. 527. 
 See the treatment of Michel Angelo by Julius II. and 
 his neglect by Leo X. 
 
 What have I done to thee, my people? [p. 528. 
 
 "E scrissepiu volte non solamenteaparticolari cittadin 
 
 del reggimento, ma ancora al popolo, e intra I'altre un 
 
 Epistola assai lunga checomincia: — "Popule mi, quid 
 
 feci tibi?" Vita di Dante scritta da Lionardo Aretino. 
 
 NOTES TO THE ODE TO^ NAPOLEON 
 BUONAPARTE. 
 
 Tlie rapture of the strife — [p. 5.39. 
 
 Certaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila in his ha- 
 rangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalons, 
 given in Cassiodorus. 
 
 Or like the thief of fire from heaven, 
 Prometheus. 
 
 [p. 540. 
 
 Tlie very Fiend's arch mock. [p. 640. 
 
 "The fiend's arch mock — 
 'To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
773 
 
 NOTES TO ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH 
 
 REVIEWERS. 
 
 Still must I hear ? — shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl 
 His creaking couplets in a tavern-halt, [p. 541 . 
 
 Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne reponam 
 Vexatus toties rauci Tlieseide Codri ? 
 
 Juvenal. 
 Mr. Fitzg-erald , facetiously termed by Cobbett the 
 "Small-Beer-Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse 
 on the "LiteraryFund :"not content with \\'riting,hc spouts 
 in person, after the company have imbibed a reasonable 
 quantity of bad port to enable them to sustain the 
 operation. 
 
 Our task complete, like Hamefs shall he free. 
 
 [p. 542. 
 
 CidHametBencngeli promises repose to his pen in the 
 
 last chapter of Don Quixote. Oh ! that our voluminous 
 
 gentry would follow the example of CidHametBenengeli ! 
 
 By Jeffrey's heart, or Lamb's Boeotian head. 
 
 [p. 542. 
 Messrs. Jeffrey and Lamb are the Alpha and Omega, 
 the first and last, of the Edinburgh Review; the others 
 are mentioned hereafter. 
 
 While such are critics, why should I forbearl 
 
 [p. 642. 
 Stulta est dementia — perituraa parcere chartae. 
 
 Juvenal. 
 
 Tlien should you ask me, why I venture o'er 
 The path which Pope and Gifford trod before? 
 
 [p. 542. 
 Cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo, 
 Per quem magnus equos Auruncse llexit alumnus: 
 Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam. 
 
 Juvenal. 
 
 From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott. 
 
 [p. 543. 
 Stott, better known in the "Morning Post" by the 
 name of Hafiz. This personage is at present the most 
 profound explorer of the bathos. I remember, to the reign- 
 ing family of Portugal, a special ode of Master Stott's, 
 beginning thus : (Stott loquitur quoad Hibernia) 
 Princely offspring of Braganza 
 Erin greets thee with a stanza. 
 Also a Sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a 
 most thundering ode commencing as follows: 
 Oh ! for a lay ! loud as the surge 
 That lashes Lapland's sounding shore. 
 Lord have mercy on us! the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" 
 was nothing to this. 
 
 TTius Lays of Minstrels — may they be the last! — 
 
 [p. 543, 
 
 See the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," passim. Never was 
 
 any plan so incongruous and absurd as the ground-work 
 
 of this production. The entrance of Thunder and Light- 
 ning, prologuising to Bayes' 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, "a stark 
 mosstrooper," videlicet, a happy compound of poacher, 
 sheepstealer , and highwayman. The propriety of his 
 magical lady's injunction, not to read, can only be equal- 
 led by his candid acknowledgment of his independence of 
 the trammels of spelling, although, to use his own elegant 
 phrase, "'twas his neck-verse at liai ribce," i. e. thegallows. 
 
 And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood, 
 
 [p. 643. 
 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- 
 d'oeuvre in tlie improvement of taste. For incident we 
 have the invisible, but by no means sparing, box on the 
 ear bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a Knight 
 andCliarger into the castle,under the very natural disguise 
 of a w ain of hay. Marmion, the hero of the latter romance, 
 is exactly what William of Deloraine would have been, 
 had he been able to read or write. The Poem was manu- 
 factured for Messrs. Constable, Murray, and Miller, 
 worshipful Booksellers, in consideration of the receipt 
 of a sum of money, and, truly, considering the inspiration, 
 it is a very creditable production. If Mr. Scott will write 
 for hire, let him do his best for his paymasters, but not 
 disgrace his genius, which is undoubtedly great, by a re- 
 petition of black-letter-ballad imitations. 
 
 Ilie single wonder of a thousand years, [p. 543. 
 As the Odyssey is so closely connected with the story 
 of the Iliad , they may almost be classed as one grand 
 historical poem. In alluding to Milton and Tasso, we 
 consider the "Paradise Lost," and "Gierusalemme Libe- 
 rata," as their standard efforts, since neither the "Jeru- 
 salem 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. 
 Southey *s will survive? 
 
 Next see tremendous Thalaba come on. Pp. 543. 
 Thalaba, Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in 
 open defiance of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to 
 produce something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. 
 Joan ofArc was marvellous enough, but Thalaba was one 
 of those poems "which (in the words of Porsou) will be 
 read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, but — 7iot 
 till then," 
 
 Tliou wilt devote old tvomen to the devil, [p. 543. 
 See "The old Woman of Berkley" a Ballad by Southey, 
 wherein an aged Gentlewoman is carried away by Beel- 
 zebub, on a "high trotting horse." 
 
774 
 
 NOTES TO ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 And quit his books, /or /ear o/ growing double. 
 
 [p. 643. 
 Lyrical Ballads: "The tables turned." 
 
 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'll grow double. 
 
 "Awake a louder and a lo/tier strain." [p. 544. 
 
 "Awake a louder, and a loftier strain," 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 heard; they trembled — 
 — That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss, very 
 much astonislicd, as well they might be, at such a pheno- 
 menon. (See "Letter on Bowles's Strictures on Pope.") 
 
 Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curl, [p. 645. 
 Curl is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a 
 Bookseller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord 
 Hervey, author of "Lines to the Imitator of Horace." 
 
 And do /ram hate what Mallet did for hire. 
 
 [p. 646. 
 Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after 
 his decease, 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. 
 
 To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme. 
 
 [p. 645. 
 Dennis the critic and Ralph the rhymester. 
 Silence ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, 
 Making night hideous — answer him ye owls! 
 
 Dunciad. 
 
 And linked thee to the Dunciad/or thy pains. 
 
 [p. 546. 
 
 SeeBowles's late edition of Pope's works for which he 
 
 received 300 Lst. : thus Mr. B. has experienced how 
 
 much easier it is to profit by the reputation of another, 
 
 than to elevate his own. 
 
 Had Cottle still adorn' d the counter's side. [p. 545. 
 Mr. Cottle, Amos or Joseph, I don't know which, but 
 one or both, once sellers of books they did not write, and 
 now writers of books that do not sell , have published a 
 pair of Epics. "Alfred" (poor Alfred! Pye has been at 
 him too !) and "the Fall of Cambria." 
 
 May no rude hand disturb their early sleep 
 
 [p. 645. 
 English 
 
 Poor Montgomery, though praised by every 
 Review, has been bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. 
 After all, the Bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable 
 genius: his "Wanderer of Switzerland" is worth a thou- 
 sand "Lyrical Ballads ," and at least fifty "Degraded 
 Epics." 
 
 Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat? 
 
 [p. 545. 
 Arthur's Seat, the hill which overhangs Edinbuigh. 
 
 And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by? 
 
 [p. 645. 
 In 1806,Messrs. Jeffrey and Moor .met at Chalk-Farm. 
 The duel was prevented by the interference of the magis- 
 tracy ; and , on examination, the balls of the pistols, like 
 the courage of the combatants, were found to have eva- 
 porated. This incident gave occasion to much waggery 
 in the daily prints. 
 
 77*e other half pursued its calm career, [p. 546. 
 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 ap- 
 prehension. 
 
 IfJ^ff^^il died, except within her arms, [p. 546. 
 This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth 
 (the principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems 
 to liave been most alt'ected on this occasion, is much to 
 be commended. It was to be apprehended, that the many 
 unhappy criminals executed in the front, might have ren- 
 dered the edifice more callous. She is said to be of the 
 softer sex, because her delicacy of feeling on this day was 
 truly feminine, though, like most feminine impulses, per- 
 haps a little selfish. 
 
 T7ie travell'd Thane! Athenian Aberdeen. 
 
 [p. 646. 
 His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of 
 the Athenian Society,and reviewer of "Gell's Topography 
 of Troy." 
 
 Herbert shall wield Trior's hammer — [p. 646. 
 Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other 
 Poetry, One of the principal pieces is a "Song on the 
 Recovery of Thor's Hammer : " the translation is a plea- 
 sant 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. 
 
 And classic Hallam, mukh renown' d/or Greek. 
 
 [p. 646. 
 
 Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight'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 Hallam's ingenuity. 
 
 The said Hallam is incensed, because he is falsely ac- 
 cused, saying that 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 lordship's feasts are 
 preferable to his compositions. If he did not review Lord 
 Holland's performance, I am glad, because it must have 
 been 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 syllables and will come 
 into the verse: till then, Hallam must stand for want of 
 a better. 
 
 WJiile gay Tlialia's luckless votary, Lamb. 
 
 [p. 646. 
 The Hon. G. Lamb reviewed "Beresford's Miseries," 
 and is moreover author of a Farce enacted with much 
 applause at the Priory, Staumore, and damned with 
 great expedition at the late Theatre Covent- Garden. It 
 was entitled "Whistle for it." 
 
 Beware lest blundering Brougham destroy the sale. 
 
 [p. 646. 
 
 Mr. Brougham, in No.XXV. of the Edinburgh-Review, 
 throughout the article concerning Don Pedro deCevallos, 
 has displayed more politics than policy : many of the 
 worthy burgesses of Edinburgh being 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 suppo- 
 sed, but a Borderer, and his name is pronounced Broom, 
 from Trent to Tay. So be it. 
 
 Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist. 
 
 fp. 646. 
 I ought to apologise to the worthy Deities for intro- 
 ducing a new Goddess with short petticoats to tlieir no- 
 tice: but, alas ! what was to be done? I could not say 
 Caledonia's Genius, it being well known there is no Ge- 
 nius to be found from Clackmannan to Caithness: yet, 
 
NOTES TO ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 775 
 
 without supernatural agency, how was Jeflrey to be sa- 
 ved ? The "national Kelpies" are too unpoetical, and the 
 "Brownies" and "Gude Neig-hbours" (Spirits of a good 
 disposition), refused to extricate him. A Goddess there- 
 fore has been called for the purpose, and great ought to 
 be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only commu- 
 nication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with any thing 
 heavenly. 
 
 Declare his landlord can translate, at least! 
 
 [p. 546. 
 Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope 
 de Vega, inserted in his life of the Author: both are be- 
 p raised by his disinterested guests. 
 
 Reforms each error and refines the whole. 
 
 [p. 546. 
 Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having dis- 
 played her matchless wit in thcEdinburgh-Review : how- 
 ever that may be, we know from good authority that 
 the manuscripts are submitted to her perusal — no doubt 
 for correction. 
 
 Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent, [p. 546. 
 In the melo-drameof Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt 
 into a barrel on the stage — a new ajsylum for distressed 
 heroes. 
 
 While Reynolds vents his ^^dammes,poohs, and zounds." 
 
 [p. 546. 
 All these are favourite expressions of Mr. R. and pro- 
 minent in his Comedies, living and defunct. 
 
 A tragedy complete in all but words? [p. 546. 
 
 Mr. T. Sheridan, the new Manager of Drury-Lane 
 
 Theatre,stripped the Tragedy of Bonducaof theDialogue, 
 
 and exhibited the scenes as the spectacles of Caractacus. 
 
 Was this worthy of his sire, or of himself? 
 
 Herjiight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs. 
 
 [p. 546. 
 Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, Scene-Painter to Drury- 
 Lane Theatre: as such Mr. S. is much indebted to him. 
 
 In five facetious acts comes thundering on. 
 
 [p. 646. 
 
 Mr. S. is the illustrious author of the "Sleeping 
 
 Beauty:" and some Comedies, particularly "Maids and 
 
 Baclielors;" Baccalaurei baculo magis quam lauro digni. 
 
 And worship Catalani's pantaloons. [p. 547. 
 Naldi and Catalani require little notice, for the visage 
 of the one, and the salary of tiie 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. 
 
 * Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle! [p. 647. 
 
 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 Back- 
 gammon. It is but justice to the manager in this instance 
 to say , that some degree of disapprobation was mani- 
 fested. But why are the implements of gaming allowed 
 in a place devoted to the society of both sexes? A plea- 
 sant tiling for the wives and daughters of those who are 
 blest or cursed with such connections, 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 materially affects the 
 morals of the higher orders, while the lower may not even 
 move to the sound of a tabor and fiddle, without a chance 
 of indictment for riotous behaviour. 
 
 Behold the new Petronius of the day. [p. 547. 
 Petronius, "arbiter elegantiarum" to Nero, "and a 
 very pretty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's old 
 Baohelor saith. 
 
 To live like Clodius, * and like FalklandfuU. 
 
 * Mutato nomine de te fabula narratur. 
 
 [p. 547. 
 
 I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night 
 I beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the honest 
 pride of hospitality ; on Wednesday morning at three 
 o'clock, I saw, stretched before me, all that remained of 
 courage, feeling, and a liost of passions. He was a gallant 
 and successful officer; his faults were the faults of a sai- 
 lor — 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 been held up by 
 his countrymen as an example to succeeding heroes. 
 
 From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles. 
 
 [p. 547. 
 What would be the sentiments of the Persian Ana- 
 creon, Hafiz, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre 
 at Sheeraz, where he reposes with Ferdousi and Sadi, 
 the Oriental Homer and Catullus, and behold his name 
 assumed by oneStottofDromore, the most impudent and 
 execrable of literary poachers for the daily prints? 
 
 Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer ! 
 
 [p. 548. 
 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 lord- 
 ship will be permitted to bring forward any thing for the 
 Stage, exce{)t his own tragedies. 
 
 And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines. 
 
 [p. 648. 
 Thou wear a lion's hide! doff" it, for shame. 
 And hang a calf s skin on those recreant limbs. 
 Shakspeare, King John. 
 Lord C's works, most resplendently bound, form a 
 conspicuous ornament to his book-shelves: 
 
 The rest is all but leather and prunella. 
 
 And Melville's Mantle prove a Blanket too ! 
 
 [p. 548. 
 Melville's Mantle, a parody on "Elijah's Mantle," 
 a poem. 
 
 Leave wondering comprehension far behind. 
 
 [p. 548. 
 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 respect- 
 able absurdities in rhyme, as times go; besides sundry 
 novels in the style of the first edition of the Monk. 
 
 Chain' d to the signature of O. P. Q. [p. 548. 
 These are the signatures of various worthies who figure 
 in the poetical departments of the newspapers. 
 
 And Capel Lofft declares 'tis quite sublime. 
 
 [p. 548. 
 
 Capel Lofft, Esq., the Msecenas of shoemakers, and 
 
 Preface-writer-general to distressed verse-men ; a kind of 
 
 gratis -accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of 
 
 rhyme, but do not know how to bring it forth. 
 
 Lo! Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far — 
 
 [p. 548. 
 See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, elegy, or whatever he 
 or any one else chooses to call it, on the enclosure of 
 "Honington Green." 
 
 May Moorland-weavers boast Pindaric skill. 
 
 [p. 548. 
 V ide "Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of 
 Staffordshire." 
 
 Come forth, oh Campell! give thy talents scope. 
 
 [p. 548. 
 
 It would be superHuous to recall to the mind ofthereader 
 
 the authors of "The Pleasures of Memory," and "The 
 
776 
 
 NOTES TO ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Pleasures of Hope," the most beautiful didactic poems in 
 pur 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. 
 
 Bear witness Gifford, Sothehy, Macneil. 
 
 [p. 548. 
 Gilford, author of the Baviad and Majviad, the first 
 oatires of the day, and Translator of Juvenal. 
 
 Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon and Virgil's 
 Georgics, and author of Saul, an epic poem. 
 
 Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular: parti- 
 cularly " Scotland's Scaith , or the Waes of War ," of 
 which ten thousand copies were sold in one month. 
 
 •' Why slumbers Gifford?" once was ask'd in vain, 
 
 [p. 548. 
 Mr. Gilford promised publicly that the Baviad and 
 Meeviad should not be his last original works : let him 
 remember, "mox in reluctautes dracones." 
 
 Unhappy White ! while life was in its spring. 
 
 [p. 548. 
 Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge , in October 
 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit 
 of studies, that would have matured a mind which disease 
 and poverty could not impair, and which Death itself 
 destroyed rather than subdue'd. 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 even the sacred functions he was 
 destined to assume. 
 
 Wright ! 'twas thy happy lot at once to view. 
 
 [p. 549. 
 Mr. Wright, lateConsul-General for the Seven Islands, 
 is author of a very beautiful poem just published : it is en- 
 titled, "Horaj lonicEB," and is descriptive of the Isles and 
 the adjacent coast of Greece. 
 
 And you, associate Bards! who snatch' d to light. 
 
 [p. 549. 
 Tlie translators of the Anthology have since published 
 separate poems, which evince genius that only requires 
 opportunity to attain eminence. 
 
 False glare attracts, hy,t more offends the eye. 
 
 [p. 549. 
 The neglect of the ''Botanic Garden" is some proof of 
 returning taste ; the scenery is its sole recommendation. 
 
 And thou, too, Scott! resign to minstrels rude. 
 
 [p. 549. 
 
 By the bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his 
 
 hero or heroine will be less addicted to "gramarye," and 
 
 more to grammar, than the Lady of the Lay, and her bravo, 
 
 William of Deloraine. 
 
 Let Stott, Carlisle, Matilda, and the rest. 
 
 [p. 549. 
 It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of Carl- 
 isle, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a vo- 
 lume of puerile poems a fevV years ago. The guardianship 
 was nominal, at least as far as I have been able to disco- 
 ver ; tlie relationship I cannot iielp, and am very sorry for 
 it; but as his lordship seemed to forget jton a very essen- 
 tial occasion to me , I shall not burthen my memory with 
 the recollection. I do not think that personal difierences 
 sanction the unjust condemnation of a brotjjer 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 
 begui led a "discerning public' (as the advertisements 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 patri- 
 cian literati. If, before I escaped from my teens, I said any 
 thing in favour of his lordship's paper-books, it was in the 
 vvay of dutiful dedication, and more from the advice of 
 otiiers than my own judgment, andlseize the first oppor- 
 
 tunity of pronouncing my sincere recantation. I have 
 heard that some persons conceive me to be under obliga- 
 tions 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 and publicly acknowledged. 
 What I have humbly advanced as an opinion on his print- 
 ed things, I am prepared to support, if necessary, by quo- 
 tations from elegies, eulogies, odes, episodes, and certain 
 facetious and dainty tragedies, bearing liis name and mark : 
 
 What can ennoble knaves or fools, or cowards? 
 
 Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards! 
 So says Pope. Amen. 
 
 And other victors fill the applauding skies. 
 
 [p. 549. 
 "Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ora." 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 Requires no sacred theme to hid us list. [p. 550. 
 The "Games of Hoyle," well known to the votaries of 
 whist and chess, are not to be superseded by the vagaries 
 of his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, as ex- 
 pressly stated in the advertisement, all the "Plagues of 
 Egypt." 
 
 Himself a living libel on mankind. [p. 550. 
 This person, who has lately betrayed the most rapid 
 symptoms of confirmed authorship, is writer of a poem 
 denominated the "Art of Pleasing," as "lucus a non lu- 
 cendo," containing little pleasantry and less poetry. He 
 also acts as monthly stipendiary and collector of calum- 
 nies for the Satirist, If this unfortunate young man would 
 exchange the magazines for the mathematics, and endea- 
 vour to take a decent degree in his university , it might 
 eventually prove more serviceable than his present salary. 
 
 Oh, dark asylum of a Vandal race ! [p. 550. 
 "Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus transport- 
 ed a considerable body of Vandals." — Gibbon. There is 
 no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion — the breed 
 is still in high perfection. 
 
 That .... Hodgson scarce redeems thy fame! 
 
 [p. 550. 
 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. 
 
 And modem Britons justly praise their sires. 
 
 [p. 550. 
 The "Aboriginal Bri tons,"an excellent poem byRichards. 
 
 And old dame Portlandfills the j)lace of Pitt. 
 
 f p. 550. 
 A friend of mine being asked why his Grace of ft was 
 likened to an old woman? replied, "he supposed it was 
 because he was past bearing." 
 
 Let vain Valentia rival luckless Carr, [p. 550. 
 Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are forth- 
 coming, with due decorations, graphical, topographical, 
 and typographical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky 
 suit, that Dubois' satire prevented his purchase of the 
 "Stranger in Ireland." — Oh fie, my Lord! has your lord- 
 ship no more feeling for a fellow -tourist? but "two of a 
 trade," they say. 
 
 Let Aberdeen and Elgin still pursue, [p. 550. 
 Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, 
 with and without noses.in his stone-shop, are the work of 
 Phidias! "Credat Judteus." 
 
 Heave topography to classic Gell. [p. 550. 
 Mr. Gell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail 
 to ensure the approbation of every man possessed of clas- 
 sical taste, as well for the information Mr. G. conveys to 
 tlic mind of the reader, as for the ability and research the 
 respective works display. 
 
NOTES TO THE CURSE OF MINEKVA. 
 
 777 
 
 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 vehement 
 critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting muse, whom they 
 have already so bedeviled with their ungodly ribaldry : 
 
 "Tantasne animis coelestibus ircc !" 
 I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Ague- 
 cheek saitli, "an I had known he was so cunning offence, 
 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 hira and his 
 dirty pack, who feed "by lying and slandering," and slake 
 their thirst by "evil-speaking?" I have adduced facts al- 
 ready 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 witli 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 mo- 
 tives for leaving England are very different from fears, li- 
 terary or personal; those who do not, may one day be 
 convinced. Since tlie publication of this thing, my name 
 has not been concealed; I have been mostly in London, 
 ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily ex- 
 pectation of sundry cartels ; but, alas ! "The age of chivalry 
 is over," or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now- 
 a-days. 
 
 There is a youth ye lept Hewson Clarke, (subaudi, Esq.) 
 asizer 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 accustom- 
 ed to meet: he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and, 
 for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quar- 
 rel with a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fel- 
 lowship , and whom the jealousy of his Trinity-cotempo- 
 
 raries 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 utter- 
 ly unconscious of having given him any provocation; in- 
 deed I am guiltless of having heard his name, till it was 
 coupled with the Satirist. He has therefore no reason to 
 complain, and 1 daresay that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, 
 he is Tdiihcr pleased than otherwise. I have now mention- 
 ed all who have done me the honour to notice me and 
 mine, that is, my Bear and my Book, except the Edi- 
 tor of the Satirist, who, it seems, isagentleman, — God 
 wot! I 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 Carl- 
 isle: I hope not; he Avas 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 gene- 
 ral note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and pub- 
 lisher; 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 hy 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. 
 
 Lord Byron accidentally met with the Copy, and siibjdfned 
 the following pungent Reply: — 
 What's writ on me, cried Fitz, 1 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 would be, if, for time to come, 
 They luckily were deaf, or thou wert dumb — 
 But, to i]ieir pens while scribblers add their tongues, 
 The waiter only can escape their lungs. 
 
 NOTES TO THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 
 
 Tlie queen of night asserts her silent reign, 
 
 [p. 65L 
 The twilight in Greece is much shorter than m our 
 country ; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of 
 less duration. 
 
 Tliese Cecrops placed — this Pericles adorn' d — 
 
 [p. 552. 
 This is spoken of the cityingeneral,andnotof the Acro- 
 polis in particular. The temple of Jupiter Olympius, by 
 some supposed the Pantheon, was finished by Hadrian: 
 sixteen columns are standing, of the most beautiful marble 
 and style of architecture. 
 
 Th' insulted wall sustains his hated name. 
 
 [p. 552. 
 It is related by a late oriental traveller, that when the 
 wholesale spoliator visited Athens, he caused his own 
 name, with that of his wife, to be inscribed on a pillar of 
 one of the principal temples. This inscription was exe- 
 cuted in a very conspicuous manner, and deeply engraved 
 in the marble, at a very considerable elevation. Notwith- 
 standing which precautions , some person (doubtless in- 
 spired by the patron -goddess) has been at the pains to 
 get himself raised up to the requisite height, and has ob- 
 
 literated the name of the laird, but left that of the lady 
 untouched. The traveller in question accompanied this 
 story by a remark, that it must have cost some labour and 
 contrivance to get at the place, and could only have been 
 effected by much zeal and determination. 
 
 " When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame." 
 
 [p. 552. 
 His lordship's name, and that of one who no longer 
 bears it, are carved conspicuously on the Parthenon 
 above; in a part not far distant are the torn remnants of 
 the basso-relievos, destroyed in a vain attempt to remove 
 them. 
 
 Athene, no ! the jilunderer was a Scot! [p. 552. 
 The plaster wall on the west side of the temple of Mi- 
 nerva Polias bears the following inscription, cut in very 
 deep characters : 
 
 Quod non fecerunt Goti, 
 Hoc fecerunt Scoti. 
 
 And own himself an infant of fourscore. 
 
 [p. 552. 
 Mr. West, on seeing "the Elgin collection" (I suppose 
 we shall hear of the Abershaws'and Jack Shepherd's col 
 lection next), declared himself a mere tyro in art. 
 
 49* 
 
778 
 
 NOTES TO THE MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And marvel at his lordship's stone-shop there. 
 
 [p. 652. 
 
 Poor Crib was sadly puzzled when the marbles were 
 first exhibited at Elg-inhouse. He asked if it was not "a 
 stone-shop:" he was riglit — it is a shop. 
 
 Some calm spectator, as he takes his view. 
 
 [p. 652. 
 
 "Alas! all the monuments of Roman magnificence , all 
 the remains of Grecian taste, so dear to the artist, the his- 
 torian, the antiquary, all depend on the will of an arbi- 
 trary sovereign ; and that will is influenced too often by 
 interest or vanity, by a nephew or a sycophant. Is a new 
 palace to be erected (at Rome) for an upstart family ? the 
 Coliseum is stripped to furnish materials. Does a foreign 
 minister wish to adorn the bleak walls of a northern castle 
 with antiques ? the temples of Theseus or Minerva must 
 be dismantled, and the works of Phidias or Praxiteles be 
 torn from the shattered frieze. That a decrepid uncle, 
 wrapped up in the religious duties of his age and station, 
 should listen to the suggestions of an interested nephew, 
 is natural : and that an oriental despot should undervalue 
 the masterpieces of Grecian art, is to be expected; though 
 in both cases theconsequencesof such weakness aremuch 
 to be lamented. But that the minister of a nation, famed 
 for its knowledge of the language, and its veneration for 
 the monuments of ancient Greece , should have been the 
 prompter and the instrument of these destructions, is al- 
 most incredible. Such rapacity is a crime against all ages 
 and all generations : it deprives the past of the trophies of 
 their genius and the title-deeds of their fame; the present, 
 of the strongest inducements to exertion , the noblest ex- 
 hibitions that curiosity can contemplate; the future, of the 
 masterpieces of art, the models of imitation. To guard 
 against the repetition of such depredations is the wish 
 of every man of genius, the duty of every man in power, 
 and the common interest of every civilized nation." 
 Eustace's Classical Tour through Italy. 
 
 "This attempt to transplant the Temple of Vesta from 
 Italy to England, may perhaps do honour to the late Lord 
 Bristol's patriotism or to his magnificence; but it cannot 
 be considered as an indication of either taste or judg- 
 ment." Ibid. 
 
 "Blest paper-credit' who shall dare to sing? 
 
 [p. 553. 
 Blest paper-credit, last and best supply. 
 That lends corruption lighter wings to fly. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 NOTES TO THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 To form, like Guesclin's dust, her talisman. . 
 
 [p. 655. 
 Guesclin diedduringthe siege of a city; it surrendered, 
 and the keys were brought and laid upon his bier, so that 
 the place might appear rendered to his ashes. 
 
 Hear! hear! Prometheus Jrom his rock appeal. 
 
 [p. 656. 
 I refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus in 
 iEschylus, when he is left alone by his attendants, and 
 before the arrival of the Chorus of Sea-nymphs. 
 
 Revive the cry — "lago! and close Spain!" 
 
 [p. 557. 
 "St. lago ! and close Spain !" the old Spanish war-cry. 
 
 TTie knife of Arragon, Toledo's steel. [p. 557. 
 The Arragonians are peculiarly dextrous in the use of 
 this weapon, and displayed it particularly in former 
 French wars. 
 
 Thy good old man, whose world was all within. 
 
 [p. 657. 
 The famous old man of Verona. See Claudian. 
 
 Many an old woman, but no Catherine, [p. 558. 
 The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the 
 Great by courtesy) when surrounded by the Mussulmans 
 on the banks of the river Pruth. 
 
 That nose, the hook where he suspends the world. 
 
 [p. 658. 
 "Naso suspendit adunco." — Horace. 
 
 The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious 
 to his acquaintance. 
 
 There Cliateaubriand forms new hooks of martyrs. 
 
 [p. 560. 
 Vicomte Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the 
 author in the minister, received a handsome compliment 
 at Verona from a literary sovereign: "Ah! Monsieur 
 C— , are you related to that Chateaubriand who— who— 
 who has written somethingV {ict'itquelque chose.) It is 
 said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment 
 of his legitimacy. 
 
 NOTES TO THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 Reviewing "the ungentle craft," and then, 
 
 [p. 569. St. 98. 
 See "Life of Henry Kirke White." 
 
 Like King Alfonso ! [p. 669. St. 101. 
 King Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolomean system, said, 
 that "had he been consulted at the creation of the world, 
 he would have spared the Maker some absurdities." 
 
 Like lightning, off from his ^'melodious twang." 
 
 [p. 669. St. 102. 
 See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disap- 
 peared "with a curious perfume and a melodious twang;" 
 or see the Antiquary, vol. i. 
 
 NOTES TO THE MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Written after swimming from Sestos to Ahydos. 
 
 [p. 675. 
 On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain 
 Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles , Lieutenant 
 Ekenhead of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes 
 swam from the European shore to the Asiatic— by-the-bye, 
 from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. 
 The whole distance from the place whence we started to 
 our landing on the other side, including the length we 
 were carried by the current, was computed by those on 
 board the frigate at upwards of fourEnglish miles ; though 
 the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the cur- 
 rent is such that no boat can row directly across, and it 
 may in some measure be estimated from the circumstance 
 of the whole distance being accomplished by one of the 
 parties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour 
 and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold from the 
 melting of the mountain-snows. About three weeks be- 
 fore, in April, we had made an attempt, but having rid- 
 den all the way from the Troad the same morning, and 
 the water being of an icy chillness, we found it necessary 
 to postpone the completion till the frigate anchored 
 below the castles, when we swam the straits, as just 
 stated ; entering a considerable way above theEuropean, 
 and landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevalier says that a 
 young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress; and 
 Oliver mentions it having been done by a Neapolitan; 
 but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these 
 circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. 
 A number of the Salsette's crew were known to have ac- 
 complished a greater distance; and the only thing that 
 
NOTES TO THE WALTZ. 
 
 779 
 
 surprised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained 
 of the truth of Leandcr's story, no traveller had ever 
 endeavoured to ascertain its practicability. 
 
 Z<otj fiov, aciq uyuTtd. [p. 576. 
 
 Zoe mou, sas agapo, or Zait] fiov, auq uyaito), a Romaic 
 expression of tenderness : if I translate it I shall affront 
 the gentlemen, as it may seem that I supposed they could 
 not; and if I do not, I may affront the ladies. For fear of 
 any misconstruction on the part of the latter I shall do so, 
 begging pardon of the learned. It means, "My life, I love 
 you!" which sounds very prettily in all languages, and 
 is as much in fashion inGreece at this day as,Juvenal tells 
 us, the two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, 
 whose erotic expressions were all hellenized. 
 
 Si/ all the token-Jlowers that tell — [p. 576. 
 In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest 
 they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, peb- 
 bles,convey the sentiments of the parties by that universal 
 deputy of Mercury — an old woman. A cinder says, 
 "I burn for thee;" a bunch of flowers tied with hair, 
 "Take me and fly ;" but a pebble declares — what nothing 
 else can. 
 
 Blessing him they served so well. [p. 587. 
 
 "At Waterloo, one man was seen whose left arm was 
 shattered by a cannon-ball, to wrench it off with the 
 other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his 
 comrades," Vive I'Empereur jusqu'^ la mort." There 
 were many other instances of the like: this you may,how- 
 ever , depend on as true. " A private Letter from 
 Brussels. 
 
 Turning rivers into blood, [p. 587. 
 
 See Rev. chap, viii, verse 7 — 11. "The first angel 
 sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with 
 blood. And the second angel sounded, and as it were a 
 great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; 
 and the third part of the sea became blood. And the third 
 angei sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, 
 burning as it were a lamp ; and it fell upon a third part 
 of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters. And the 
 name of the star is called Wormwood; and the third part 
 of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of 
 the waters, because they were made bitter." 
 
 Whose realm re/used thee even a tomb. [p. 588. 
 
 Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the 
 grave and burnt. 
 
 NOTES TO THE WALTZ. 
 
 As many votes as General T. [p. 617. 
 
 State of the poll (last day) 5. 
 
 Quamfamiliariter. [p. 618. 
 
 My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have 
 forgotten what he never remembered; but I bought my 
 title-page-motto of a Catholic priest for a three shilling 
 Bank-token, after much haggling for the even sixpence. 
 I grudged the money to a Papist, being all for the me- 
 mory of Perceval and "NoPopery ;" and quite regretting 
 the downfall of the Pope, because we can't burn him 
 any more. 
 
 MxLSC of the many-twinkling feet ! [p.61 8. 
 "Glance their many-twinkling feet." — Gray. 
 
 On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley'sfame. 
 
 [p. 618. 
 To rival Lord Wellesley's, or his nephew's, as the 
 reader pleases : — the one gained a pretty woman, whom 
 he deserved by fighting for; and the other has been figiit- 
 ing in the Peninsula many a long day, "by Shrewsbury 
 clock," without gaining any thing in that country but the 
 title of "the Great Lord," and "the Lord," which savours 
 of profanation, having been hitherto applied only to that 
 Being, to whom "Te Deums" for carnage are the rankest 
 blasphemy. — It is to be presumed the General will one 
 day return to his Sabine farm, there 
 
 To tame the genius of the stubborn plain. 
 
 Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain! 
 
 The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a 
 
 summer; we do more — we contrive both to conquer and 
 
 lose them in a shorter season. If the "Great Lord's" 
 
 Cincinnatian progress in agriculture be no speedier than 
 
 the proportional average of time inPope's couplet,it will, 
 according to the farmer's proverb, be "ploughing with 
 dogs." 
 
 By the bye— one of this illustrious person's new titles 
 is forgotten — it is, however, worth remembering — "Sal- 
 vador del MundoJ" — credite posteri! If this be the ap- 
 pellation annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to 
 the name of a man who has not yet saved them — querj' — 
 are they worth saving even in this world? for, according 
 to the mildest modifications of any Christian creed, those 
 three words make the odds much against them in the 
 next. — "Saviour of the World," quotha ! — it were to 
 be wished that he, or any one else, could save a corner of 
 it — his country. Yet this stupid misnomer, although it 
 shows the near connexion between Superstition and Im- 
 piety, so far has its use, that it proves there can be little 
 to dread from those Catholics (inquisitorial Catholics too) 
 who can confer such an appellation on a Protestant. I 
 suppose next year he will be entitled the "Virgin Mary;" 
 if so. Lord George Gordon himself would have nothing 
 to object to such liberal bastards of our Lady of Babylon. 
 
 While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send. [p. 618. 
 
 The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be 
 
 sufficiently commended — nor subscribed for. Amongst 
 
 other details omitted in the various despatches of our 
 
 eloquent Ambassador, he did not state (being too much 
 
 occupied with the exploits of Colonel C , in swimming 
 
 rivers frozen, and gallopping over roads impassable), 
 that one entire province perished by famine in the most 
 melancholy manner, as follows : — InGeneralRostopchin's 
 consummate conflagration, the consumption of tallow 
 and train-oil was so great, that the market was inade- 
 quate to the demand : and thus one hundred and thirty- 
 
780 
 
 NOTES TO THE HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 three tliousand persons were starved to death, by being 
 reduced to wholesome diet! The lampHghters of London 
 have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a piece, and the 
 tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a quantity of 
 best mould (four to the pound),to the relief of the surviv- 
 ing Scythians - the scarcity will soon, by such exertions, 
 and a proper attention to the quality rather than the quan- 
 tity of provision, be totally alleviated. It is said, in return, 
 that the untouched Ukraine has subscribed 60,000 beeves 
 for a day's meal to our suftering manufacturers. 
 
 Can Egypt's Almas — tantalizing y roup. [p. 619. 
 Dancing girls - who do for hire what Waltz doth gratis. 
 
 Goats in their visage, women in their shape, [p. 619. 
 
 It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baussie- 
 re's time, of the "Sieur de la Croix," that there be "no 
 whiskers;" but how far these are indications of valour 
 in the field, or elsewhere, may still be questionable. Much 
 may be and hath been avouched on both sides. In the 
 olden time philosophers had whiskers , and soldiers 
 none — Scipio himself was shaven — Hannibal thought 
 his one eye handsome enough without a beard; but 
 Adrian, the Emperor, wore a beard (liaving warts on his 
 chin, which neither the Empress Sabina , nor even the 
 courtiers could abide) — Turenne had whiskers, Marl- 
 borough none — Buonaparte is unwhiskered, the Regent 
 whiskered; ^^argal" greatness of mind and whiskers may 
 or may not go together; but certainly the different occur- 
 rences, since the growth of the last-mentioned, go further 
 in behalf of whiskers than the anathema of Anselm did 
 against long hair in the reign of Henry I. 
 
 Formerly red was a favourite colour. See Lodowick 
 Barrey's Comedy of Ram Alley, 16n. Act. I. Scene 1. 
 
 Taffeta. Now, for a wager — What coloured beard 
 comes next by the window? 
 
 Adriana. A black man's, I think. 
 
 Taffeta. I think not so : I think a red, for that is most 
 iu fashion. 
 
 There is "nothing new under the sun;" but red, then a 
 favourite, has now subsided into a favourite' s colour. 
 
 TTie Court, the Regent, like herself were new. 
 
 [p. 619. 
 An Anachronism — Waltz, and the battle of Austerlitz, 
 are before said to have opened the ball together: the bard 
 means (if he means any thing), Waltz was not so much in 
 vogue till the Regent attained tlie acme of his popularity. 
 Waltz, the Comet, Whiskers , and the new Government, 
 illuminated heaven and earth, in all their glory, much 
 about the same time : of these the Comet only has disap- 
 peared ; the other three continue to astonish us still. 
 Printer's Devil. 
 
 New coins (most new) to follow those that fled. 
 
 [p. 619. 
 Amongst others a new ninepence — a creditable coin 
 now forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest 
 calculation. 
 
 Each new, quite new — (except some ancient tricks) ; 
 
 [p. 619. 
 
 "Oh that right should thus overcome might! Who 
 does not remember the "delicate investigation" in the 
 "Merry Wives of Windsor?" 
 
 ''Ford. Pray you come near: if I suspect without 
 cause, why then make sport at me; then let me be your 
 jest; I deserve it. How now? whither bear you this?" 
 
 "Mrs. Ford. What have you to do whither they bear 
 it? — you were best meddle with buck- washing." 
 
 So saith the Muse — my — ,what say you? 
 
 [p. 619. 
 The gentle,or ferocious reader,may fill up the blank as 
 he pleases — tiiere are several dissyllabic names at his 
 service (being already in the Regent's) : it would not be 
 fair to back any peculiar initial against the alphabet, as 
 every month will add to the list now entered for the 
 
 sweepstakes — a distinguished Consonant is said to be 
 the favourite, much against the wishes of the knoiving ones. 
 
 That spot where hearts were once supposed to be. 
 
 [p. 619. 
 "We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor, 
 "'tis all gone — Asmodeus knows where. After all, it is 
 of no great importance how women's hearts are disposed 
 of; they have Nature's privilege to distribute them as 
 absurdly as possible. But there are also some men with 
 hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phe- 
 nomena often mentioned in natural history; viz. amass 
 of solid stone — only to be opened by force — and when 
 divided, you discover a toad in the centre, lively, and 
 with the reputation of being venomous." 
 
 If "nothing follows all this palming work." 
 
 [p. 620. 
 
 In Turkey a pertinent — here an impertinent and 
 
 superfluous question — literally put, as in the text, by a 
 
 Persian to Morier , on seeing a Waltz in Pera. — Vide 
 
 Morier's Travels. 
 
 NOTES TO THE HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Oscar of Alva. ("p. 634. 
 
 The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story 
 of "Jeronymo and Lorenzo," in the first volume of "The 
 Armenian, or Ghost -Seer:" it also bears some resem- 
 blance to a scene in the third act of Macbeth. 
 
 The pride of Princes, and the boast of song. 
 
 [p. 638. 
 Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, esteemed the most 
 accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in 
 the voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one 
 of William HI. He behaved with great gallantry in the 
 seafight with the Dutch, in 1665, on the day previous to 
 which he composed his celebrated song. His character 
 has been drawn in the highest colours by Dry den, Pope, 
 Prior, and Congreve. 
 
 By Death's unequal hand alike controlVd. 
 
 [p. 639. 
 The hand of Death is said to be unjust, or unequal, 
 as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus, at his 
 decease. 
 
 To lead the band where god-like Falkland fell. 
 
 [p. 648. 
 Lucius Gary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most ac- 
 complished man of his age, was killed at the battle of 
 Newbury, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regi- 
 ment of cavalry. 
 
 To flee away and be at rest. [p. 651. 
 
 Psalm 55, Verse 6. — "And I said, Oh! that I had 
 
 wings like a dove, then would I fly away and be at rest." 
 
 This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful 
 
 anthem in our language. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE EDINBURGH- 
 REVIEW, 
 
 No. 22, FOR JANUARY 1808. 
 
 Hours of Idleness ; a Series of Poems, original and trans- 
 lated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. 8vo. 
 pp. 200. — Newark, 1807. 
 
 The poesy of tliis young Lord belongs to the class 
 which neither gods nor men arc said to permit. Indeed, 
 we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with 
 so few deviations in either direction from that exactstand- 
 
EXTRACT FROM THE EDINBURGH-REVIEW. 
 
 781 
 
 ard. His effusions arc spread over a dead flat, and can 
 no more get above or below tlie level, than if tliey were 
 so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of tliis 
 oftence,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 in the pre- 
 face, and the poems are connected with this general state- 
 ment of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the 
 age at which each was written. Now the law upon the 
 point of minority we liold to be perfectly clear. It is a 
 plea available only to the defendant; no plaintitf 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 vo- 
 luntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on 
 that ground, for the price in good current praise, should 
 tiie goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law 
 on the point, and, we are sorry to say, so will it be ruled. 
 Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his 
 youth is rather w ith a view to increase our wonder, than 
 to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, "See 
 how a minor can write! This poem was actually com- 
 posed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of 
 only sixteen!" — But, alas! we all remember the poe- 
 try 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 itiiappens in 
 the life of nine men in ten who are educated 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 wave it. He certainly, however, does 
 allude frequently to his family and ancestors — some- 
 times in notes; and while giving up his claim on the 
 score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr. John- 
 son's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, 
 his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, 
 it is tliis consideration only, that induces us to give Lord 
 Byron's poems a place in our Review, beside our desire 
 to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and 
 turn his talents, which are considerable, and his oppor- 
 tunities, which are great, to better account. 
 
 With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure 
 him, tliat the mere rliyming of the final syllable, even 
 when accompanied by thepresenceof a certain number of 
 feet; nay, although (which does not always happen) those 
 feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted ac- 
 curately, upon the fingers,— it is not the whole art of poe- 
 try. We would entreat him to believe, that a certain por- 
 tion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to con- 
 stitute 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 difl'er- 
 cntly expressed. We put it to his candour, whether there 
 is any thing so deserving the name of poetry in verses like 
 the following, written in 1806; and whether, if a youth of 
 eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to his an- 
 cestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it 
 
 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, 
 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret: 
 
 Far distant he goes, with the same emulation ; 
 The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
 
 That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish, 
 He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown; 
 
 Like you will he live, or like you will he perish: 
 
 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 mi- 
 nor'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-mas- 
 ter's) are odious. — Gray's Ode on Eaton College should 
 really have kept out the ten iiobbling stanzas "On a dis- 
 tant 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 ne'er fading remembrance. 
 Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied. 
 
 In like manner , the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers " On 
 a Tear," might have warned the noble author off those 
 premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as 
 the following: 
 
 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. 
 
 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 thou now wing thy distant fiight? 
 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? As to his Ossianic poesy we are not very good 
 judges, being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that spe- 
 cies of composition, that we should, in all probability, be 
 criticising some bit of the genuine Macphcrson itself, were 
 we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. 
 If, then, the following beginning of a "Song of Bards," is 
 by his Lordship , we venture to object to it, as far as we 
 can comprehend it "What form rises on the roar of 
 clouds? whosedarkghostgleamsonthe red stream of tem- 
 pests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 'tis Oria, the brown 
 chief of Oithona." 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 fa- 
 vour that they look very like Macpherson; and we arc 
 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 not abusing it ;" and particularly one 
 who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe age of 
 nineteen) of being "an infant-bard,"- ("The artlcssHeli- 
 con I boast is youth ;") — should either not know, or 
 
782 
 
 NOTE TO THE LETTER ON BOWLES' STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 should seem not to know, so much about his own ancestry. 
 Besides a poem above cited, on the family-seat of theBy- 
 rons, 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 re- 
 quest of some friends," etc. It concludes with five stanzas 
 on himself, "the last and youngest ofa 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 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 col- 
 lege, we cannot possibly dismiss it without presenting the 
 reader with a specimen ofthese ingenious effusions. In an 
 ode with a Greek motto, called Granta, we have the fol- 
 lowing 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 wholesome meal, 
 
 In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle. 
 
 Renouncing every pleasing page 
 
 From autliors 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 college- 
 psalmody as is contained in the following Attic stanzas. 
 
 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 liis psalms had ne'er descended : 
 In furious mood he would have tore 'em! 
 
 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 ex- 
 pects no profit from his publication; and, whether it suc- 
 ceeds or not, "it is highly improbable, from his situation 
 and pursuits hereafter," that he should again condescend 
 to become an author. Therefore, let us take what we get 
 and be tliankful. 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 Newstead 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. 
 
 NOTE TO THE LETTER ON BOWLES' 
 STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 Cowper's Dutch delineation of a wood drawn up like a 
 seedsman's catalogue. [p. 673. 
 
 I will submit to Mr. Bowles' own judgment a passage 
 from another poem of Cowper's, to be compared with the 
 same writer's Sylvan Sampler. In the lines to Mary, 
 Thy needles, once a shining store, 
 For my sake restless heretofore. 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more. 
 
 My Mary, 
 contain a simple, household "indoor," artificial, and ordi- 
 nary image. I refer Mr. Bowles to the stanza, and ask 
 if these three lines about "needles" are not worth all the 
 boasted twaddling about trees,so triumphantly re-quoted ? 
 and yet in fact what do they convey ? A homely collection 
 of images and ideas associated with the darning of 
 stockings, and the hemming of shirts, and the mending 
 of breeches: but will any one deny that they are emi- 
 nently poetical and pathetic as addressed by Cowper to 
 his nurse? The trash of trees reminds me of a saying of 
 Sheridan's. Soon after the "Rejected Address" scene, in 
 1812, I met Sheridan. In the course of dinner, he said, 
 "Lord Byron, did you know that amongst the writers of 
 addresses was Whitbread himself?" I answered by an 
 inquiry of what sort of an address he had made. "Of 
 that," replied Sheridan, "I remember little, except that 
 there was a phoenix in it." *'A phoenix!! Well, how did 
 he describe it?" "Like a poulterer ;" jdnsv/ered Sheridan; 
 "it was green, and yellow, and red, and blue: he did not 
 let us oft" for a single feather." And just sucli as this poul- 
 terer's account of a phoenix, is Cowper's a stick-picker's 
 detail ofa wood, with all its petty minutias of this, that, 
 and the other. 
 
 One more poetical instance of the power of art, and 
 even its superiority over nature, in poetry, and I have 
 done; — the bust of Antinous! Is there any thing in 
 nature like this marble, excepting the Venus ? Can there be 
 more poetry gathered into existence than in that wonder- 
 ful creation of perfect beauty? But the poetry of this bust 
 is in no respect derived from nature, nor from any asso- 
 ciation of moral exaltedness; for what is there in com- 
 mon with moral nature and the male minion of Adrian ? 
 The very execution is not natural, but sz^^cr-natural, or 
 rather super-artijicial, for nature lias never done so much. 
 Away, then, with this cant aboutnature and "invariable 
 principles of poetry!" A great artist will make a block 
 of stone as sublime as a mountain, and a good poet can 
 imbue a pack of cards with more poetry than inhabits the 
 forests of America. It is the business and the proof of a 
 poet to give the lie to the proverb, and sometimes to 
 "make a silken purse out ofa sow's ear;" and to conclude 
 with another homely proverb, "a good workman will not 
 find fault with his tools." 
 
783 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 Von 
 W i 1 h e I ra M ii 1 1 e r. 
 
 My task is done, niy song has ceased, my theme 
 Has died into an echo. 
 
 Childe Harold. 
 
 »?Siebenunddreissig Trauerschiisse? Und wen haben sie gemeint? 
 Sind es siebenunddreissig Siege, die er abgekampft dem Feind? 
 Sind es siebenunddreissig Wunden, die der Held tragt auf der Brust ? 
 Sagt, vver ist der edle Todte, der des Lebens bunte Lust 
 Auf den Markten und den Gassen iiberhiillt mit schvvarzem Flor? 
 Sagt, wer ist der edle Todte, den mein Vaterland verlor? " 
 
 Keine Siege, keine Wunden meint des Donners dumpfer Hall, 
 
 Der von Missolunghi's Mauern brullend wogt durch Berg und Thai, 
 
 Und als grause Weckerstimme riittelt auf das starre Herz, 
 
 Das der Schlag der Trauerkunde hat betaubt mit Schreck und Schmerz; 
 
 Siebenunddreissig Jahre sind es, so die Zahl der Donner meint, 
 
 Byron, Byron, Deine Jahre, welohe Hellas heut bevveint! 
 
 Sind's die Jahre, die E>u lebtest? Nein, urn diese wein' ich nicht: 
 
 Ewig leben diese Jahre in des Ruhmes Sonnenlicht, 
 
 Auf des Liedes Adlerschwingen, die mit nimmer miidem Sehlag 
 
 Durch die Bahn der Zeiten rauschen, rauschend grosse Seelen wach. 
 
 Nein, ich wein' um andre Jahre, Jahre, die Du nicht gelebt, 
 
 Um die Jahre, die fiir Hellas Du zu leben hast gestrebt. 
 
 Solche Jahre, Monde, Tage kiindet mir des Donners Hall, 
 
 Welche Lieder, welche Kiimpfe, welche Wunden, welchen Fall ! 
 
 Einen FallimSiegestaumel auf den Mauern von Byzanz, 
 
 £ine Krone Dir zu Fussen, auf dem Haupt der Freiheit Kranz! 
 
 Edier Kampfer, hast gekiimpfet, eines jeden Kranzes werth, 
 Hastgekampfet mit des Geistes doppelschneidig scharfem Schwert, 
 Mit des Liedes ehrner Zunge, dass von Pol zu Pol es klang, 
 Mit der Sonne von dem Aufgang kreisend bis zum Niedergang. 
 Hast gekiimpfet mit dem grimmen Tiger der Tyrannenwuth, 
 Hast gekampft in Lerna's Sumpfe mit der ganzen Schlangenbrut, 
 Die in schwarzem Moder nistet und dem Licht ist also feind, 
 Dass sie Gift und Galle sprudelt, wenn ein Strahl sie je bescheint. 
 Hast gekampfet fiir die Freiheit, fiir die Freiheit einer Welt, 
 Und fur Hellas junge Freiheit, wie ein todesfroher Held. 
 Sahst in ahnenden Gesichten sie auf unsern Bergen stehn, 
 Als im Thai noch ihre Kinder mussten an dem Joche gehn, 
 Hortest schon den Lorbeer rauschen von der nahen Siegeslust, 
 Fiihltest schon in Kampfeswonne schwellen Deiae grosse Brust ! 
 
784 APPENDIX. 
 
 Und als nun die Zcit erscliienen, die prophetiscli Du geschaut, 
 Bist Du nicht vor ilir erschrocken ; wie der Brautigam zur Braut, 
 Flogest Du in Hellas Arme, und sie ofl'nete sie weit: 
 „Ist Tyrtaos auferstauden ? 1st verwuudeu nun mcin Leid? 
 Ob die Konige der Erdc grollend auf mich niedersehn, 
 Hire Diener meiner spotten, ihre Pricster micli verschmahu, 
 Eines Sfingcrs Kriegesflagge seh' ich fliegen durcli das Alcer j 
 Tanzendc Delpliine kreisen um des Schiil'es Seiten her, 
 Stolz erlieben siuh der Wogen weisse Haupter vor dcm Kiel, 
 Und, an seinen Mast gelehnet, greift er in sein Saitenspiel. 
 Freiheit! singt er mir entgegen, Freiheit! tbnt es ilim zuriick, 
 Freiheit brenut in seinen Wangen, Freiheit blitzt aus seinem Blick. 
 Sei willkommen, Held der Leier ! Sei willkommen, Lanzenbeld ! 
 Auf, Tyrtaos, auf, und fiihre meine Sohne mir in's Feid ! " 
 
 Also stieg er aus dem ScbiflFe, warf sich nieder auf das Land, 
 Und die Lippen driickt' er sclivveigend in des Ufers vveichen Sand; 
 Schweigend ging er durch die Schaaren, gleich als ging er ganz allein, 
 Welche jauchzend ihm entgegen wogten bis in's Meer hinein. 
 Ach, es hatt' ibn wol umsehauert, als er kiisste diesen Strand, 
 Eines Todesengels Fliigel, der auf unsern WJiUen stand! 
 Und der Held hat nicht gezittert, als er diesen Boten sah ; 
 SchJirfer fasst' er ihn in's Auge : „]VIeinst du mich, so bin ich da ! 
 Eine Schlacht nur lass mich kampfen, eiue siegesfrohe Schlacht, 
 Fiir die Freiheit der Hellenen, und in deine lange Nacht 
 Folg' ich deinem ersten Winke ohne Strauben, bleicher Freund ! 
 Habe langst der Erde Schauspiel durchgelacht und durchgeweint." 
 
 Arger Tod, du feiger Wiirger, hast die Bitt' ihm niclit gewahrt ! 
 Hast ihn hinterriicks beschlichen, als er wetzt' an seinem Schwert, 
 Hast mit seuchenschwangerm Odem um das Haupt ihn angehaucht, 
 Und des Busens Lebensflammen aus dem Nacken ihm gesaugt. 
 Und so ist er hingesunken ohne Sturz und ohne Schlag, 
 Hiugewelkt wie eine Eiche, die des Winters Stiirme brach, 
 Und die eine schwiile Stunde mit Gewurmen iiberstreut, 
 Und des Waldes stolze Heldin einem Blumentode weiht. 
 Also ist er hingesunken in des Lebens voUem Flor, 
 Aufgeschiirzt zu neuem Laufe harrend an der Schranken Thor, 
 Mit dem Blick die Bahn durchmessend, mit dem Blick am Ziele schon. 
 Das ihm heiss entgegen winkte mit dem griinen Siegeslohn. 
 
 Ach, er hat ihn nicht errungen ! Legt ihn auf sein biciches Haupt! 
 Tod, was ist dir nun gelungen? Hast den Kranz ihm nicht geraubt ! 
 Hast ihn friiher ihm gegeben, als er selbst ihn hatt' erfasst! 
 Und der Lorbeer glanzet griiner, weil sein Antlitz ist erblasst. 
 
 „Siebenunddreissig Trauerschusse! Donnert, donnert durch die Welt! 
 
 Und ihr hohen Meereswogen, tragt durch euer odes Feld 
 
 Unsrer Donner Wiederhalle fort nach seinem Vaterland, 
 
 Dass den Todten die beweinen, die den Lebeuden verbannt. 
 
 Was Britannia verschuldet hat an uns mit Rath und That, 
 
 Dieser ist's, der uns die Schulden seines Volks bezahlet hat! 
 
 Ucber seiner Bahre reichen wir dem Britten unsre Hand: 
 
 Freies Yolk, schlag ein und werde Freund und Hort von uns genannt ! " 
 
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